Chapter 1 The first thread

 There was a time when we were four shadows stitched to the same thread — me, my two brothers, and my sister. We didn’t need a bigger world than our narrow street and dusty backyard. One stole mangoes, the other covered up. One cried, the others formed a shield.

We were inseparable — not in words, but in laughter, bruises, secrets, and homemade games.

But life, as it always does, whispered distractions. Careers. Marriages. Cities. Priorities.

Slowly, the phone calls became shorter. The festivals turned quieter. And one day, I realized, I was standing alone in the garden we once ruled together.

Sometimes, I think — are they just busy or have we truly drifted apart?

That night, this poem poured out of me. For them. For us. For the bond that time may stretch but never break.

> To play passably — no big was the lawn...

Hardly did it matter — be it dusk or the dawn.

The skills of our tiny hands amaze me till date,

For they weaved a bond of everlasting love — all thanks to my fate.

When I let my heart open the box full of memories,

I no longer long for anything but our same old stories.

The bruises of this brutal world are suddenly dwarfed...

Come what may, our love can't be morphed.

As we traverse together from childhood to this day,

My eyes melt into teardrops...

No surprises — this thread just refuses to fray.

Love-full fights and hateful care are still our constants...

That they dry up all your sorrows,

Wish my prayers are bestowed with just enough strength.

— Amita Joshi (in voice of Arundhati Sen)

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Tara’s Reflection

The pages smelled faintly of sandalwood and age.

Tara had found the diary wedged between a tattered shawl and a rusted tin box inside the old wooden almirah — the one no one had touched since Arundhati Ma’am passed away.

She had hesitated to unwrap it at first. The soft fabric covering the diary felt sacred — like it held something private, something meant to stay untouched. But gratitude has its own courage, and her fingers, trembling yet certain, opened the cloth.

Now, sitting by the half-lit window, Tara let her eyes glide over each line, not just reading but listening — as if the house still remembered Arundhati Ma’am’s voice and chose to echo it gently through the rustling trees and creaking floorboards.

This poem wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t angry. It was full of warmth, aching with the comfort of shared memories and unspoken bonds. Tara had always seen Arundhati Ma’am as distant, even unkind. But here, through these verses, lived a woman who had once loved fiercely. Missed deeply. Cared silently.

Tara closed the diary softly, holding it close — not like a secret, but like a story waiting to be told.

She had a feeling this was only the beginning.