The wedding date had not been fixed yet, but Simi could feel it settling into the house the way monsoon humidity does — silently, everywhere, impossible to escape.

Her father had mentioned the name twice now. Arvind. Son of some business family in Cuttack, educated abroad, good family, good money — all the words her father used that meant the conversation was already over before it began. Her mother had started talking about silk sarees. Her aunt from Puri had already called twice.

Raanu almost didn’t make it to the bed that night.

She had been sitting on the floor of her hostel room for an hour — back against the wall, knees pulled in, staring at the ceiling fan that made a soft ticking sound on every third rotation. Her roommate had gone home for the weekend. The silence was the kind that does not comfort you. It just shows you how much space a person takes up even when they are not there.

Sammi and the Kite of Kindness

(A heartwarming winter story set in an Odia village)

Family arrives; Sammi rushes to greet friends, winter evening warmth.

Winter vacations had just begun, and the air in the small Odia village of Sapoinali was filled with laughter, warmth, and the aroma of freshly cooked food. Inside their ancestral home, Sammi’s mother yelled, “Sammi! You never stay at home! Come back and eat!” Her voice echoed through the courtyard. But Sammi, only eight years old, was already halfway down the lane — his tiny feet kicking up dust on the muddy path as he ran toward the open fields.

Ritu stood in front of the mirror, her reflection revealing a woman who had lost a part of herself. The soft, golden morning light streamed through the window, highlighting the faint dark circles under her eyes. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, contemplating the restless nights spent worrying about her family, her husband, Ramesh Babu, who wore his bank official badge as a cloak of authority, leaving hardly any room for her voice.

It was a warm evening in early spring, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting a golden hue over Saket’s modest apartment in Delhi. The aroma of freshly made ginger tea filled the air and mingled with the scent of the blooming marigolds outside. Saket, a tall and robust man in his mid-forties, sat cross-legged on the sofa, his well-trimmed beard and salt-and-pepper hair reflecting years of discipline and dedication. His wife, Arti, was a petite woman in her early forties, with soft, nurturing features and long hair often tied in a neat bun. Their ten-year-old daughter, Mia, with her expressive brown eyes and a playful smile, sat cross-legged on the floor, her curly hair bouncing with every movement.

The sun was setting over the bustling city of Bangalore, casting long shadows as it dipped below the horizon. The summer heat was beginning to wane, giving way to a pleasant evening breeze that rustled the leaves of nearby trees. It was in this vibrant atmosphere that I, Rohan, an IT engineer, prepared for a family trip to Bhubaneswar.

“Rohan, are we all set for the journey?” my wife, Meera, called out as she checked our luggage. With her long, wavy hair and sharp features, Meera was always the organized one in our family, ensuring everything was in order before we embarked on any trip.