Uththan

Trigger Warning / Disclaimer

This story lightly touches on themes of grief, parental loss, and unexpected guardianship. While written in a warm, humorous tone, it may stir emotions related to family estrangement or abandonment. 

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

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The taxi sputtered up the winding Kodaikanal road like it was on its last breath. Vaidehi Rao sat stiffly in the backseat, clutching her handbag like it held answers to the questions she hadn’t asked in years. Her mother was gone. The call had come out of nowhere, and the will that followed made even less sense. A house in the hills, an inheritance she didn’t ask for, and a letter that simply said, “Come home.”

She stepped out into the mist. The house looked like something out of an old Doordarshan serial—wooden porch, sloped roof, paint flaking like dandruff. A wind chime squeaked overhead. A crow eyed her suspiciously from the gate.

She didn’t remember the gate creaking quite this dramatically. It groaned like it held a grudge, as if the years had rusted not just its hinges but its patience too. The path to the porch was overgrown in parts, small tufts of grass poking through the gravel like they’d claimed the house in her absence.

And she definitely didn’t remember the porch having a teenage girl sprawled across it, legs in the air, reading a thick, dog-eared book upside down with the intense focus of someone trying to read the universe backward. The girl’s jeans were frayed, her t-shirt had a faded superhero on it, and her hair was tied in a messy bun that defied gravity.

The girl looked up, slowly, lazily, raising one eyebrow in that uniquely adolescent way that made Vaidehi feel every minute of her thirty-nine years. She felt, quite suddenly, like she’d walked into someone else’s story.

“You must be the city lady,” the girl said, eyes scanning Vaidehi like she was both a curiosity and a mild inconvenience. “Late by about sixteen years, give or take.”

Vaidehi clutched her handbag tighter, unsure whether to feel amused or insulted. “I’m sorry… who are you?”

“I’m Meghna. Foster kid. Latha Aunty sort of… collected me. Like her tea tins and mismatched spoons. Except I talk back and eat more cereal.”

Vaidehi blinked, the words slow to register. “I didn’t know she was fostering.”

“Yeah,” Meghna said, not missing a beat. “She said you’d say that.”

Something tightened in Vaidehi’s chest. A mixture of guilt, confusion, and a strange pinch of jealousy she couldn’t place. Latha Rao, her fiercely private, often unpredictable mother, had taken someone in—nurtured them, even—and never told her own daughter. Not even a letter. Not even a hint.

Inside the house, nothing had changed and yet everything had. The air was thick with the familiar scent of sandalwood incense and strong filter coffee, the kind that clung to the curtains and stayed on your clothes like a memory. The wooden cupboard in the hallway still had its wobbly hinge, creaking faintly as the wind nudged it.

But new layers had quietly formed over the old. There were hand-painted bookmarks peeking out of books stacked on every surface, beanbags shaped like giant strawberries and bananas scattered across the floor, and fairy lights strung across the window like the house had decided to attend its own birthday party. In the kitchen, a lava lamp glowed an eerie green from the corner, bubbling slowly like a potion brewing in the background of a slightly absurd life.

Meghna walked in behind her, casually pointing to it. “Mood lighting. For boiling rice. Because obviously, drama helps the grains cook better.”

Vaidehi didn’t laugh. Not exactly. But something in her shoulders softened, just a bit.

Vaidehi wandered deeper into the house, shoes clicking softly against the cool red oxide flooring. Every corner felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for her reaction. She paused at the threshold of what used to be her childhood room—once painted a dull cream, now transformed into a chaos of cozy creativity.

There were prayer flags draped above the window. The bookshelf had grown double its size and looked like it might collapse under the weight of fantasy novels, old encyclopedias, and a thick stack of Archie comics. A yoga mat lay half-unrolled on the floor beside a half-knitted scarf and a chessboard that looked mid-war.

And then there was the banana-shaped beanbag.

It stared back at her, its zipper like a crooked grin, as if mocking her serious face. Vaidehi sighed deeply and sat on it—more like collapsed into it—her knees cracking in protest.

She had come here with a purpose. Pack up the house. Sign some papers. Maybe scatter some ashes if the priest allowed. She hadn’t come to wrestle with lava lamps or mysterious teenagers with opinions. She hadn’t come to remember the sound her mother’s laughter made, or how the floor creaked outside her room at exactly 10:30 every night.

And she certainly hadn’t come to be anyone’s guardian, surrogate, or saviour.

She was just here. Temporarily. Like monsoon rain on a summer hill.

Outside the door, Meghna popped her head in. “You okay, city lady?”

Vaidehi glanced at her, unsure whether to roll her eyes or thank her. “I have a name.”

“Oh, I know. Vaidehi Rao. Financial consultant. Last seen in a Gurgaon apartment with a coffee machine more expensive than my entire wardrobe.” She grinned. “I googled you.”

Vaidehi blinked. “You did what?”

“Internet. Very handy for stalking unexpected inheritance claimants.”

Despite herself, Vaidehi laughed. Just once. Meghna grinned wider, victorious.

The next morning, Vaidehi was just about to take her first sip of tea when a loud, persistent knock echoed through the house.

Not a polite knock. A ‘prepare thyself, I come bearing opinions’ knock.

She opened the door to find a round woman in a tomato-red knit cap, holding a tin of murukkus like a peace offering and wearing a shawl wrapped so tightly it could’ve been armour.

“Shanta,” the woman said, stepping in like she’d lived there for years. “Neighbour. Friend. Unofficial president of the Ladies Cultural Committee. Your mother’s chutney rival. Though I concede, her mango pickle was unmatched. Rest her soul.”

Vaidehi blinked. “Oh—hello. I’m—”

“Yes, yes. Vaidehi. You look like your mother. But less… perpetually annoyed.”

Shanta settled herself onto the sofa with the confidence of someone who had already decided to stay for a minimum of one hour and one full story arc.

“I brought murukkus. Not the fried ones, mind you—baked. We’re all trying to lower cholesterol this year. Except for Radha from next door, who thinks sugarless sweets are a sin.”

Meghna walked past with a biscuit in her mouth, muttering, “Shanta Aunty also thinks K-pop is a government conspiracy.”

“Because it is,” Shanta declared dramatically, wagging a finger. “YouTube is brainwashing the youth. Just yesterday I caught my nephew lip-syncing in Korean and wearing eyeliner.”

Vaidehi stifled a laugh. This woman was clearly unfiltered, unbothered, and possibly unhinged—in a charming, snack-bearing way.

“So,” Shanta continued, now inspecting the living room like a property appraiser. “Your mother always said you’d never come back. I told her, ‘Of course she will. Children always return when there’s a house to claim or a freezer to empty.’”

“I didn’t come for the house,” Vaidehi said softly. “I came because she… passed.”

“Same thing,” Shanta said with a shrug. “In Kodaikanal, people only show up for three reasons—death, divorce, or detox. And you don’t look divorced. Or detoxed. You’re still wearing mascara.”

Meghna snorted audibly from the hallway.

Shanta leaned forward. “But it’s good you came. This house needs feet in it. Laughter. Fights. Smell of burnt dosas. Your mother may have been sharp-tongued, but she was warm-bellied. Fed the entire neighbourhood. Except Radha, who once returned her sambhar with corrections.”

Vaidehi opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a sudden creak of the front door as the wind whooshed in, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and damp earth.

“You feel that?” Shanta said, closing her eyes dramatically. “That’s the hills reminding you: this isn’t just a house. It’s a hearth. You just need to let it be warm again.”

Before Vaidehi could reply, Shanta stood up and handed her the tin. “Murukkus. Made with til and unsolicited advice. Take one, ignore the other. I’ll be back Thursday with more. Don’t bother trying to avoid me. I see everything.”

And with that, she marched out, leaving Vaidehi slightly stunned, Meghna cackling softly, and the murukku tin rattling in her hands.

—

The sink in the kitchen had started its own personal orchestra—drip, drip, drip, like a passive-aggressive metronome. Vaidehi had tried tightening it with a spoon (don’t ask), then ignored it for two days, hoping the universe would take care of it. The universe responded by flooding the counter.

So she finally called the number scribbled on the back of an old electricity bill that said in bold: RAJAN – PLUMBING, WIRING & WISDOM – Reasonable rates, poetic insights free.

When the doorbell rang at 10 a.m. sharp, she opened it to find a tall man in a woollen cap with KING stitched across it, carrying a toolbox and a battered copy of Macbeth.

“Rajan,” he announced. “Fixer of leaks and dispenser of life’s tragic truths. Where is the villainous faucet?”

Vaidehi blinked. “Uhm… kitchen. To the left.”

He marched in like a soldier on a mission and stood before the sink dramatically, hands on hips.

“Alas, poor washer,” he said, inspecting the dripping tap. “I knew thee well—too well, in fact. You, who hath betrayed thine mistress with every droplet.”

Meghna peeked around the corner. “Oh no, it’s the Shakespeare guy. You’ve summoned the Bardsman.”

Rajan raised a spanner like a sword. “Child! Do not mock the tongue of the mighty Bard. Even plumbers have poetry in their pipes.”

Vaidehi covered her mouth to hide her laugh. “Do you always… quote plays while fixing leaks?”

Rajan gave her a solemn look. “Only when the leaks demand it. Some taps drip sadness. Some drip denial. Yours… this one drips betrayal.”

Then, quite efficiently—despite all the theatrics—he took the tap apart and started tightening bolts while mumbling, “To tighten, or not to tighten, that is the question.”

A sudden spray of water hit him square in the face.

“Out, out, damned leak!” he cried, sputtering and laughing. Meghna clapped like she was watching a live show.

When the tap finally fell silent, Rajan wiped his hands on a towel and turned to Vaidehi.

“Done. Your sink no longer sobs. But be warned, madam—every pipe remembers. Be kind to your plumbing, and it shall reward you with silence.”

“How much do I owe you?” Vaidehi asked, still smiling.

He waved a hand. “Ah, it was but a minor tragedy. One hundred rupees and perhaps a cup of strong tea?”

“Done,” she said. “But only if you promise not to quote Hamlet while drinking it.”

“No promises,” he said with a wink. “Hamlet loves tea.”

Rajan left with a biscuit in one hand and a soliloquy about soggy weather on his lips.

By late afternoon, Meghna had taken over the living room with her sketchpad, sprawled out like she owned the floor. Vaidehi sat on the couch with a plate of sliced guava and a bottle of chaat masala.

“You draw a lot,” Vaidehi said, watching her.

Meghna didn’t look up. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who doesn’t plan to stay.”

Vaidehi raised an eyebrow. “Touché. You ever thought of art school?”

Meghna shrugged. “Sometimes. But it’s expensive. And… temporary people don’t make permanent plans.”

There it was. Like a pebble thrown into a still pond. A quiet accusation that rippled through the room.

“I’m not temporary,” Vaidehi said, more to herself than to Meghna.

The teen looked up now. “Aren’t you?”

Vaidehi sighed and leaned back. “I came here to pack boxes and be done with it. But then the kitchen attacked me, a plumber quoted Shakespeare, and I found you sleeping with your feet on my old biology textbook. So… maybe the plan is changing.”

Meghna paused, pencil mid-air. “Changing into what?”

“I don’t know yet,” Vaidehi admitted. “But today, I bought sabudana without crying in aisle three. And that feels like progress.”

Meghna smirked. “Bare minimum, but okay. Noted.”

They shared a grin, quiet but real. Outside, clouds folded themselves into grey quilts across the sky. Rain tapped gently on the roof. It felt like the house was listening.

Later that night, after burnt rotis and a spirited argument about which K-drama had the best second lead, Vaidehi sat in bed with her phone. She opened the notes app and typed:

To-do list for the future:

• Find Meghna’s old school records.
  
• Talk to local art teachers.
  
• Figure out if this house needs a new roof or just emotional reassurance.
  
• Stay. Just a little longer.
  

In the other room, she heard Meghna humming—something offbeat and comforting. A strange peace settled in her chest. Not loud, not dramatic. Just present.

Maybe the future didn’t need a five-year plan. Maybe it just needed a spare toothbrush in the bathroom and two mugs drying beside the sink.

—

By mid-January, the house buzzed with Pongal preparations. Not just the festival, but the dish too—sweet Sakkarai Pongal with ghee and cashews, bubbling on the stove like it had a personal vendetta against the vessel. Vaidehi stood near the stove, squinting into the pot.

“This thing is volcanic,” she muttered, stepping back as the mixture bubbled over.

Meghna, lounging at the dining table with coloured paper and glue, looked up and grinned. “It’s supposed to overflow. Symbol of prosperity.”

“Symbol of cleaning up a sticky mess,” Vaidehi said, waving a wooden spatula. “Your Latha Aunty didn’t mention this part.”

Meghna snorted. “She also didn’t tell me that turmeric tied to sugarcane was for good luck. I thought we were offering snacks to the plants.”

Shanta Aunty dropped by wearing a saree patterned with cows and sugarcane stalks, carrying a tray of colourful kolam powders. “You two are doing it all wrong,” she declared cheerfully. “Pongal is about thanking the Sun, not giving him diabetes!”

They ended up laughing until the Pongal burned slightly, which, as Shanta assured them, was “a family tradition, apparently.”

—

It began with a goat.

More specifically, a goat that had wandered into the house one Saturday morning while Vaidehi was trying to meditate with a YouTube video titled “5-Minute Mindfulness for Stressed City Women.” She opened her eyes to find the goat chewing on one of her socks and Meghna recording it on her phone.

“Hashtag blessed,” the girl said, barely containing laughter.

“You brought a goat into the house?” Vaidehi exclaimed.

“It walked in. I just gave it a platform.”

Before Vaidehi could respond, Shanta Aunty barged in with a string of panic. “That’s Ramu! He escaped again. Last time he chewed through my husband’s pension papers. We’re still recovering emotionally.”

While chasing Ramu around the living room, Vaidehi tripped on a yoga mat, slipped, and landed squarely in a beanbag shaped like a mango. It swallowed her whole, and for a moment all she could see was ceiling and goat ears.

And for some reason, that’s when she burst into laughter. Loud, unfiltered, belly-aching laughter that left her and Meghna gasping for air while the goat calmly chewed the corner of a newspaper.

Later that night, sitting on the porch with a cup of too-strong coffee and a bandaged toe, Vaidehi watched Meghna sketch something on a notepad. The stars were out. The air smelled like eucalyptus and fried pakoras from Shanta Aunty’s kitchen.

“You okay?” Meghna asked quietly.

“I think I am,” Vaidehi said, surprised to mean it.

“You’re not selling the house, are you?”

Vaidehi hesitated. “I was. I even called a real estate agent. He said the slope makes it ‘niche but undesirable.’ Which feels like a metaphor for my life.”

Meghna snorted.

Vaidehi continued, “But… no. I don’t think I will. Not yet. Maybe this house needs one more beginning.”

Meghna looked at her. “So… you’re staying?”

Vaidehi shrugged. “I’m not running, if that’s what you mean. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Meghna didn’t smile right away. But she nodded. And that was enough.

—

The End