" What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."
-T.S. Eliot
In the enigmatic town of Kshaya lurks a figure shrouded in infamy: SHAITAN, the most wanted criminal whose true id...
As the morning sun crept higher in the sky, its golden rays spilled into the bedroom, bathing everything in a soft, warm light. Ahalya stirred beneath the covers, her eyelids fluttering open to the gentle symphony of chirping birds outside. She turned her head to the side and smiled faintly at the sight of Nisha, who was still nestled under the blanket, her tiny face serene and undisturbed. However, the emptiness on the other side of the bed quickly drew her attention.
Ashwath's absence left a quiet void, prompting Ahalya to rise. She moved with deliberate grace, her feet lightly touching the cool floor as she straightened her posture. Brushing a strand of unruly hair from her face, she gathered her thick locks into a neat bun, securing them with a practiced twist of her hand. A sense of curiosity mingled with concern as she stepped out of the bedroom, the gentle rustle of her footsteps breaking the morning stillness.
The hall greeted her with silence. The washroom door was ajar, its interior empty. She moved through the house, her pace quickening as she called softly, "Ashwath?"
Her search ended in the kitchen, where the air was thick with the comforting aroma of spices and sizzling batter. Ahalya paused at the threshold, her lips curving into an unbidden smile at the scene before her. There stood Ashwath, immersed in the rhythm of cooking, his broad frame relaxed but focused.
He was dressed simply in a casual black t-shirt and faded grey track pants, his stance purposeful as he expertly flipped a dosa on the skillet. The rhythmic sound of the spatula against the pan blended with the occasional sizzle as he worked with precision. A neatly folded cloth rested over his shoulder, a small but telling detail that spoke volumes of his meticulous nature.
Ashwath's brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, yet his movements were fluid and practiced, a testament to his experience in the kitchen. He reached for the masala mixture with one hand while tending to the dosa with the other, his actions efficient yet unhurried. The golden-brown crepe slid easily onto a waiting plate, steam curling upward as he prepared the next.
Ahalya leaned against the doorframe, her heart swelling with warmth at the sight of him in his element. The simple act of making breakfast, infused with love and care, spoke volumes about the man she had married. She crossed her arms and let out a soft chuckle, finally breaking the quiet.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"You’re up early, Master Chef," she teased, her voice warm and affectionate.
"Good morning," Ashwath greeted, his voice warm but laced with a subtle undercurrent of weariness. The soft light of the kitchen illuminated the faint shadows under his eyes, betraying the exhaustion he tried to mask with a determined smile.
"Morning," Ahalya replied gently, stepping closer, her gaze searching his face. "Ashwath, it's fine. Why don't you take a day off? You look tired," she urged, her voice tinged with concern.
Ashwath shook his head, his expression resolute as he flipped another dosa onto the plate. "My mother never took a day off," he said, his tone calm but firm, as if the weight of her memory spurred him forward.
