chapter one- one more Sunrise

 

A calm room rested under the soft touch of morning light.
Three beds, neatly placed, their white bedsheets glowing faintly as the sun slipped through the thin curtains.

Two children slept soundly.
One—ten years old—curled on his side, his long lashes resting on tired cheeks.
The other—a tiny two-year-old—lay in the middle of a universe made of blankets and innocence.

Suddenly, a strand of long black hair fell forward, covering part of the baby’s face.
A woman gently swept it aside and pressed a quiet kiss on his forehead.
Then she lifted her eyes toward the window, where fresh sunlight poured in like a blessing.

She reached for her phone, checked the time, and took a deep breath—
the kind only a mother takes before beginning another day of struggle and hope.

Tying her thick hair into a knot, she gathered her clothes and hurried toward the bathroom.
The door closed softly.

Long sounds of running water filled the room, mixed with faint chirping from birds outside—
life moving, despite everything.

After fifteen minutes, the door opened.
A breeze of warm steam followed her out.

She stepped into the room wearing a light pink Indian suit, her face fresh, bright, almost glowing—
as if the cold London morning had no claim on her spirit.

She was Padma.

Moving quickly, she straightened the sheets, folded scattered clothes, tidied the small room that held her whole world.

Then she lit a small lamp near the window—
a soft flame trembling against the glass.
A quiet ritual she carried from home,
a prayer whispered in silence.

No one knew what she asked from God.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
Maybe just gratitude for another day she had survived.

Hands folded, eyes closed, she stood still for a moment.

Then she turned toward her elder son.

“Yash,” she called softly at first.
“Wake up, beta, it’s already going to be eight. Come on—get up, take your shower. I’ll prepare something for you.”

Yash rubbed his eyes, stretching like sleep still owned him.
He made a small sound—half protest, half plea to sleep again.

But Padma’s voice firmed.

“Yash, wake up now,” she said, a mother’s authority returning to her tone.
“Every day you watch your mobile till late night, and then you struggle in the morning. That’s not the way to live, baba. Your holidays will end soon. You’ll need to leave home by 7:30 for school. You’ll have to bathe and dress before that. How will you manage then?”

Yash groaned, but slowly began to sit up.

Padma, watching him, took a deep breath—
a mix of exhaustion, love, and unspoken worry—
and turned back to the kitchen corner to start her morning.