Samira noticed Niyati standing alone on the balcony as she walked toward her room. She paused mid-step.

Niyati leaned against the railing, her fingers loosely curled around the cold metal, her gaze fixed on the vast night sky. The city lights flickered below like distant stars, yet her eyes seemed focused on something far beyond them. She looked lost in thought, withdrawn into a world of her own.

For a moment, Samira simply watched her. There was a heaviness in Niyati’s stillness, a quiet storm behind her silence.

She walked over softly and stood beside her, resting her arms on the cool metal railing. A gentle breeze moved through the air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city below.

“What’s got you so lost in thought, Niyati?” she asked softly, nudging her arm gently.

Niyati blinked, as if returning from a distant place. She let out a slow, heavy sigh before speaking.

“I’ve been thinking about Srenik.”

Samira raised an eyebrow, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips.

“Let me finish,” Niyati said quickly, shaking her head. “I mean… I’ve been thinking about what he said earlier in the meeting.”

“Oh?” Samira turned slightly toward her. “What about it?”

Niyati remained silent for a moment, her eyes still fixed on the darkness ahead. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a quiet weight.

“We often talk about women and their struggles,” she said slowly. “Their abuse, harassment, menstrual pain, the difficulties they face in their in-laws’ homes, sometimes even within their own families. We acknowledge their suffering, and rightly so. We have laws, support systems, and social awareness to protect them.”

She paused, her voice growing heavier, her fingers tightening slightly around the railing.

“But what about men? What protection do they have?”

Samira remained silent, listening intently.

Niyati continued, her words measured yet charged with emotion.

“We grow up hearing that girls must learn cooking, cleaning, and household responsibilities… that after marriage, their own home is no longer truly theirs.” She exhaled slowly, her voice softening. “But boys grow up hearing things too.”

“They’re told not to cry ‘like a girl.’ They’re told to be strong, to suppress their pain, to carry responsibilities without complaint. They’re expected to become ‘the man of the house,’ no matter how young they are.”

Her grip tightened on the railing, the cold metal biting into her palms.

“When a woman is abused, society comes together to support her. And it should,” she said firmly. “But when a man suffers, why is it different? Instead of empathy, he is mocked or dismissed. Instead of support, he is shamed. People laugh and say, ‘Aren’t you ashamed to be beaten by a woman?’ His pain becomes a joke.”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes reflecting both anger and helplessness.

“How long will this continue? It’s high time we normalize that men are human too… not machines without emotions, not beings expected to endure everything in silence.” She paused, her voice softening, turning uncertain. “But how, Samira? I keep thinking about it. What can we really do beyond posting quotes or speaking about it on social media?”

She turned to face her, eyes searching for clarity.

Samira remained silent for a few moments, absorbing every word. The night breeze stirred gently around them, carrying the quiet weight of the conversation. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, steady, and certain.

“We can change it.”

Niyati frowned slightly. “How?”

“Through someone who has the power to make a real difference,” Samira replied. “Someone mature enough to understand the depth of the problem… and intelligent enough to address it with balance and responsibility.”

Niyati fell silent, contemplating her words. A moment later, understanding dawned on her, her eyes widening slightly.

“I know who you’re talking about,” she said.

Samira nodded, her expression composed. “Let’s speak to them. We’ll see what can be done.”

Neither of them spoke after that. They stood side by side in silence, the night stretching vast and contemplative around them, as if the darkness itself listened to their resolve. Above them, the stars shimmered quietly, bearing witness to a conversation that sought not merely answers, but change.

The sharp chime of the doorbell echoed through the house, its crisp sound cutting through the quiet morning stillness. Samira hurried down the staircase, her footsteps light yet swift. Reaching the door, she paused briefly before opening it.

Srenik stood before her, dressed in a deep purple button-down shirt with the sleeves casually rolled to his forearms, paired with straight beige tailored pants. He removed his sunglasses with an easy motion and greeted her with polite composure.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Srenik,” Samira replied with a faint smile. “Didn’t Viren sir come with you?”

Without a word, Srenik stepped aside.

Behind him stood Viren, slightly turned away as he spoke to someone on his phone. He was dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms. A pair of black sunglasses hung from his shirt placket, and an elegant analog leather watch rested against his wrist. Straight black tailored pants completed his composed, understated appearance.

He ended the call, slipped his phone into his pocket, and walked toward her.

“Hi, Samira,” he said with a smile.

“Please, come in,” Samira replied,  stepping aside and leading them inside. Viren and Srenik followed her into the house.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, gesturing toward the sofa. “Can I get you something?”

“Samira, you go and get ready. We’ll help ourselves,” Viren said calmly.

“But, sir—”

Viren cut her off, his tone firm yet gentle. “No buts. Go and get ready, otherwise we’ll be late.”

With gentle insistence, he ushered her toward her room, leaving no room for argument.

Once she left, Viren walked into the kitchen to prepare tea and coffee. Srenik followed him inside.

“Sir, I’ll do it,” Srenik offered.

“That’s fine,” Viren replied. “You make the tea while I prepare the coffee.”

“Done, sir.”

Soon, both of them moved in silent coordination, as the soft clatter of utensils and the rich aroma of brewing tea and freshly prepared coffee gradually filling the kitchen, wrapping the space in warmth.

A few moments later, Surya joined them. He wore a maroon-and-white vertically striped shirt with a mandarin collar, the sleeves neatly rolled to his forearms. Paired with cream-colored tailored trousers, the attire gave him a sharp yet relaxed appearance.

“Morning, sir,” he greeted Viren with an easy smile.

Viren acknowledged him with a brief nod. “Coffee, right?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Surya replied, accepting the warm mug.

“Hey, bro,” Srenik greeted, lifting his teacup.

Surya raised his own cup slightly in response. “Hey.”

The three of them leaned casually against the kitchen counter, quietly enjoying their drinks in companionable silence as the morning sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room.

A few moments later, the soft sound of footsteps drew their attention. Samira, Aryahi, and Niyati descended the staircase together.

Samira wore a mustard-gold embroidered kurta adorned with intricate patterns, paired with matching patiala pants and a richly detailed dupatta draped gracefully over her left shoulder. The ensemble carried a regal traditional elegance. Delicate drop earrings, minimal makeup, and her neatly braided hair enhanced her poised and graceful presence.

Beside her, Aryahi wore a flowing deep green kurta with wide sleeves, paired with matching palazzo trousers. Oxidised silver jhumka earrings, a long oxidised pendant necklace, and a gold cuff bracelet lent her an air of refined traditional charm. Her hair, styled in soft side-swept curls, framed her calm and graceful expression.

Niyati followed in a rust-orange kurta that draped in soft, fluid folds over wide trousers, its loose silhouette lending her an air of effortless grace. She kept her look minimal, with delicate rings, subtle makeup, and shoulder-length hair styled in soft waves that framed her face with understated elegance.

Viren, Srenik, and Surya fell silent, their conversation dissolving as they watched the three women descend. Their admiration was open and unguarded.

“Women look beautiful in modern wear,” Srenik said thoughtfully. “But in traditional attire, they are…”

“Divine,” Viren finished softly, his gaze lingering on Samira.

Surya and Srenik nodded in agreement.

“Couldn’t agree more, sir.”

The moment settled quietly between them, filled with warmth, admiration, and an unspoken sense of reverence.

Aryahi took a slow sip of her coffee, her brows lifting in mild surprise as the flavor settled on her tongue.

“Who made this?” she asked, turning the cup in her hands as if examining evidence. “This is definitely not Surya’s.”

Surya placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Viren sir.”

Aryahi’s gaze shifted to Viren, mild astonishment flickering across her face. “It’s really good, sir. But… you don’t drink coffee, do you? You and Srenik always prefer tea.”

A faint smile touched Viren’s lips, subtle but unguarded.

“My mother’s day doesn’t start without her coffee,” he said quietly. “So I learned to make it for her.”

There was something almost reverent in the way he said it, as if the simple act carried a meaning far deeper than the words themselves.

“Oh… mama’s boy,” Niyati teased, nudging him lightly with her shoulder.

Viren shook his head, his tone calm but firm.

“No. My mother’s son.” He paused, his voice lowering just slightly. “She’s the only family I have.”

The room stilled.

The earlier laughter faded, giving way to something heavier, more fragile. No one seemed to know what to say next. Even Niyati, who usually had a response for everything, fell silent, as if any words now would feel intrusive.

Viren glanced at them briefly, as if aware he had revealed more than intended. Before anyone could stumble into sympathy or apology, he spoke.
“Shall we leave?”

They nodded. Boundaries, unspoken yet respected.

Outside, the morning air carried a faint chill. Viren walked ahead and opened the passenger door for Samira.

“Thank you, sir,” she said softly as she settled into the seat.

He inclined his head slightly. “You’re welcome.” He closed the door with quiet care.

Niyati, Aryahi, Surya, and Srenik settled into the back seats, while Viren took his place behind the wheel. Moments later, the car pulled away, carrying with it the lingering silence of things left unsaid.

Samira’s gaze lifted to the rearview mirror. Her eyes met Niyati’s reflection. Niyati shifted her glance subtly toward Viren, urging her without words.

Say it.

Samira’s eyes responded with the faintest refusal.

You ask.

Niyati shook her head almost imperceptibly, insisting.

Viren noticed. Of course he did. A faint smile curved at the corner of his mouth as he watched their silent negotiation unfold through glances and minute expressions.

Samira’s eyes met Viren’s in the rearview mirror.

He arched a brow.
“What is it?”

She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice low but steady.

“Have you ever worked on cases involving harassment or abuse against men?”

Viren kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel.

“Like…?” he prompted, though something in his tone suggested he already had an idea of what she meant.

“I mean domestic violence,” Samira clarified. “Intimate partner abuse. Sexual harassment in the workplace. Sexual coercion. Stalking. Emotional or psychological abuse. Anything along those lines. Have you handled cases like that?”

The only sound for a moment was the steady rhythm of the tires against asphalt.

Viren considered the question longer than expected. Then he shook his head once.

“No.”

Samira turned slightly toward the back seat. “Srenik?”

He met her gaze respectfully. “No, ma’am. I haven’t.”

A faint crease formed between Samira’s brows.

“Does that mean such crimes aren’t happening?” she asked quietly.

“No,” Viren replied calmly. “It doesn’t mean that at all. Just because we haven’t handled those cases doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Many men choose not to file complaints.”

“Why?” Aryahi asked quietly from the back seat.

“Stigma,” Srenik said. “Fear of ridicule. Fear of not being believed.”

“Legal complications. Even fear of counter-allegations,” Viren continued.

“Social conditioning,” Surya added. “They’re told to endure. To stay silent. To be strong. And sometimes, simply the belief that no one will take them seriously.”

The car slowed at a traffic signal. Red light. Stillness settled inside the vehicle once again.

Samira’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her seat.

“Then what action has the police taken?” she asked, her voice measured but probing. “Any awareness initiatives, counseling support, or protection programs?”

Viren did not respond immediately.

The signal turned green, but he remained silent for a few seconds longer, as if weighing something heavier than the question itself.

Finally, he reached for his phone and dialed a number.

When the call connected, his tone shifted into command.

“Arrange a meeting with Sridhar tomorrow morning at the office,” he said. “First thing.”

He ended the call without further explanation.

The engine hummed as the car moved forward again.

This time, the silence felt different.

Not avoidance.

Decision.

Abhi Ram stood at the entrance of the house, greeting the arriving guests as they stepped through the decorated gateway. Soft strands of marigold garlands framed the doorway, their faint fragrance drifting in the warm morning air.

He was dressed in a rust-brown kurta with a simple band collar, the fabric crisp yet understated. The sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, revealing a steel-strapped wristwatch that glinted subtly in the sunlight. Slim white trousers completed the attire, while polished black formal shoes grounded the look. The ensemble suited him perfectly. Simple. Composed. Effortlessly dignified.

He looked every bit the gracious host.

He had just finished speaking to an elderly guest when movement near the gate caught his attention.

Samira walked at the front, with Aryahi and Niyati beside her. A few steps behind them came Surya, Viren, and Srenik, their conversation fading as they neared the entrance.

Abhi Ram folded his arms loosely as they approached, one eyebrow lifting in faint amusement.

“Aren’t you all a little too early?” he asked dryly, sarcasm threading through his voice.

Niyati raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

“Sorry,” she replied smoothly. “We got stuck with some work… and then traffic. You know how Hyderabad traffic is.”

Abhi Ram gave a quiet scoff, shaking his head with a faint smile.

“Save it, Niyati. That’s one of your classic excuses.”

A few quiet chuckles passed through the group.

Samira stepped forward before Niyati could protest further. She raised both hands and held her ears in playful apology, her expression deliberately exaggerated.

“Sorry, Abhi.”

He folded his arms across his chest, trying very hard to look unimpressed.

“This time,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly, “I’m not letting you go so easily, Sam.”

She tilted her head, her expression softening into a small pout.

“Please… just this one last time.”

Abhi Ram exhaled slowly, shaking his head as a reluctant smile broke through.

“You always do that,” he said. “The moment you want things to go your way.”

“Thank you, Abhi,” she said brightly.

Before he could protest further, she slipped an arm around him in a quick side hug.

Abhi Ram sighed, though the affection in his expression betrayed him.

Just then, Bhoomi walked toward them from the inner courtyard.

She wore a soft ivory saree adorned with delicate floral embroidery and a subtle woven border, draped with effortless elegance. A matching blouse complemented the quiet sophistication of the fabric. Her jhumka earrings swayed gently as she moved, and stacked bangles chimed softly at her wrist. A bold ring caught the light as she adjusted the edge of her saree. Her wavy hair rested over one shoulder, completing a look that carried both warmth and timeless charm.

“Hi, guys,” she greeted with an easy smile.

Everyone returned the greeting warmly.

Her gaze shifted then, settling on Viren, who stood slightly apart beside Surya and Srenik, observing the gathering with quiet composure.

“Thank you for coming, sir,” Bhoomi said politely. “And did you receive the flowers?”

Viren inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Yes, I did. Thank you,” he replied. “You sent them despite being busy with all this.”

Bhoomi smiled lightly.

“Work is work, and personal life is personal life, right?”

She turned slightly toward Abhi Ram.

“Ram, this is—”

“Of course I know,” Abhi Ram interrupted with an easy grin. “ACP Viren Chandravanshi. The super cop of Hyderabad.”

Viren gave a faint, amused smile at the description.

Abhi Ram extended his hand.
“Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Bhoomi’s husband… and Samira’s brother.”

Viren shook his hand firmly. “Likewise.”

He gestured toward the man beside him.
“This is Srenik.”

Srenik stepped forward with a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure,” Abhi Ram replied, shaking his hand.

For a brief moment, the group stood together in comfortable conversation, the hum of guests and murmured chants drifting from inside the house.

Just then, Bhoomi glanced toward the inner hall, realizing the puja had begun.

“The pandit is calling for the puja,” she said softly. “Let’s go inside.”

Everyone nodded and began walking toward the hall.

Soft conversations resumed as the group moved through the decorated corridor, the scent of incense drifting faintly through the air.

Abhi Ram slowed his pace slightly.

Samira noticed and instinctively matched his step. Within moments, the two of them had fallen a few steps behind the others.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Abhi Ram glanced sideways at his sister.

“Were you really stuck at work,” he asked quietly, “or did you avoid coming earlier so you wouldn’t have to deal with Amma and Nanna?”

Samira didn’t answer immediately.

She kept walking beside him, her gaze fixed ahead, the soft rustle of her clothing the only sound between them.

The silence stretched between them for several steps.

“Sam,” he continued more gently, “how are you ever going to bridge the gap between you and our parents if you both keep avoiding each other?”

He paused.

“One of you has to take the first step.”

Samira’s gaze remained forward, thoughtful.

“I know, Abhi,” she replied softly. “But you’re starting a new phase in your life… and I don’t want any drama during this function.”

She paused briefly before adding,
“I will talk to them…”

Her voice softened slightly.

“But don’t expect  much.”

Abhi Ram glanced at her, a flicker of understanding passing through his expression.

He didn’t press further.

Sometimes silence was the only respectful answer.

Together, they followed the others into the softly lit hall where the puja had already begun.

And just like that, the morning moved forward.

Whether old wounds would stay buried or quietly resurface… remained to be seen.