After completing the pooja and temple visit, the next plan was to explore the village. But by then, hunger had quietly taken over everyone.
Mr. Nagaraju, being the elder brother, decided it was best to eat first and then continue the journey. Everyone agreed without hesitation.
They asked the driver to stop the car at a peaceful spot along the way—somewhere shaded and comfortable to sit and eat. Once the car was parked, they invited the driver to join them for breakfast, but he politely refused, saying he had already eaten while they were at the temple.
Everyone got down from the car. Mr. Nagaraju took out the water bottles, while his wife began unpacking the food containers. Soon, the space turned into a small outdoor dining setup. She carefully arranged everything so the food could be served neatly.
One by one, disposable plates were distributed. Each plate was served with curd rice and puliyogare, placed side by side, with pickle on the edge adding a spicy touch.
As per tradition and respect, the first plate was served to the grandmother. Then came the children, who eagerly took their plates. After that, the men were served. Only once everyone else had been served did the three wives serve themselves and begin eating.
Ramya and Sowmya quickly said they were full after one serving. Manu, however, happily went for a second round of both puliyogare and curd rice. Akshatha chose to have only curd rice the second time, while her two elder cousins decided to take both items again.
Once the children finished, the three couples served themselves again, making sure they ate properly. Since they didn't know how long it would take to return to the city or find good food later, they preferred to eat well now.
Being a large group, they were mindful not to burden any relatives for meals. So they decided that on their return journey, they would stop somewhere and arrange lunch on their own.
After breakfast, they decided to continue their journey.
This time, Akshatha quickly switched seats with the other children. She wanted the window seat—it was her favorite place in any journey. As soon as she settled in, she plugged in her earphones, adjusted them comfortably, and leaned slightly towards the window.
For her, this was peace.
Music in her ears, the outside world passing by, and her thoughts quietly flowing—this combination made every journey feel personal and meaningful.
The car moved steadily, and she kept looking out—trees rushing past, small houses, open fields, and glimpses of village life. Time slipped by without her noticing.
After about an hour, they finally reached the village.
It was around eleven in the morning. The village was alive in its own slow, familiar rhythm. Women sat outside their houses on the jaguli, chatting with neighbors, their voices filled with ease and routine. At the entrance of the village, under a large tree, a group of men stood talking, discussing everyday matters.
The car stopped near the entrance, and everyone got down.
Without much delay, the women began walking towards the old house, their pace steady but purposeful. From a distance, they noticed someone waiting.
Bhagya's father stood outside, along with his wife.
The moment carried a quiet weight.
Bhagya was his daughter—but not in a simple way. She was born to his second wife, yet she was his first daughter. His first wife had conceived later, making Bhagya the eldest in reality. But life had not been kind or fair to her.
She had lost her mother when she was just six months old. On her mother's deathbed, she had been handed over to her father's sister, who had no children of her own. From that moment, Bhagya was raised elsewhere—loved, perhaps, but distanced. Legally and emotionally, she was no longer truly part of her father's household.
And over time, that distance became silence.
Now, standing there after so many years, facing her father and her stepmother, Bhagya's emotions stayed hidden behind a controlled expression.
She forced a smile.
It didn't reach her eyes.
Still, she stepped forward with dignity, greeted her father, then her stepmother, and then the rest of the family one by one—fulfilling what was expected, even if her heart remained elsewhere.
As they reached the old house, the daughters-in-law of the family warmly welcomed everyone. They moved around with steel tumblers, serving lemon juice and water to each person, making sure no one was left out. The simple gesture carried the warmth of the household—quiet, respectful, and rooted in tradition.
Akshatha stood there, taking it all in.
Her visits to this village had always been limited—countable, almost like rare events in her life.
The first time was not out of choice, but circumstance. When her father had gone missing, she had stayed here for nearly six months. Those days were different—uncertain, heavy, and unfamiliar.
After her father returned, their life shifted again, and they moved to Chikkamagaluru. From then on, the village became distant.
She came back once when her grandfather passed away. The house was filled with people, but the air carried grief instead of warmth.
And then again, for her grandfather's thithi—a visit bound by ritual rather than connection.
Beyond these moments, her presence in the village—or among relatives—was rare. She wasn't someone who frequently visited or stayed in touch. Life had quietly placed a distance between her and these relationships, not loudly, but firmly.
So now, standing there once again, holding a glass of lemon juice, she felt like both—someone who belonged, and someone who didn't.
A familiar stranger in her own roots.
Many of the children happily took the lemon juice, enjoying the refreshing taste after the journey. The elders, however, preferred plain water.
Akshatha initially stepped forward to take a glass of juice. But as she reached out, her eyes fell on the woman serving it—her fingernails were visibly unclean. In that small moment, Akshatha quietly pulled back.
Without making a scene, she simply said, "I'm not thirsty."
It was subtle, but not unnoticed.
Some of the elders had seen what she saw. Still, they kept their expressions neutral. In a place like this, pointing it out openly would have been disrespectful and uncomfortable for everyone. So they chose silence over reaction.
Meanwhile, the two elder cousins avoided the situation in their own way. Instead of taking the served drinks, they walked over to the matka kept nearby and helped themselves to cool water. It felt safer, and no one questioned it.
The moment passed quietly, unspoken—but understood.