And then Velamma’s gaze landed on Ramesh, who sat quietly, watching everything with sad, knowing eyes.
“Amma-ji, look who I found at the market!” Subbulakshmi chirped, oblivious to the frosty atmosphere. “Ramesh Anna is back for good. He’s going to help with the family textile business.”
“So,” Velamma began, her voice deceptively calm as she placed a steaming cup of filter coffee in front of her husband, Jayaprakash. “You married a widow with a child. Without our blessing. Without even a word.”
She looked from one daughter-in-law to the other. Subbulakshmi, the jealous, insecure mouse. Riya, the proud, secretive newcomer. Between them stood the men—useless and silent.
The source of her turmoil was seated at the dining table: her younger son, Sunil. He was not alone. Beside him, picking at a plate of upma with a practiced air of disinterest, sat his new wife, Riya. And clinging to Riya’s saree pallu was a small, wide-eyed boy—Riya’s son from a previous marriage, whom Sunil had conveniently forgotten to mention during the hurried courtship.
“Clumsy brat!” Subbulakshmi shrieked, jumping up.
“In this house,” Subbulakshmi shot back, “children learn to behave. Or perhaps you haven’t taught him basic manners, widow-woman .”
Velamma slammed her palm on the table. The silver spoons clattered.
Before Velamma could speak, Riya’s face hardened. “He is a child, not a servant. You have no right to speak to him that way.”
The morning sun cast long shadows across the sprawling Patel household, but no amount of light could brighten the storm brewing within its walls. Velamma, the formidable matriarch, stood in the kitchen, her silver pallu tucked firmly at her waist as she oversaw the preparation of breakfast. Her face, usually a mask of controlled authority, was etched with deep lines of worry and simmering anger.
