Chapter 1: The Rescue at Chowk

Penniless and cast out from the Raja’s bungalow, I shivered all night on the footpath near Chowk, my teeth chattering so hard I thought they’d crack, until the city’s morning azaan echoed through the mist.

The bitter Lucknow winter showed no mercy. With every breath, the cold seeped through the holes in my threadbare shawl. Diesel fumes from passing trucks clung to my nose, and the prickling cold numbed my fingers. When Major Pratap spotted me huddled under a shop awning near Chowk—barely conscious, the last cries of a chaiwala calling out, "Oye, chai ki aakhri pyaali!"—he simply muttered, “Arrey, what is this? Kya haal bana rakha hai, beta?” With the no-nonsense brusqueness of a true fauji, he hoisted me into his jeep. He didn’t ask my name or past—just drove me straight to his modest quarters, the smell of chai and warm bread enveloping me, and made me a hot cup of chai with extra ginger and a dash of cardamom. To my surprise, in that house, no one judged the callouses on my hands, nor the brokenness in my voice. I almost dropped the cup, my hands unused to warmth that wasn’t just from chai. For the first time since childhood, I felt the weight of someone else’s care.

He never looked down on me for being a classical singer, nor for being a faded, worn-out woman. I, in turn, cherished the frail young son his late wife had left behind.

There was a kind of silent understanding between us. He never once brought up my former life or my performances at mehfils long forgotten. In return, I poured my care into Aarav, who clung to my sari pallu as if it was the only safe place left in the world. Every morning, I would rub amla oil into his hair, make sure his school uniform was ironed, and slip a laddoo into his tiffin. His health was weak, but his smile was gentle and eager, reminding me of monsoon sunlight peeking through clouds.

And so, the three of us lived together in quiet simplicity.

Our house, though small, always smelled of turmeric and incense. The days passed in a gentle rhythm of chai, schoolbooks, and the distant hum of rickshaw bells. Pratap’s army boots thudded on the floorboards every evening, and we would share stories over dal and rice. On the wall hung a faded army medal and a sepia photo of Major Pratap in uniform, standing tall and proud. We had little, but somehow it was enough.