About the Story
After losing both her parents, sixteen-year-old Mehar is left with a quiet village house, walls that remember their voices, and a dream her father never got to finish.
She is gentle, thoughtful, observant-
the kind of girl who carries silence like a language.
And though her days are filled with the things they left behind,
she's not sure what to do with what lies ahead.
When the silence of the old farmhouse across the road begins to shift,
Mehar finds herself pulled toward something she can't name.
Will she fulfill her father's dream?
Will she find love?
Or will both slip quietly through her hands?
A story about grief, stillness, first longing, and the kind of girl who grows slowly-like flowers in the shade.
Chapter 1
The morning she still lives in
Mehar's POV
I always wake before the sun.
The breeze is the first to arrive—cool and quiet—slipping through the two wall openings in my room. They aren’t really windows, just square cutouts where Mama once hung a red sheet. It still sways softly in the morning light, moving like breath. I don’t even have to open my eyes to feel it brushing my cheek—soft and familiar, like Mama’s hand used to be.
I stay under the quilt for a little while longer. It still smells of rosewater and old cotton. Mama used to soak our clothes in rosewater after every wash, especially the ones for Sundays. She’d crush the petals between her fingers—real roses from our backyard—and stir them into a bucket of water.
“It makes the clothes smell sweeter,” she’d say, holding them up to the sun. “And they dry softer.”
I had once pressed my face into a damp kurta and whispered, “It really does.”
She smiled, like always.
I sit up slowly. The brick floor is cool under my feet—uneven, but swept clean, just like Mama liked. I sweep it every night before sleeping. I don’t know if it truly makes the heart lighter, the way she believed. But it helps me feel close to her. And maybe that’s enough.
I’m sixteen now. Old enough to keep this house standing. Still too young to feel this alone.
Beside my bed stands the old almirah. Its mirror is foggy around the edges, and the wood near the bottom has swollen from years of monsoon. On top of it sits a small tin box—Mama’s. I haven’t opened it in a long time, but I know what’s inside: her bangles. Red, green, and golden. Some chipped. Some still whole. I glance at it as I pass, but I don’t touch it. Not today.
I pull aside the red sheet. The backyard is still and quiet, wrapped in the soft grey that only comes before sunrise. I rest my hand on the cold edge of the wall and close my eyes.
There’s a kind of silence that listens. This one always does.
I step out of my room.
Our village sits cradled in the lower hills of Himachal. The houses here aren’t all the same—some are large with new paint and iron gates, others are small and patchy, their roofs repaired with old tarpaulin or rusted tin. Some are freshly built, square and proud. Others lean into age like tired shoulders. Ours is somewhere in between—small, plain, but standing steady. On mornings like this, all the uneven homes seem to sleep side by side, as if they’re holding each other up.
The kitchen waits just ahead, under a rusted tin roof. One wall is shared with my room. The second wall stretches along the outer boundary of the house. The third is half-built, rising only to my waist. The fourth—where I stand now—is completely open. There’s no door. Just a curtain Mama used to pull across once the cooking was done.
The chulha sits low and solid, built right into the brick floor. Mama had shaped it herself from a mixture of dung and soil. The surface is smooth, darkened from years of use. I crouch beside it and run my fingers over its edges. It still feels like her hands are here. I stir the ashes, feed in a few dry twigs, and light the flame again. It crackles slowly, stretching into the air like it’s waking up too.
Beside the chulha sits our matka, resting in its usual corner, with a copper lota placed carefully on top. The rim is slightly dented, but it’s still cool to the touch. I lift the lota and fill it with water to keep nearby as the tea brews.
I fill a tin saucepan with water and tea leaves and place it on the chulha. There’s no milk today—I forgot to get it from the neighbour yesterday. I usually go twice a week, but some days just slip away. I’ll add a little mint instead.
The sandook stands in the corner—our old kitchen cabinet with mesh-covered doors. It lets air in but keeps the ants and heat out. Mama always said it was better than a fridge. The bottom holds sacks of flour, rice, dal. The top shelf holds her masala box, last night’s sabzi, and a jar of mango pickle with a lid that never quite fits right.
While the tea simmers, I step out through the second door, into the backyard.
Our backyard is narrow and long, just a row behind the two rooms of our home. It ends in a moss-covered boundary wall, soft with age and water stains. One side is lined with flower pots that follow the wall like a painted border. Mama had painted each one herself—reds with white dots, blues with yellow rims, some with tiny stars. The colors haven’t faded. Maybe love never does.
The pots are full of life—marigolds that glow like flames, calendulas with round yellow faces, delicate pansies in purple and gold. A few mogra blooms have opened quietly in the corner, and one hibiscus leans forward like it’s listening. A small rose plant, tucked between the others, has just begun to bloom—its red petals soft and half-shy.
At the very center of the yard sits the tulsi, planted in a wide terracotta pot on a low cement platform. Mama had painted it with such care—floral vines and diya shapes curling around its base. She used to draw rangoli around it with rice paste every morning. It would fade by noon, but she never missed a day.
I kneel beside the tulsi, the lota warm in my hand. I pour the water slowly at its roots. A few droplets splash on the leaves, catching the light.
My lips move quietly, whispering the same old morning prayer Mama used to say.
I never really learned it.
I just… remember it.
Near the tulsi, there’s a small clay pot where we grow mint. Mama loved putting a few leaves in her chai—she said it made it taste like mornings should. I reach down, pluck a few fresh leaves, and carry them gently in my palm.
In the far corner stands the mango tree. Tall, still, quiet. I walk over and rest my hand on its trunk. The bark is rough beneath my fingers.
Papa had planted it.
He used to take me out here in the early mornings, when the tree was still just a sapling. I must’ve been six. Maybe seven.
“One day,” he said, patting the tiny stem, “you’ll eat mangoes from this tree. And you’ll remember we planted it together.”
I had looked up at him, squinting in the sun, and said, “Promise?”
He smiled, picked me up, and said, “Promise.”
He’s gone now. Mama too. I don’t say those words much. But this house knows. This yard knows. The tree does too.
I’m sixteen now. And some mornings, I still feel like I’m waiting under that sapling. Waiting for them to come back with chai and stories.
Back in the kitchen, the tea has started to boil. I crush the mint between my fingers and drop it in. The scent rises instantly—fresh, familiar, comforting. I pour the tea into a steel cup and hold it close, letting the steam brush my face.
I climb the stairs beside my parents’ room. That door has stayed closed since they left. I dust the handle sometimes. Sweep the floor in front of it. But I never open it.
The terrace above is wide and bare. Just the sky. Just the breeze.
I sit there, chai warming my hands. The village is starting to wake. A bird calls out. A cow bell rings in the distance. Smoke from someone’s kitchen drifts through the air like a memory.
When I finish, I go back down.
I fold the quilt. Wipe the sills. Begin to clean.
Mama always said a clean home makes the heart feel lighter.
I think I do it for the same reason.
Or maybe just to feel like she’s still here.
