Page 11 of No Boss
She drew a breath that did not settle. “Devendra ji. My son has decided to sell Anand Mahal.”
What followed carried weight. She heard him breathe, once, before he answered. “I see.”
“Your family’s position will be protected.”
“You are kind to think of us, Thakurain Sa.” The formality of it hurt more than an argument would have.
She searched for something to say that wasn’t an apology, because an apology felt like admitting it was already done. “How is Meera?”
His voice changed at once. “Working. Restoring the wall paintings in the east wing. She says the work matters more than how long it takes.”
He stopped for a breath, as if choosing each word with care.
“God gave me a daughter, Thakurain Sa, when I thought a son would carry these duties. I used to question that when she was young. I do not question it anymore.”
His voice held, thick with emotion. “She loves this Haveli as I do. Perhaps more. She knows every stone. Every story. She has taken everything I gave her and built something larger from it.”
Sarita closed her eyes.
“A son could not have done it better. Most sons would not have done it at all.”
The words struck where they were not meant to. Clean. Unavoidable.
He held back the rest.
“She will adapt,” he added after a moment. “Whatever comes. She has that strength.”
She’ll adapt.
The line hit her like a truth that left no place to hide.
They ended the call with courtesy intact.
Sarita lowered the phone. The room felt quieter.
Outside, the garden stretched into the dark. Jasmine drifted in through the open window, the scent her husband had loved. He had planted it because it reminded him of home. The same home their son was preparing to sell.
Her hands came together, fingers pressing tight.
A prayer rose, carrying anger she could not speak, guilt she could not ease, and a hope that refused to die.
If Kul Devi still listened, then let her hear this.
Before everything slipped beyond reach.
Chapter 2
Dawn touched Anand Mahal the way it always had.
Slow. Sure. Beautiful.
The Haveli rose in pink sandstone, three stories high, its carved balconies catching the first light before anything else did.
The main entrance stood tall with arched doorways once made for elephants. Heavy wooden doors, dark with age, brass studs worn by generations of hands.
Past the gate, the outer courtyard opened wide. Marble stretched across it. At the centre, a fountain moved in soft, steady rhythms. Peacocks wandered along the edges, trailing colour across the pale stone like they belonged there.
Because they did.
