Gazi reached home with his phone pressed to his ear, softly whistling and humming to himself, completely lost in his own world.

The moment he stepped inside, Noor’s sharp voice cut through the air.

“At least let that poor girl breathe sometimes, Gazi. You just came back from her house and now you are already on the phone, eating her brain out again.”

Gazi walked in casually. “Begum, Guiya is not available right now. It is her me time with Mucchad Singh. I have no desire to get myself killed by disturbing it as I'm not allowed to.”

Veer, who was standing near the dining table beside Noor, nodded approvingly. “Bahut sahi jaa rha hai, mere laal. (Very good, my son. You are finally learning).”

From the living room, Ira looked up from the couch. “Gazi, if this is Aarna. Give it to me. I want to talk to her.”

Gazi dropped himself dramatically beside his grandfather. “No, Dadi. I do not call that Gaddar (traitor) anymore. She is not my sister, she is a gaddar.”

Pratap chuckled, adjusting his glasses as he typed on his laptop. “Say that to her face someday. Then I will believe you. In front of her, you cannot even open your mouth.”

“Dadu, yaar come on,” Gazi said, rolling his eyes. “One has to maintain the illusion of respecting an elder sister. Try to understand. But she is still a Gaddar.”

Ira frowned slightly. “Then who are you calling at this hour?”

“I am calling Hamza bhaijaan,” Gazi replied. “He called earlier but Mucchad Singh was busy taking my class, so I did not pick up. And now bhaijaan is not answering.”

Noor shook her head, muttering under her breath, “Hamza se ek biwi sambhal nhi rahi, ye dusri aur gale mein tange ghoomta hai. (Hamza cannot handle one wife and he carries another one around his neck as well.)”

Veer burst out laughing, casually picking up a slice of cucumber from the table. “He is allowed to have four, Begum. Uski toh aish hai. (He is living his best life.)”

Noor immediately smacked his stomach with the back of her hand.

Veer choked on the cucumber. “What was that for?” He asked while widening his mouth in disbelief.

“You want me to arrange five marriages for you?” Noor snapped, glaring at him.

Veer’s eyes widened dramatically. He placed both hands on either side of his head and gasped. “Astagfirullah, Begum!!!!!”

He kept touching his ears lightly in a cross-cross manner, “Tauba Tauba!” shaking his head with exaggerated disapproval. “I am loyal as a dog.”

Before she could react, he wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned his head against her shoulder, making an overly dramatic, cute face. “How can you even think like this?”

Noor immediately slapped his hand away and nudged him hard with her elbow. “Sharam karo kuch. Ghar mein ab Jawan beta hai tumhari Aashiqui khatam nhi hoti. (Have some shame. We have a grown son in this house and your romance still has no end.)”

Veer opened his mouth, spreading his hands innocently. “What did I even do?”

His parents were laughing in the background.

“And anyway,” Veer continued, pointing toward Gazi, “the child is learning something good. At least he will know how to treat his partner with love in the future.”

Gazi grinned instantly. “I agree with Abbu. Watching him, I have been loyal as a dog to my Guiya since childhood.”

Veer smirked. “Nahi mere laal. (No, my son.) You are not loyal as a dog. You are Rudrakshi’s lap dog already.”

Noor groaned loudly. “Both of you, have some shame.”

“Jisne kiti sharam usde phute karam. (Whoever feels shame ends up with bad luck,)” both father and son sang in unison and Noor’s temper flared even more.

She turned toward her in-laws. “Maa! Abbu! Why are you both laughing? Pull their ears. One was already Besabra, now the son has become even worse.”

Gazi looked at Ira with a cute expression. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it, Dadi?”

Ira laughed, shaking her head. Pratap was also laughing uncontrollably and just like always, the house echoed with laughter.

Only Noor stood there, shaking her head helplessly, while the rest of her family continued their chaos like it was the most normal thing in the world and it always was in Randhawa mansion ever since Noor got married and came here.

Veer was still laughing when he moved closer to Noor and wrapped an arm around her again.

Noor’s eyes narrowed dangerously but before he could understand, she pinched his side hard.

Veer’s entire body jolted. A silent gasp escaped him as he jumped slightly, trying his best not to make a sound so that the people in the living room would not hear.

Noor then stomped on his foot with her heel.

“Budha ghoda laal lgam. (Old horse with a red rein,)” she muttered under her breath.

“Begum, I am young,” Veer whispered quickly, wincing in pain. “Your brother is the old one.”

Noor turned her head slowly and gave him a deadly glare.

Veer gulped instantly. “I mean… he is about to become a grandfather, right, bhaijaan… that is why…”

Noor said nothing. She just stood there, arms crossed, staring at him.

Veer shifted nervously. “Food is ready…”

But got no response so he cleared his throat. “Or maybe not… no problem… I will just go and discuss a project with Dad.”

And before she could say anything, he slipped away from there like a man escaping a battlefield.

Soon, the entire family gathered around the dining table.

Laughter, teasing, and endless chatter filled the air. Plates passed from one hand to another, jokes flew across the table, and the warmth of the family wrapped around every corner of the room.

It was loud. It was chaotic and it was home.

At the same time, at the haveli…

As soon as Yogeshwar entered, his gaze fell on Vikram, who sat in his wheelchair outside the temple.

Yogeshwar did not even spare him a glance. He simply walked past him and continued toward his room.

Vikram watched him go silently. There were no words left now. Only regret.

The weight of his own sins had reduced his world to this quiet punishment, where even the presence of his elder brother felt out of reach.

Yogeshwar moved ahead and soon noticed Aadiv walking out of the kitchen, eating something from a bowl.

“You did not have dinner?” Yogeshwar asked, looking at the clock on the wall.

“I came late, Bade Dadu,” Aadiv replied casually.

“Then you should have come on time. Your mother must have eaten alone.”

Aadiv looked at him in confusion. “Where were you?”

“Wherever I was,” Yogeshwar replied sternly. “You should not be roaming on the streets late at night. Your Bade Papa may be the Chief Minister, but if you do anything wrong, he will be the first one to put you behind bars.”

Aadiv chuckled. “Bade Dadu, I am a very decent boy. I do not know what you think of me.”

“Do you even go to college,” Yogeshwar shot back, “or do you just wander around all day?”

Aadiv groaned. “Bade Dadu, come on. I top every time. And since college started, I have been the student leader as well. I got all the youth votes for Bade Papa. I am an all rounder.”

Yogeshwar’s expression softened slightly as he patted his back. “I know, my boy, I know. But you should have gone abroad to study, like your father and Raaj.”

Aadiv paused for a moment, a flicker of emotion crossing his face. “If I had gone, you and Mumma would have been alone.” Then he quickly smiled again, lightening the mood. “And anyway, Bade Papa has improved the education system so much that we get a very good education here too.”

Yogeshwar smiled faintly and tapped his cheek playfully.

“Will you eat something?” Aadiv asked.

“No. Rudrakshi already fed me before I came.”

Aadiv grinned at the mention of his little sister. “How was Chutki? I will go meet her on Sunday.”

“She was fine,” Yogeshwar replied. “You should eat on time, sleep on time, and wake up early.”

“I'll try.” Aadiv replied with a mouth full of rice.

With that, Yogeshwar turned and walked toward his room, leaving Aadiv standing there, still smiling faintly.

Yogeshwar entered his room and the room was silent as always just like it has been for the last 43 years.

Not the peaceful kind. Not the comforting kind.

The kind of silence that lingers when laughter has long since died… and no one is left to bring it back.

Yogeshwar sat alone on the edge of his bed, the faint yellow light of the lamp casting long shadows across the walls that once knew chaos. Once knew love. Once knew her.

His fingers trembled slightly as he held the photograph.

His Sonarika ji.

Even now… years later… his breath faltered at just the sight of her.

She was laughing in the picture. Of course she was. Head thrown back, eyes shining, lips curved in that familiar, demanding, impossible smile… the one that never asked for permission to exist.

The one that had once ruled his entire world and somewhere it still does in the part of him that no longer exists.

He let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing over her face in the photograph as if he could feel her again.

“This smile… it’s not the one that still lives in my heart as if it were just yesterday…” he whispered, voice hoarse from disuse. “....because that wretched camera could never truly capture your innocence and mischief in your breathtaking smile.”

A weak, broken smile touched his lips… but it didn’t stay. It never did. Not ever since she left.

The room still carried traces of her.

Her bangles in the drawer. Her perfumes, long empty but never thrown away. A saree folded too carefully, as if she might come back and scold him for ruining the pleats.

He had not changed anything.

Not a single thing. Because changing it would mean accepting that she was not coming back.

Never and Yogeshwar Singh Rathore had never been good at acceptance.

His grip on the photograph tightened. “You remember,” he murmured softly, his voice barely audible, “how you used to shout at me for everything?”

A hollow chuckle escaped him.

“Which nail polish… which color… which tea… which hotel…” his voice cracked slightly, but he forced the words out, “I used to think you were impossible.”

His eyes fell shut for a brief second.

“And now…”

Silence swallowed the rest. Because now there was no one to ask. No one to demand. No one to complain.

No one to call him useless husband.

And he would give anything… anything… to hear that word again.

His shoulders slumped slightly as the weight of years settled back on him.

The night she left… it had been raining.

He remembered everything. Every second. Every scream. Every prayer. Every promise he made to a God who chose silence.

“Save her.” That was all he had asked.

Take everything else. His pride. His strength. His life. Even their child… as if they weren’t destined to have the blessing of a child.

Just… not her.

But the room had gone quiet. Too quiet and when they placed her still hand in his… something inside him had ended right there.

The Yogeshwar who was once full of life, who truly had a heart beating in his chest, died that very night along with his Sonarika ji.

What remained behind was just a man, living under the weight of responsibilities and relationships.

Because he had made a promise to his Sonarika ji. No matter that Malvika was gone, no matter that Vikram had remarried… he and Sonarika would never leave Abhiraaj alone. He would always remain their first child, even if Sonarika had not given birth to him.

But she left that night… leaving Yogeshwar alone to carry the burden of those relationships and promises.

He swallowed hard, his throat burning.

“You were supposed to come back and fight with me,” he whispered, his voice breaking now despite his effort. “You were supposed to complain about the hospital, about the doctor, about me standing uselessly like a statue…”

His lips trembled.“You were supposed to shout at me for choosing the wrong name for our child.”

His hand moved unconsciously to the empty space beside him on the bed.

It had remained empty for years. Untouched. Unclaimed. Just like him.

“I even learned,” he said softly, a tear finally slipping free, trailing down slowly, “which nail polish you liked.”

A broken laugh followed. “Too late, right? I know I was always your useless husband.”

His chest rose sharply as he tried to steady his breathing, but grief had a way of ignoring control.

“I waited,” he continued, voice cracking deeper now, “for days… weeks… months…..years…”

His fingers clenched around the photograph. “Thought you would wake up and scold me just to prove me wrong. You always liked winning.”

Another tear fell. “And this time also… you won, Sonarika ji.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You left.”

The word echoed.

Left.

Such a small word for something that had destroyed everything.

He leaned back slightly, his head resting against the wall as he looked at her again.

“You know what the worst part is?” Silence answered him as always ever since she left. “You took our child with you.”

His voice broke completely now. “You always wanted a child… and you took our baby with you, leaving me all alone. Not even once did you think what would happen to me without you.”

He sniffled. “I wish I had never listened to you that one time… we wouldn’t have planned for a child. If there would be no child, and that Tejasvini wouldn’t have snatched you both away from me.”

His breathing turned uneven. “You never got to be a mother.”

That thought still killed him. Even after all these years. Because for all her drama… her demands… her loudness… She had wanted that child.

He knew it. He had seen it in her eyes and now… There was nothing. Just this room. This silence and a life that continued… without asking him whether he wanted it to or not.

“I am still here,” he whispered, almost accusingly, almost helplessly. “I don’t even know why.”

Because the truth was… He had not lived. He had simply continued. Day after day. Year after year.

Breathing out of habit. Existing out of compulsion. Carrying on the promises. 

“Please come back, Sonarika ji… just once. Fight with me, scold me, even hit me… just call me a useless husband for once…..but just please come back.”

His thumb brushed her face again. “You said once,” he murmured softly, “that I don’t notice anything.”

A faint, broken smile touched his lips again. “I notice everything now.” His voice dropped, almost reverent. “The silence. The emptiness. The way this house doesn’t echo anymore…”

His eyes closed briefly. “The way no one calls my name like you did.”

Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently against the photograph.

For a moment, it almost looked like a man bowing. Not in defeat. But in surrender.

“I am still yours, Sonarika ji.” he whispered. A tear slipped down and fell onto the glass, blurring her smiling face. “Even after all these years… I am still yours and I will always be only yours.”

The room stayed silent, unmoving, unfeeling but in that silence, one truth remained.

Some loves do not end.

They just learn how to survive… in absence.

And Yogeshwar Rathore… Had been surviving ever since she left.

His fingers trembled slightly as he traced her face again, but this time his eyes did not soften.

They darkened because tonight… it was not just her he missed.

“Shekhar…” his voice came out as a whisper, fragile and broken as he closed his eyes for a moment and whispered his best friend's name.

For a moment, his throat closed completely. How many years had it been?

And yet, the name still carried weight. Still carried warmth. Still carried a kind of loss that refused to settle.

“He left me alone too.” Yogeshwar murmured, staring somewhere beyond the photograph now. “You both did.”

A hollow laugh escaped him. “You remember him, don’t you? Loud… arrogant… impossible to deal with…” His lips trembled. “But he held everything together.”

The silence pressed heavier.

“And I could not.”

That confession did not come out loud. It broke out.

“Until his very last breath, he was fighting to protect our children… and because of me, our children are now so far apart from each other.”

His grip on the photograph tightened.

“Shekhar trusted me,” he said slowly, his voice shaking now. “He thought, even if he and Naintara are gone, I’m still here…. I will take care of Ruhi.”

His breath hitched. “And I failed.” The word hung in the air like a verdict.

His chest rose sharply as if something inside him had cracked open. “Ruhanika…” he whispered, closing his eyes.

For a moment, it was not the old man sitting there. It was someone drowning.

“She is just like you,” he said, voice trembling with something dangerously close to helplessness. “The same fire. The same stubbornness. The same mischief. The same way of loving… completely… without holding back. The same shamelessness and boldness.”

A tear slipped down. “And I could never say no to her.”

Because how could he? Every time he looked at her… he saw his Sonarika ji.

Every time she argued… he heard Sonarika.

Every time she laughed… something inside him lived again.

Every time she said something shameless and left Abhiraaj embarrassed and blushing, Yogeshwar saw a reflection of himself in Abhiraaj and in the mischievous sparkle of Ruhanika’s eyes, he saw Sonarika.

“She was my child too,” he whispered and that was the truth. Not by blood. But by everything else.

He had protected her. Spoiled her. Chosen her side even when she was wrong. Just like he used to do with Sonarika.

“And now…” his voice cracked, “now I cannot even protect her from her own life.” His breathing turned uneven. “Her marriage…” he swallowed hard, “…her home… the love of her life….”

He shook his head slowly, as if refusing to accept it even now. “I never thought she would leave.”

Never. Not Ruhanika. Not the girl who fought the world for what she loved.

But she had.

For her children. For their peace. For their future.

“She walked away quietly,” he whispered. “Just like that.” And something in his voice broke beyond repair. 

“Yes… I wanted Raaj to come back.”  he continued, staring blankly ahead. His jaw tightened. “But at what cost?”

Silence answered him again.

“She did not even complain. Not once. Not to me. Not to anyone. She left this place only for the sake of her children… but ever since Rudrakshi came here and I saw our Ruhi’s already broken heart shatter even more, I haven’t been able to face myself, Sonarika ji.” Yogeshwar said, his voice lowering painfully.

“She smiled,” he whispered. “The same way you used to when you were hiding something.”

His eyes fell back to Sonarika’s photograph. A tear fell onto the photograph again.

“I was supposed to take care of them,” he whispered. “You said it yourself. Raaj and Aarav were our sons. Ruhi was your life. You always loved her. You just always wanted our kids to be happy and protected. We will always stand by them.”

His voice broke completely. “And I did… I tried…” He shook his head slowly. “But I could not keep them together.”

The guilt sat heavy in his chest, suffocating.

“Sonarika ji…” he whispered, his voice trembling like a child seeking forgiveness, “how will I face you? Our Aarav left us… because of me.”

His grip on the photograph tightened painfully. “How will I face Shekhar and Naintara?”

The question echoed. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… real.

“What will I say when they ask me about their daughter?” his voice dropped to a broken whisper. “That I let her suffer? That I could not protect her happiness?”

His breathing turned ragged. “That I watched… and I failed?”

Silence pressed in harder. Because there was no answer.

“There was a time,” he said faintly, “when this house was too loud.” A broken smile flickered. “All of us… and our once happy, smiling children.”

His eyes closed. “Now it is too quiet.” Too empty. Too final. “And I am still here,” he whispered.

That was the cruelest part. Everyone else had left. One by one. And he… Stayed.

“I am living because you told me to,” he murmured softly, his voice barely there now. “Because you asked me to take care of our Raaj… of everyone…”

His lips trembled. “But I do not know how to do this anymore.”

The confession fell into the silence like something fragile.

“I am tired,” he admitted for the first time, after years. “I am so tired, Sonarika ji…”

His forehead rested gently against the photograph again.

A man who had once stood strong for everyone… now reduced to whispers in an empty room.

“If you were here,” he whispered, “you would have fixed everything.”

That blind faith still lived. Even now. Even after death.

“You always did.” A tear slid down slowly, blurring her smiling face once again. “And now I do not even know how to fix one life… let alone all of them.”

The room did not answer. It never did. But in that silence, one truth stood unshaken.

Grief changes. Love does not and guilt… Guilt stays.

Yogeshwar Rathore had lost his wife. His family. His world and now… He was slowly losing himself.But still holding on. Still breathing. Still waiting for the day when he can finally be freed from the burden of living… and reunite with his Sonarika ji.

But perhaps fate does not allow that yet.