In the bustling city of Mumbai, Vihaan Malhotra, a charismatic rockstar known for his soulful music and rebellious spirit, captivates audiences with his performances.
Meanwhile, in the serene landscapes of Jaipur, Dr. Arpita Virani, a compassionate...
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Five Years Later...
The home in Mumbai didn't just stand—it breathed.
It exhaled sunlight and laughter and the scent of warm cinnamon. It pulsed with the music of two growing hearts and the steady, grounded rhythm of a love that had outlived distance, doubt, and time.
Soft morning light streamed through sheer white curtains, laying golden trails across the floor like blessings. Those hardwood floors bore the joyful scars of family life—tiny scratches from toy cars, faint glitter stains, crayon doodles that had somehow made it past the paper. Today, they were strewn with paper butterflies Ira had "set free," open storybooks Aarav had discarded mid-reading, and a lone pink sock no one claimed responsibility for.
In the backyard, Aarav—now seven and full of bright, urgent dreams—was deep in construction mode. His "launch pad" was made of cereal boxes, glitter tape, and a repurposed shoebox control panel with labeled buttons that read "Zoom," "Stars," and "Rescue Dino." His brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue peeking out in that unconscious, determined way that reminded Arpita of Vihaan's expression when writing lyrics.
Ira, now five, was in the living room, wearing a tutu over her pajamas and a crown of handwoven daisies. She spun in slow, enchanted circles to a melody only she could hear—a mix of the soft vinyl music playing and her own humming. Her arms floated like wings, her feet barely touched the floor, and every once in a while, she'd giggle like she'd just told a secret to the sky.
In the kitchen, Vihaan stood barefoot, stirring chocolate into two mugs of warm milk. He wore a faded tee from his last small-venue tour and hummed under his breath—one of his unreleased tracks that only Arpita and the kids knew by heart. His hair was longer now, touched with strands of silver that Arpita insisted made him look even better. There was flour on his cheek from pancake-making earlier, and the smile playing on his lips was soft. Familiar. Deep.
And Arpita... Arpita stood in the middle of this symphony, holding her cup of ginger tea. She wore a soft cotton kurta, her hair tied up loosely, her eyes warm and quiet. She looked around at the scene—at her son, with his wild mind and scraped knees, at her daughter, all poetry and motion, at Vihaan, whose love had somehow deepened with fatherhood—and her heart felt... weightless.
No keynote deadlines. No calls from the center. No emails to respond to. Just this morning. Just this hum.
There was a kind of peace that came not from escape, but from arriving—arriving fully into one's own life. She stood rooted in that peace now. Not as Dr. Arpita Mehta, not as co-founder, speaker, or strategist.
But as mama. As wife. As a woman who had fought through storms and silence and ache—and had built a life not of perfection, but of wholeness.
