Uththan

Trigger Warning / Disclaimer

This story explores themes of grief, loss of a parent, community judgment, and emotional healing. It contains emotionally heavy scenes that may be difficult for readers processing personal loss or trauma.

Reader discretion is advised. If you find such themes triggering, please proceed with caution.

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The village stirred awake as the first rays of the sun stretched across the hills, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. The smell of damp earth and wood smoke lingered in the crisp morning air, carrying whispers of a night that had barely faded.

Past the winding lanes and modest homes, where walls bore the weight of years in peeling blue paint, a young girl knelt on a barren patch of land. Her fingers dug into the cracked soil, feeling the roughness against her skin. A handful of tiny seeds rested in her palm, fragile yet brimming with unseen life.

“You must grow,” she murmured, pressing them gently into the earth. Her voice was soft, almost pleading. “Maa said you will. So you must.”

Behind her, a shadow shifted.

“Still at it?”

Ira didn’t look up. She knew the voice—steady, familiar, and carrying the weight of a man who had long stopped believing in miracles.

“Baba,” she greeted softly, cupping the soil over the seeds as if tucking them into bed.

Raghav exhaled, stepping closer. His woollen shawl, faded from years of use, draped loosely over his shoulders. His once-laughing eyes had settled into something quieter over the past two years.

“Nothing will grow here, Ira,” he said, his voice carrying more exhaustion than impatience. “This soil is as stubborn as—” He stopped himself.

Ira didn’t need him to finish. She knew the words he held back. Just like your mother was.

She lowered her head, brushing dirt from her fingers.

“Maa used to say flowers bloom where they are needed most,” she whispered.

Raghav ran a rough hand over his face. “It’s been two years, Ira. Let it be.”

She remained silent, listening to his retreating footsteps. The wind tugged at her shawl, cool and restless.

Ira placed her hands over the freshly covered seeds and whispered, “Please grow.”

—

The village noticed.

Women carrying brass pots of water slowed their steps, murmuring amongst themselves. The sabziwala paused as he arranged his cart, shaking his head at the little girl kneeling in the dirt.

“Still planting?” Renu Chachi clicked her tongue. “Poor thing. Wasting her time, just like her mother did with those silly rangolis. And where did that get her?”

“Hush, Chachi,” another woman whispered. “The girl is just like her mother—heart full of dreams, feet stuck in the dust.”

Nearby, a group of boys kicked a deflated football. One of them, Nitin, snickered, “Ira thinks she can turn the road into a garden. Maybe she’s hoping flowers will bring her mother back.”

The laughter stung more than the cold, but Ira didn’t flinch. She kept her head bowed, patting the soil as if comforting a sleeping child.

“Don’t listen to them,” she whispered to the buried seeds. “People only believe what they can see.” She traced a finger over the damp earth. “But I believe in you.”

Every morning, she returned. A tin bucket filled with water, hands rough from digging, eyes searching for the first sign of life.

—

One afternoon, Ammaji, the oldest woman in the village, stopped in the middle of the lane, her cane tapping the ground. She squinted at the patch of earth before shifting her gaze to Ira.

“What are you doing, child?”

“Planting wildflowers,” Ira answered, dusting dirt from her hands.

The old woman hummed, her expression unreadable. “Your mother once told me she wanted this road to be a garden.”

Ira’s breath hitched.

“She did?”

“Haan,” Ammaji nodded. “But fate had other plans.” She studied Ira’s hands, rough with effort, and her face, bright with stubborn belief. “Sometimes, children finish what their mothers started.”

That night, Ira sat by the kitchen fire, her legs curled beneath her. Her father ate in silence, the only sound the clink of his spoon against the metal plate. The smell of mustard oil and dry spices filled the air, but the food felt tasteless.

“Baba,” she asked, stirring the rice, “if they don’t bloom, will you be angry?”

Raghav, seated on the floor beside her, didn’t lift his gaze from his plate.

“Anger is for things that matter, Ira.”

“And flowers don’t?” she pressed.

For the first time, he hesitated. “No, they don’t.”

Ira swallowed the lump in her throat.

You’ll see, Baba. You’ll see.

—

Spring arrived hesitantly, like a reluctant guest.

One morning, as Ira knelt by the road, fingers tracing the familiar cracks in the soil, she felt something new. A softness. A tiny resistance.

She held her breath.

A single violet bloom peeked through the earth. Small, trembling, yet defiant.

“Baba!” she shouted, stumbling to her feet. “Baba, come quickly!”

Raghav stepped outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. “What is it now?”

She pointed, breathless. “Look!”

He walked toward her, his face unreadable. His gaze followed her outstretched finger to the tiny flower.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a quiet exhale, he murmured, “One flower doesn’t mean the whole road will bloom.”

“Maybe not,” Ira admitted, “but it’s a start.”

Days passed. More flowers appeared. Yellow, blue, purple—scattered like tiny miracles.

People stopped and stared.

“Ira, tell me where you got those seeds,” one woman asked.

“Can I plant some outside my house too?” another wondered.

Slowly, hesitantly, the village followed. Mothers pressed seeds into the soil, their children watering them at dawn. The road, once lifeless, transformed—colour spreading like ink on fabric, soft and unstoppable.

One evening, as the sky melted into orange and pink, Ira stepped outside. The air smelled of blooming flowers and fresh earth.

And then she saw it.

At the edge of their small garden.

A single flower.

Planted carefully.

By hands larger than hers.

She turned, her heart pounding. Inside, Raghav sat on the charpoy, staring at the empty wall where a photograph once hung. His fingers, calloused and strong, rested on his knee. They twitched slightly, as if remembering the feel of soil between them.

Ira swallowed. “You planted it?”

Raghav didn’t answer immediately. Then, in a voice softer than she had ever heard, he said, “Your mother would have loved this.”

Ira’s eyes stung, but she smiled.

—

That year, Holi arrived with an air of quiet anticipation. The last two years had been shadowed by silence, the kind that settled heavy over their home. But this time, something was different.

As the first morning rays bathed the road in golden light, the wildflowers swayed gently, their petals catching the breeze, vibrant and alive. Splashes of violet, saffron, and crimson danced in the sunlight, dotting the once-barren path like scattered jewels.

The village children were the first to break the silence. With fists full of powdered colour, they ran through the narrow lanes, their laughter ringing through the air. Their mothers, who had once whispered about Ira’s foolish dreams, stepped out with bowls of bright gulal, dusting their fingertips in shades of pink and green.

Ira stood at the edge of the road, her heart pounding as she watched the village come alive.

“Are you just going to stand there, beti?” Ammaji’s voice startled her.

Ira turned to see the old woman holding a plate of yellow powder, a knowing smile on her wrinkled face.

“But… Baba—”

“Go on,” Ammaji nudged her forward. “It’s time.”

Inside their home, Raghav sat on the charpoy, staring at the open trunk in the corner of the room. It was a small wooden box, its lid slightly worn, its brass latch rusted with time.

For two years, he hadn’t opened it.

For two years, he had let dust settle over her memories.

Now, with hesitant hands, he lifted the lid.

Folded neatly inside was Ira’s mother’s favourite dupatta—bright pink, threaded with golden motifs. A small wooden comb rested on top, its teeth catching the soft morning light. And beside it, carefully wrapped in cloth, were packets of old rangoli powders.

He swallowed.

“Baba?”

Raghav looked up. Ira stood in the doorway, a small streak of red on her cheek where a child had smeared colour.

“Come outside,” she said, stepping closer. “It’s Holi.”

His fingers brushed against the pink dupatta. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “She loved Holi, didn’t she?”

Ira nodded, her throat tightening. “She always said colours make the world feel alive.”

A beat of silence.

Then, with careful hands, Raghav picked up the rangoli packets and stood.

When he stepped outside, the village stilled.

For the first time in two years, the man who had once been lost in grief walked onto the flower-lined road—not as a shadow of sorrow, but as a father, returning to colour.

The neighbours murmured amongst themselves, watching as Raghav reached Ira. She held out her hand hesitantly, and to her surprise, he opened a small packet of red powder and smeared a gentle stroke across her forehead.

“Your mother would be proud,” he murmured.

Tears welled in Ira’s eyes, but they weren’t from sadness. They were from something lighter, something warm.

Ammaji clapped her hands. “Enough staring! It’s Holi! And Holi is for laughter, not silence!”

A cheer erupted. A splash of pink burst in the air, followed by blue, then yellow, then green. Children squealed, chasing each other with fists full of colour. Women smeared bright hues across each other’s faces, their laughter ringing like forgotten melodies. The men, hesitant at first, joined in, throwing handfuls of powder into the air, the dust settling over the wildflowers like a blessing.

Raghav, too, found himself pulled into the festivity. Someone smeared green across his cheek, another dusted his shawl with purple. He let out a small chuckle—his first in years.

Ira laughed, spinning amidst the colours, her mother’s words echoing in her heart.

“Flowers bloom where they are needed most.”

And this year, in a village once weighed down by loss, hope had finally bloomed again.

—

The End