☾.𖹭

Morning in Priya's house did not begin with sunlight. It began with steam. Steam rising from aluminium vessels. Steam clinging to the low ceiling. Steam curling around the narrow kitchen where heat, hurry, and habit lived together like permanent residents.

The house was small, middle-class, functional. Every corner carried the faint smell of haldi and agarbatti. The paint near the stove had yellowed from years of tadka splashes. Steel containers were stacked with mathematical precision on a wooden shelf that leaned slightly to the left, as if tired of standing straight.

In the middle of that kitchen stood Priya.

She wore a simple blue salwar kameez-cotton, faded slightly at the sleeves from repeated washing. The dupatta was wrapped loosely across her chest, tucked at one shoulder so it wouldn't fall into the food.

A few stubborn strands of hair had escaped her long braid and clung to her temples, damp from heat. The braid itself fell like a dark river down her back, thick and almost touching her thighs.

A smudge of flour marked her forehead. She did not notice it yet.

Her hands moved quickly-rolling, packing, closing lids, tying rubber bands around stacked tiffins. Her bangles chimed softly with every movement, a small music beneath the hiss of the pressure cooker.

"Priya!" her chachi's (aunt) voice cut through the steam.

Priya flinched instinctively but did not stop working. "Haan, chachi," she replied softly, eyes still lowered to the rotis she was folding into neat circles.

[yes, aunty.]

"Count kiya tumne theek se?" Chachi entered the kitchen, her sharp eyes scanning the counter.

[did you count it correctly?]

"ji..." Priya murmured.

[yes]

"Phir do dabbe kam kaise hain?" Her voice echoed.

[then why are there two tiffins less?]

The words fell like accusation, not question. Priya froze. Her fingers stilled over the steel container she was sealing. She looked toward the row of packed tiffins lined up near the door-metal gleaming, cloth bags waiting beside them.

She counted again under her breath. One. Two. Three...Her heart began to beat faster.

She counted again. Her lips trembled slightly. Two were missing.

"I... main-" she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Jaldbaazi mein shayad-"

[I-I might have forgotten in hurry]

"Shayad?" Chachi's voice rose. "Roz ka kaam hai tumhara! Itna bhi nahi hota tumse? Log paise dete hain time pe khana mile isliye!"

[might? This is a daily thing for you! can't you even do this efficiently? People give us money so they can get food at time!]

Priya lowered her gaze immediately.

"I'm sorry, chachi. Main abhi bana deti hoon. Bas ten minutes-"

[I'm sorry aunty. I'll make it right away, just ten minutes-]

"Tem minutes?" Chachi scoffed. "Delivery wala kab tak wait karega? Har cheez mein dhyaan kahaan rehta hai tumhara?"

[Till when will the delivery boy wait? Where does your mind float!?]

Priya did not answer. She knew better.

If she spoke, it would worsen. If she explained that she had woken up before dawn, that she had soaked the rice, kneaded the dough, cut vegetables, prepared three sabzis, boiled dal, and packed twenty-eight tiffins already-none of that would matter.

Her mistakes mattered here more than her efforts.

Chachi stepped closer, snatching one of the lids and placing it down harder than necessary.

"Aankhon mein sapne bhare rehte hain bas," she muttered. "Kaam mein dhyaan nahi."

[your eyes are always filled with dreams, no focus on work at all]

Priya's fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.

Her eyes burned.

She blinked rapidly.

"I'll fix it," she said quietly.

"Fix?" Chachi shook her head. "Jldi ho jaana chaahiye."

[It should be ready soon]

The words were not shouted now. They were worse-flat, disappointed.

Priya bent her head and moved quickly, rolling two fresh rotis, spreading sabzi, sealing the lids. Her hands did not shake, though her vision blurred slightly.

Tears fell silently.

They landed on the edge of the counter, mixing with flour dust. She wiped them with the back of her hand before they could fall into the food.

She never cried loudly.

She never argued.

She absorbed.

Within minutes, the missing tiffins were ready. The delivery boy was called and the bags were handed over.

The kitchen emptied.

Chachi left with a final sharp look.

And silence settled again.

The steam had thinned now. Only the ticking of the wall clock remained. Priya stood still for a moment, palms pressed against the counter.

Then she exhaled.

Slowly.

She washed her hands carefully, scrubbing away flour and oil. She adjusted her dupatta properly this time, covering herself fully.

Her braid had loosened slightly from work. She fixed, fingers practiced and gentle.

Only when she was sure no one was watching did she allow herself to leave the kitchen.

The house had a narrow corridor that led to two small rooms and, at the very end, a space no bigger than a cupboard-but to Priya, it was a world.

Her mandir.

It was built into a wall, painted white. A small brass bell hung at the side. A framed image of Shiv ji rested against the back wall, decorated with a fresh marigold garland she had changed the previous evening.

A tiny diya burned steadily in front of the image.

Its flame did not flicker.

Priya stepped inside and closed the door behind her gently.

The air here smelled of sandalwood and oil.

She sat on the cool floor, folding her legs beneath her. Her blue kameez pooled softly around her ankles. The silver anklets at her feet chimed faintly as she moved.

For a moment, she simply looked at the diya.

Her breathing slowed.

Her eyes softened.

This was the only place in the house where no one criticized her. Where no one measured her worth by efficiency. Where she did not have to count correctly.

She reached forward and adjusted the cotton wick carefully.

Then, beside Shiv ji's frame, slightly to the right, was another small space.

There was no photograph there. Only a folded paper tucked behind a brass diya stand. On that paper, written neatly in her handwriting, was a name.

She did not need to look at it.

She knew it by heart.

Kim Taehyung.

She had never met him. She had never even attended a concert. She was not someone who screamed in crowds or collected posters.

But every night, before sleeping, she whispered a prayer for him.

Not because she believed she would ever see him. Not because she dreamed of marriage or fairy tales. But because something about him-his eyes when he smiled, the way he spoke softly in interviews, the rare seriousness in his gaze-had touched something quiet inside her.

She did not understand it fully.

She did not try to.

Some loves did not need logic.

They simply existed.

She lit a second diya, and placed it carefully beside the first. "For his safety," she whispered. "For his health."

She hesitated.

Then softer-"For his wait."

She did not know what that meant entirely. She only knew that whenever she prayed for him, her chest felt lighter.

As if somewhere, in a world of flashing lights and screaming crowds, there was a man who did not know her name-but she still wished him peace.

Tears slipped down her cheeks again. But these were not from scolding. These were gentler.

She wiped them quickly, embarrassed even before Shiv ji. "I'm foolish," she murmured to herself.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the diya flame slightly, feeling its warmth.

Outside, she could hear Chachi calling for her again. "Priya! Bartan dhone hain!"

[Priya...wash dishes!]

She inhaled deeply. "Ji!" she called back.

[Yeah]

Before standing, she pressed her palms together. Her forehead bowed until it touched the cool floor. Then she rose and as she stepped out of the mandir, the flame behind her continued to burn-steady, unwavering.

In the kitchen once more, she resumed her chores.

She did not know that rain would fall one night in this very city.

For now, she was only Priya.

Flour on her forehead.

Tears she never let fall loudly.

And a small diya that burned for a man who did not know he was being prayed for.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.𖹭