TRIGGER WARNING
[Substance Abuse]

Disclaimer: Substance abuse is dangerous, illegal, and can destroy lives. This story does not condone or glorify it in any form.
Stay safe, stay wise.

The way his veins stood out when he chopped the salad. The effortless way his biceps flexed beneath the black fabric of his shirt when he tossed the rice in the pan.

The way he moved around the kitchen with quiet confidence, his focus entirely on the task at hand—except I knew he wasn't unaware of me.

He had been perfectly aware.

"Sit, still" he had said, his voice leaving no room for argument as he effortlessly lifted me onto the kitchen counter.

I should have protested. Should have rolled my eyes, told him I wasn't some child who needed to be placed somewhere while the adults took care of things. But I hadn't.

Because the moment he did it—his strong hands gripping my waist, setting me down like it was his right—I had felt something strange settle in my chest.

Not resistance. Not irritation.

Comfort.

Like I belonged there.

The thought should have unnerved me, but it didn't. Because it wasn't possessive, wasn't overbearing. It was just... him.

He had cooked like it was second nature, his movements precise, calculated, efficient. Not like he was showing off, not like he was proving anything, just... existing in his own element. And somehow, I had been a part of it.

He had spoken to me between chopping onions and stirring rice, asking about my classes, my research, my dissertation. It wasn't small talk—it never was with him. He asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know, like my words had weight, like what I said actually mattered.

And the most dangerous part?

I had answered. Easily. Without thinking. Without filtering myself.

Because it had been so damn easy to talk to him.
There was no pressure to fill the silence, no expectation to perform. He had just let me exist there, within the warmth of the kitchen, within the space he had carved out for me. Not in a way that suffocated, but in a way that included.

Not a burden. Not an obligation.

Just... me.

My stomach clenched at the memory, an ache curling low in my gut.

The wind rustled the pages of my book, snapping me out of my thoughts. I blinked down at the open text, trying to remember where I'd left off, but my mind was still tangled in something else.

Or rather, in someone else.

Rudra.

I clenched my jaw, pressing my lips together in frustration. How long had I been sitting here, lost in the memory of him?

I hated that I had let myself enjoy it. Hated that, even now, I could still hear the quiet rasp of his voice as he had leaned against the counter, sipping his own tea, watching me with that unreadable expression.

I had felt his gaze.

Not in the way I usually did with men—those lingering stares that stripped, that pried, that demanded. No.

His gaze had held.

It had settled over me, assessing, absorbing, seeing.
And for the first time in forever, I hadn't wanted to shrink away from it.

Fuck.

I inhaled sharply, forcing my eyes back to the book in my lap. The Oath by Reva. A new release. A book I had been waiting for. Something I wanted to read.
But even now, it was betraying me.

The male lead had just asked the female lead to sit on his lap. She hesitated—it was his office, and anyone could walk in. But he only smiled, teasing her, waiting for her to give in.

I snapped the book shut, irritation bubbling beneath my skin.

This was getting ridiculous.

It wasn't like he had done anything that night. Not really.

Just made me come, thirst over him, cooked me dinner and made me tea.

Yeah! He had only made me peppermint tea, like it was the most natural thing for him to do. Like it was his responsibility. And I had let him.

Just like I had let him drive me home even though I had insisted I could take a cab. How I wish he took the bike...wait — since when did I become a bike enthusiast?

He had barely even looked at me as he reversed the car, one hand resting on my seat, the other gripping the wheel. His fingers adorned with that sleek watch, his entire presence composed and unaffected.

Meanwhile, I sat there, pretending to be engrossed in the passing trees while his voice rumbled low in the background, discussing business with Viren.

I hadn't even been able to make out half of what he was saying, but the sound of it had settled over me, wrapping around my bones.

And now, here I was, 24 hours later, still thinking about it.

Pathetic.

"Is it that bad?"

I jumped at the voice, my head snapping up, my heart slamming into my ribs like I had been caught committing a crime.

Saanvi.

She was sitting against a tree a few feet away, her notebook resting on her lap, a knowing smirk playing at her lips. The sunlight filtering through the gulmohar leaves dappled her skin in shifting patterns.

"Huh?" I blurted, my brain still lagging from the mental whiplash.

Saanvi tilted her head toward the book in my lap. "Reva's new one, right?"

I followed her gaze, as if I had forgotten I was holding it. "Uh, yeah. Just started."

She raised a brow. "And you're already zoning out? That bad?"

I let out an awkward laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "No, no, it's fine. I barely made it past the prologue."

Saanvi chuckled. "Too soon to tell, then."

I smiled, grateful for the distraction. It was easier to talk to her than I expected. There was something about Saanvi that made conversation feel... natural.

"So, you come here often?" I asked, leaning back against the bench.

She nodded, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Yeah. It's quiet. Perfect for writing."

I frowned slightly. "Writing?"

Her lips curled into a sheepish smile. "Yeah. I'm working on my own book."

That piqued my interest. "Wait, really? That's amazing. What's it about?"

She exhaled, looking thoughtful. "It's kind of a mix of fantasy and romance. Set in a world where memories are currency—people can buy, sell, and even steal them. But the main character—" She stopped, shaking her head. "God, listen to me ramble. Sorry. I get excited."

I shook my head, genuinely intrigued. "No, that sounds incredible. And original. But you said working on it—does that mean you're stuck?"

Saanvi sighed dramatically, flopping back against the tree. "Horribly. I've had the worst writer's block for weeks. I know where the story needs to go, but I can't seem to get there."

I considered that for a moment. She looked genuinely frustrated, and something about that struck a familiar chord in me.

Maybe that was why, before I could overthink it, I found myself saying, "Come grab a coffee with me at Rue's."

Saanvi blinked, startled. "Wait, really?"

I hesitated. This wasn't something I did. I wasn't the kind of person who invited people out casually. But I had been in this place before—this mental block, this feeling of being stuck. And Rudra had helped me in his own way.

Maybe I could do the same.

"Yeah," I said, a little more confidently. "Sometimes a change of scenery helps. Plus, caffeine makes everything better."

A grin spread across her face. "I like the way you think."

We stood, falling into an easy rhythm as we made our way toward the café.

At some point, she mentioned, "My boyfriend's out of town, so I don't really have any plans today."

Boyfriend.

The word shouldn't have meant anything to me, but it sent my thoughts spiraling in the worst way.

Because Rudra wasn't here today. Or yesterday. So it was just me and the action plan he prepared for me, tonight.

It had been just one day. One and a half.
And yet, I felt it. The absence. The space he left behind.

I hated that I noticed. Hated that I cared.
But before my thoughts could drag me further under, another name surfaced.

Tarun.

I hadn't seen him on campus. Hadn't heard from him.
A small relief.

But even the thought of him sent an involuntary shudder down my spine.

I forced myself to push it away, to focus on the conversation. "What about the future? Any plans for publishing?"

Saanvi brightened again, launching into her aspirations. I let myself listen, let myself engage.
But in the back of my mind, the war waged on.

I was fighting it.

I was fighting him.

But even as we walked, even as the sun warmed my skin and laughter passed between us—

I knew the truth.

I was losing.

The convoy cut through the empty streets of Udaipur with the kind of silent authority only men like us carried. The Range Rover moved like a predator through its territory—unrushed, deliberate, unchallenged.

Ahead, the SUV leading the convoy was a black Toyota Land Cruiser, its polished body gleaming in the first light of dawn. Behind us, another identical vehicle followed, maintaining precise distance. The three-car formation was routine—nothing extravagant, nothing unnecessary. Just calculated presence. Enough to remind people who I was. Silent, watchful sentinels moving with precision, their presence both a necessity and a statement.

Outside, the city was just beginning to stir. Birds flitted between ancient gulmohar trees, their calls breaking the stillness of dawn. The air held that distinct crispness of morning in the Aravallis—cool, tinged with the faint scent of temple incense and earth. But inside the car, the air was thick with something else entirely.

The atmosphere was measured, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

The leather of my seat was cool against my palm as I rested my fingers over the armrest, my body still, gaze fixed outside. The city was waking—tea stalls lifting their shutters, temple bells ringing in the distance, the faint scent of incense and damp earth wafting through the air.

But inside the car, the air was thick. Not with incense. But with politics.

Viren, seated in the passenger seat, was skimming through his tablet, his eyes moving rapidly over the day's schedule. His face was blank, but I knew him too well. Every micro-movement, every subtle flicker in his expression—his mind was already ten steps ahead, predicting every possible move, every political play that would unfold today.

Ayaan, beside me in the back seat, had his fingers tapping against his knee—restless, impatient. He was a man of movement, of unfiltered reactions. The suffocating civility of politics didn't sit well with him. He tolerated it because he had to, but not without making his distaste known.

"The Rathore family is already at the palace," Viren murmured, still scrolling. "Your mother will be waiting. As for today's Mahashivratri pooja—"

I already knew what he was about to say.

"—the opposition leader and several cabinet ministers have confirmed their presence."

Of course, they had.

I let out a slow breath, my gaze steady on the passing streets. The entire political machinery of Rajasthan had decided to descend upon the Raj Bhawan today, all under the sanctified excuse of devotion. Faith had always been a convenient tool. A festival like Mahashivratri was no longer just a spiritual affair—it was a stage. A place to perform.

Ayaan exhaled sharply, his tone edged with disdain.

"Didn't know the whole Rajya Sabha was this spiritual."

He wasn't asking. He was making a point.

I didn't react, only gave a slow, deliberate blink. My voice, when I spoke, was calm, detached, a simple acknowledgment of reality.

"It's always for gain." My fingers drummed lightly against the door panel. "Even rituals and traditions. Typical."

There was nothing emotional in my tone—no anger, no disgust. Just fact. The way the world worked. The way it had always worked.

Ayaan let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "Of course."

Viren remained silent, his fingers still moving over the screen. His silence meant agreement.

Then, without looking up, he added, "You're expected in the meeting afterward."

I didn't ask which meeting. I already knew.

A bitter smile curled at the edge of my lips.

Of course, I was.

I turned my head slightly, catching Ayaan's gaze. We both knew what was coming. The room would be filled with men pretending to be dignified—men who thrived on secrets, on veiled threats and polished lies. And the two of us?

We might just put up the biggest act of backbencher behavior.

Ayaan arched a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. It was a silent promise—if we were expected to play along, we would. But we would do it our way.

The SUV slowed.

The Raj Bhawan rose before us.

A fortress. A monument to power.

The morning sun hit the carved sandstone walls, casting long shadows across the intricate Rajput architecture. The grand archways stood as silent sentinels, watching over the land with the weight of centuries. History lived here, breathed here. These walls had seen wars, betrayals, blood spilled in the name of legacy. And today, they would witness yet another kind of battle.

The gates opened. The convoy rolled in.

Tires crunched over gravel as we entered the front courtyard. Uniformed security personnel moved in a practiced formation, their expressions unreadable. The moment the car stopped, they stepped forward—one of them opening my door with a crisp nod.

I stepped out.

The air here was different.

Heavier. Denser. Loaded.

Because they were waiting.

Not just the palace staff, who stood in neat lines, backs straight, faces carefully composed.

She was waiting.

My mother.

Tarini Devi Rajvardhan.

She stood at the entrance, an image of grace and quiet power. Ivory silk draped around her like second skin, her hair open in a sleek style , her jewelry minimal but deliberate.

And yet... she looked smaller.

Not physically. But there was something fragile in the way she stood, in the way her fingers were clasped tightly together.

Her eyes, however, had not changed.

They held warmth. And something else.

Something unspeakable.

Tears shimmered at the edges of her lashes, but she smiled through them. A regal, practiced smile. A mother's smile.

I took a slow breath.

Beside her stood the Rathores—Ayaan's parents, his sister.

And the absences were obvious.

My grandfather.

And my father—Dhanraj Pratap Rajvardhan—Chief Minister of Rajasthan. A man who had mastered the art of being present in absence.

I had expected nothing else.

Radha Baisa stepped forward, the silver thali in her hands catching the light.

She had raised me.

When my parents had been too preoccupied with duty, when the palace corridors had been too cold, too quiet—she had been the one constant.

Her hands were weathered now, lined with age, but when she pressed the vermillion tilak to my forehead, her fingers were as steady as ever.

Her eyes softened.

For her, I was still Yuvraj.

A title that meant more than politics. More than ambition.

I inclined my head slightly, a silent exchange of respect. Of something deeper.

And then—before I could move—my mother reached for me.

She pulled me into her arms.

I let her.

For a moment, I stood still, feeling the warmth of her embrace. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine. The quiet tremor in her fingers as she held me, like she wasn't sure if she ever would again.

Her voice wavered.

"Hum bata nahi sakte kitne khush hain aaj hum." She pulled back just enough to cup my face.

("I can't even begin to tell you how happy I am today.")

"Aaj lag raha hai Udaipur mei salon baad subeh hui hai."

("Today, it feels like morning has finally arrived in Udaipur.")

I swallowed.

I understood.

I bent to touch her feet, but she pulled me back up, pressing a firm hand against my cheek. "Kaisi hain aap?" I asked quietly.

("How are you")

Her smile was full of things unsaid.

"Aap aa gaye na... ab hum thik hain."

("You're here now... so I'm okay.")

I looked away, breaking the moment.

I greeted the Rathores, exchanged meaningless pleasantries.

And then, just as I turned toward the palace, my mother spoke again.

"Aapke baba—"

("Your dad—")

I cut her off.

"Nahi aaye."

("Didn't come")

Simple. Cold. Fact.

I didn't need her to soften the truth. Didn't need justifications for a man who had long since perfected the art of forgetting.

She hesitated.

"Aisa nahi hai, aaj bohot important guests—"

("It's not like that, today there are very important guests—")

"Andar chale? Der ho rahi hai."

("Shall we go inside? We're getting late.")

I placed a hand on her shoulder. Not forceful. But firm.

She understood.

And we walked inside.

Because some things were better left unsaid.

The scent of burning camphor and sandalwood clung to the late morning air, thick and heady, wrapping around me as I stepped onto the balcony. Below, the courtyard flickered with the golden glow of a hundred brass lamps, their flames dancing across the polished white marble. The rhythmic chant of Vedic mantras rose and fell like waves, steady, unwavering, a prayer carried to the heavens.

I let my gaze sweep over the gathering—power, wealth, and influence woven into a single congregation. Ministers, bureaucrats, royals, industrialists—every presence here was intentional, every step choreographed.

My grandfather—Rana Ratan Pratap Rajvardhan, sat unmoving before the Shiva Linga, his back straight, his expression carved from stone.

He thrived in this setting, in the weight of expectation and duty.

Everything about this night had been measured to perfection.

Except one thing.

She wasn't here.

I scanned the crowd again, slower this time, as if my mind had made a mistake. As if I had missed her the first time. My stomach curled tight, an old, familiar tension settling into my bones. The longer I searched, the heavier the weight in my chest became.

Where was she?

My fingers curled into fists as I turned away, walking back inside without a second thought. The air in the corridor was cooler, quieter, but the unease clawing at my throat only grew sharper.

"Maa-sa kahan hain?" My voice was steady, but the air around me tensed.

("Where is mother?")

The servant hesitated for a fraction of a second. A second too long.

"Hukum, rasoighar mein hain. Bhog ki dekh-rekh kar rahi thi."

("Her-Ladyship is in the kitchen, overseeing the preparation of the bhog.")

The kitchen?

A sharp, bitter laugh almost escaped me. My mother had never set foot in the kitchen a day in her life.
My jaw locked. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, drowning out everything else.

Something was wrong.

I didn't waste another second. I turned on my heel and walked straight to the kitchen.

The kitchen was alive with movement—servants rushing in and out, the clatter of brass thalis, the sharp hiss of ghee hitting the hot surface of an iron tawa. The scent of kesar and burning wood clung to the air, but none of it reached me. None of it mattered.

She wasn't here.

The knot in my chest tightened. My mother was supposed to be here, overseeing the bhog preparations. The staff would never lie—not unless they were told to.

I turned sharply, my voice on the edge of breaking through my restraint. "Hukum kahan hain?"

(Where is Your Ladyship?")

Before anyone could fumble for an answer, a familiar voice cut through the din.

"Yuvraj, aap yaha hain?" Radha Baisa.

("Prince Rudra , you're here?")

She wasn't supposed to be here. Not in the kitchen. Not when she should be tending to the guests.

She looked at me with something that made my skin prickle—like she had seen this scene before, like she already knew how it would end.

Radha Baisa gave me a slight nod, a silent request to follow. The moment we stepped away from the crowd, away from the ears and eyes that were always watching, she spoke.

"Kamre hain wo, unki... unki tabiyat thik nahi thi."

("She's in her room... she wasn't feeling well.")

A breath left my lungs—sharp, short, almost inaudible.

Not again.

The blood drained from my face, but my feet were already moving.

I didn't ask how bad it was. I didn't need to. I had spent my entire childhood learning what those words meant.

Radha Baisa's gaze was heavy on my back, weighted with helplessness.

She had been there before. Watching. Waiting. A silent witness to a tragedy that never seemed to end.
But I wasn't that boy anymore.

I kept walking. Fast. Determined. My steps echoing through the long, empty corridors as I made my way to my parents' bedchamber.

"Maa."

("Mom")

My voice rang out into the silence, but there was no response.

I stepped in further, my pulse hammering against my throat. The sitting area was empty—the low divans untouched, the silver tray of paan leaves still perfectly arranged. The soft, flickering glow of the diyas cast long shadows across the room. The air was too still, too heavy.

I moved toward the balcony.

Nothing.

The couch was untouched, the balcony doors slightly open, letting in the cool February air. My fingers curled into fists as I stepped toward it. Maybe she was outside. Maybe she just needed air.

Nothing.

The unease in my stomach tightened into a fist.
And then—A sound.

Faint. Muffled. A rustling, a frantic shuffling of objects, like someone tearing apart a space in desperation.

I turned sharply. The small library near the living room.

The bedroom door was ajar.

I pushed it open slowly. The sound sharpened—rummaging, the unmistakable scrape of wood against wood, drawers being yanked open and slammed shut.
And then she stumbled out.

My mother.

A mess.

Tears stained her face, carving paths down skin that had once been regal, untouched. Her eyes—red-rimmed, wide, glassy with something that made my stomach drop. Her hands trembled, her fingers shaking so violently that they could barely clutch the edge of the doorframe.

My body locked in place.

For just one instant—I was a little boy again.

A six-year-old with charcoal-stained fingers, clutching a carefully sketched family portrait, beaming with excitement because he had spent the entire afternoon drawing it. A summer project. Something his teacher had asked for. He had run to show it to his mother, eager, proud—

Only to find her exactly like this.

The difference was, back then, his father had been there too.

Trying to hold her. Trying to stop her from slipping into the abyss she had drowned in long before Rudra was even born.

But today—

She had no one.

And she still didn't see me.

Her movements were frantic, desperate. She was tearing through the already half-destroyed bedside drawer, throwing aside papers, ornaments, anything that wasn't what she was looking for.

I swallowed, my throat burning.

I had buried this. Locked it away for years.

But this wasn't the past anymore.

This was now.

And I knew exactly what she was searching for.

"Maa."

("Mom")

I called her name—not just to pull her attention back to me, but to pull her back from wherever she had gone. From whatever abyss she had stepped into. Or maybe, from the darkness she knew too well—the one that had always been waiting for her.

Her head snapped toward me.

For a moment, she swayed, as if the force of reality crashing back into her had made her unsteady. She struggled to gather herself, her hands shaking as she wiped at her tear-streaked face.

"Rudra? Beta, aap pooja mein nahi gaye?" Her voice was raw, frayed at the edges.

("Rudra? Son, didn't you go to the pooja?")

I ignored her question, stepping forward. "Aapko... aapko kuch chahiye, Maa?"

("Do you... need anything, Maa?")

Her gaze darted back to the half-destroyed drawer, and she spoke absently, as if I were nothing more than a background noise to her desperation.

"Humari dawai... Haan, dawaiyaan nahi mil rahi... Aap chaliye, hum abhi aate hain."

("My medicine... Yes, I can't find my medicines... You go ahead, I'll be right there.")

By the time she finished, I was already by her side.
She was kneeling now, her hands blindly searching through the mess.

I gripped her shoulders, trying to steady her. Trying to hold her together before she shattered completely. "Hume bataiye, hum dhundte hain."

("Tell me, I'll find them.")

She fought against my touch.

"Nahi! Hum kar lenge! Aap jaiye yahan se!" Her voice cracked. A raw, sharp edge.

("No! I'll do it myself! You go from here!")

She was slipping.

I could feel it.

And I couldn't let go.

"Aap uthiye pehle," I said, tightening my hold, forcing her to move. She resisted, but I managed to pull her up and onto the bed.

("Get up first.")

Her breath was uneven, her fingers curling and uncurling against her lap. She shoved my hands off her shoulders. "Leave, Rudra. I'll be there."

This time, her voice was colder. More firm. A last attempt to push me away.

But I didn't move.

She exhaled sharply, frustrated, and made to stand.
And in that moment—

The pillow shifted.

Something tumbled out.

A syringe.

A small vial of liquid.

I stared at it.

Everything inside me turned to ice.

No.

No.

My lungs squeezed shut, suffocating. My heartbeat roared in my ears, drowning out the world.

She had relapsed.

Again.

The syringe in her trembling hands was the final blow.

I had always known. Always feared this day would come again. But there was no preparing for it.
Because how do you prepare for a truth that has followed you since the day you were born?

My mother was a drug addict.

She had been long before I even existed, long before I took my first breath in this wretched palace. My childhood had been built on the wreckage of her relapses—the whispers behind closed doors, the desperate cover-ups, my father's quiet, suffocating grief.

I had watched him suffocate under my grandfather's rule. The mighty Rana Ratan Pratap—who would rather see his own family destroyed than allow a single crack in his image. A man who would rather let his son's wife rot in her addiction than let the world know of it.

And now, while he sat before the sacred Shivling, performing grand rituals, his daughter-in-law was drowning in her demons just a few doors away.
She fumbled with the syringe, trying to load it with shaking hands.

I caught her wrist before she could finish.
"Zaroori hai kya, Maa?" My voice was steady. Too steady.

("Is it necessary, Maa?")

I kept calling her Maa. Over and over. As if the word itself could pull her back. As if it could reach a place inside her that hadn't been lost yet.

But I had been failing for years now.

She let out a bitter laugh. "Aap nahi samjhenge, Rudra. Aapko parvah bhi kya hai? Ghar waise bhi tyaag diya hai aapne."

("You won't understand, Rudra. Why would you even care? You've abandoned this home anyway.")

The clarity in her voice stunned me.

She wasn't lost. Not fully. She was here—angry, resentful, looking at me as if I had betrayed her.
I let go of her wrist.

She really hates the fact that I left. Even though it was for my studies. Even though I had promised to come back.

But I had left. And she wasn't wrong.

"Waise bhi iss mahal mei hum sirf aapki yaadon ke sahare zinda hain."

("Anyway, in this palace, I am surviving only on the memories of you.")

She wasn't crying.

Her fingers were still wrapped around the syringe.
I sat there, looking at her. Listening.

Letting her hurl every complaint, every ounce of her pain at me.

She needed an outlet. And I was giving her one.
Because if even I turned my back on her—

Who would be left?

She was unraveling in front of me, piece by piece.
A lifetime of pain spilling out in broken sentences, in shuddering breaths, in the tremble of her frail hands.
I made her sit back on the bed, adjusting the pillow behind her as she continued to vent. She told me how the crowd outside suffocated her, how the very walls of this palace felt like a noose around her neck.

"Apke baba ko koi parvah nahi... hume yahan akela chhod diya hai sabne..."

("Your father doesn't care... Everyone has left me alone here...")

Her voice cracked. I had heard it all before—different words, same pain. The same sorrow that had seeped into my childhood like poison.

Then, she turned to me.

"Aap bhi chhod gaye, Rudra... apka bhi dil nahi pighla maa ke liye..."

("You left too, Rudra... Even your heart didn't melt for your mother...")

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the syringe in her hand. I pried it away gently, slipping it into the drawer before she could protest. Then, without a word, I lifted her legs onto the bed and pulled the duvet over her, tucking it around her frail frame like I had seen my father do countless times.

She let me.

But she wasn't done.

The words kept coming, hitting me like iron branding skin.

I didn't defend myself. I didn't argue. I took it all—the blame, the accusations, the agony twisting in her voice. Because I understood. Because I had been here before.

Because I had done this before.

I sat beside her, brushing my fingers over her hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. The way I had seen him do.
Her tears came silently at first, then with a force that made her whole body shake.

And I held her.

I held her the way a son holds a mother he has been losing all his life. The way a boy holds onto the one person he was supposed to be able to depend on—but never could.

I kept stroking her hair, whispering nothing, whispering everything.

She clung to me like I was her last tether to reality.
"Humara yahan ab koi nahi hai, Rudra." Her voice was barely above a whisper, cracked, defeated.

("I have no one here anymore, Rudra.")

I closed my eyes, swallowing the sharp burn in my throat.

"Hum hain, Maa. Aap araam kariye. Hum hain."

("I am here, Maa. Please rest. I am here.")

I kept saying it, even as her sobs quieted, even as sleep pulled her under.

I kept saying it.

Even though, deep down, we both knew—

It wasn't true.

I couldn't leave.

Not now. Not ever.

So I stayed.

Just like I had as a boy—sitting beside her, curling into her warmth as she cried herself to sleep. Back then, I hadn't understood what was wrong. I hadn't known why my mother trembled in the dark, why my father sat alone in his study, his face buried in his hands. But I had known one thing: she needed me.

And that had been enough.

It had to be enough.

Because there was nothing else I could give.

I lift the duvet higher, tucking it around her fragile frame. Her breathing is uneven, her face damp with tears, but the worst of the storm has passed. I run my fingers through her hair, smoothing down the flyways the way she used to do to me when I was little. When I would curl up in her lap, believing that nothing in the world could touch me if I just stayed close enough.

How foolish I had been.

The world had touched me.

It had clawed into my skin, left scars so deep even time could not erase them. It had taken my father's helplessness and carved it into my soul, forced me to bear witness to my mother's slow descent into the abyss.

And yet, here I was, still trying to hold on.

Still that same boy.

Still waiting for something—anything—to change.

Mahadev would forgive me.

He would understand.

He had watched the destruction of the universe and still cradled its ruins in his hands. He had swallowed poison, suffered agony, and yet bore it all so no one else would have to.

I know he would understand.

Because in this moment, I am not Yuvraj Rudra Pratap Rajvardhan. Not the heir to a legacy, not the future kingmaker, not the man the world fears.

I am just a son.

A son who refuses to abandon his mother, even as she tries to push him away. A son who has watched his father weep in silence, trapped in chains of power stronger than steel. A son who has spent a lifetime learning that love, in this house, is just another battlefield.

But love is also endurance.

And this—this is my Mahashivratri pooja.

Not the one in the courtyard below, not the one performed before the shivling under the watchful eyes of men who measure faith in rituals alone.

No—this is my offering.

To sit here in the shadows, holding my mother through her wreckage. To swallow my grief the way she swallows her poison. To be her anchor, her shield, her last remaining tether to a world she has long stopped believing in.

Because Shiv and Shakti had taught me what love truly was.

Not devotion through words, but through presence.
Not promises, but endurance.

Not light, but the refusal to leave, even in the darkest of nights.

So I stay.

Because my father failed. Because my mother fell.
But I—

I will hold.

Even if I break.