Threads of Destiny

Richa stood on the terrace of her house, sipping warm cracked wheat porridge and taking a deep breath. Her mind was clouded with the argument she had with her colleagues about a project. The clock was mercilessly ticking, and she was late for work. A wave of loneliness washed over her.

Richa was a young woman in her late twenties. She had dark, expressive eyes. Her long hair, usually neatly tied back, was now slightly untidy from her rush. Today, she wore a soft, white cotton kurti with delicate embroidery, paired with dark blue patiala salwar, creating a striking contrast and a sophisticated, traditional look.

Born late to her parents, who were in their forties at the time of her birth, she had lost them both at a young age. Her four elder siblings, settled in different corners of the city, remembered her only when they needed her for babysitting their kids on weekends.

Richa stared longingly at a happy couple walking hand in hand below on the street, thinking about how lucky they seemed, their laughter drifting up like music she couldn't reach. Her heart felt heavy, weighed down by loneliness. A sound suddenly broke her daydream—a loud thud coming from her neighbor's house.

Seema walked with her husband down the street, their fingers intertwined. Seema was in her early thirties. Her dark, wavy hair was neatly pinned up, and she wore a simple yet elegant sari. Her eyes, though often filled with concern, sparkled with genuine kindness.

As they neared his workplace, he kissed her forehead and rushed off to work. Seema watched him leave, her heart filled with worry. Her husband worked hard day and night, pushing himself to meet their needs, and it was slowly draining him. She sighed, catching sight of a young man almost her husband's age jogging, his face lit with a carefree smile. ‘When was the last time I saw my husband that free?’ she thought, wishing she could somehow ease the burden he carried.

Inside her home, Mrs. Oza, a fragile widow, had recently returned from the U.S. with her son. She was a woman in her late sixties. Her once vibrant hair was now streaked with gray and pulled back into a neat bun. She wore a traditional, well-worn cotton saree that spoke of years of experience and grace.

Her son, Samar, a senior engineer, was currently overseeing an important project in India. Though he had achieved considerable success in his profession, his mother's fragile health weighed heavily on him. His commitment to his work and the pressing demands of his project had kept him busy, so he couldn't give her the time she needed to take care of her, but he tried his best to ensure her well-being and help her adjust to their new surroundings.

Mrs. Oza, in her failing health, hoped and wished to see her son settled before things worsened. As she walked through her lawn, her foot caught on the edge of the path. She stumbled, reaching out to steady herself on a stand of plant pots, but instead, the entire row of eight pots came crashing down.

Hearing the noise, Seema rushed across the street and into Mrs. Oza’s lawn. She found the elderly woman shaken but unhurt. “Are you okay?” she asked breathlessly. Richa, having heard the crash too, came down and ran through the gate. Together, the two women helped Mrs. Oza to her chair. Seema noticed a slight swelling on Mrs. Oza’s foot and suggested, “You should apply a cold pack; it looks like a sprain.” Mrs. Oza smiled gratefully, her nerves settling as she leaned back.

As the three women began to chat, Seema shared that she was looking for work, probably in cooking. “Not cooking, dear,” Mrs. Oza said kindly, “but I’d love to have someone like you as a caretaker.” Seema happily agreed, with almost tears in her eyes. Richa, standing by, introduced herself as the neighbor. “I’ll come by again after work,” she promised. Mrs. Oza's eyes twinkled. “I've seen you often. You have such a lovely collection of cotton kurtis.”

Just as Richa turned to leave, she bumped hard into someone. She looked up to find the sweaty jogger standing in front of her, removing his headphones. He was a tall, athletic man in his early thirties, with a relaxed and confident demeanor. His short-cropped hair was damp with sweat from his morning jog. He wore a fitted sports shirt that showed his lean biceps and shorts. His deep eyes were a mix of curiosity and warmth as he glanced at Richa. His eyes locked onto hers as he stammered, “I’m so sorry.”

Richa’s face unavoidably flushed pink, and she quickly replied, “It’s okay.”

Mrs. Oza, watching them both, smiled widely and said, “Richa, meet Samar, my son.”

💕 Sharon