Saanjh | ✓

70: a final flame and a quiet forever

The air today is alive with the scent of marigolds, incense, and the sweet, rich aroma of besan roasting for ladoos.

Diwali has descended upon the city, and Mahika's house is filled with a warmth that has little to do with the dozens of diyas flickering along the windowsills. It's the warmth of laughter, of a cheesy Bollywood song playing softly from a speaker in the corner, of family; chosen and cherished.

Mahika had woken early that morning, before the sun, to help her mother with the preparations. They'd drawn a fresh rangoli at the entrance together, her mother's practiced hands guiding the colored powder into intricate patterns of lotuses and peacocks while Mahika filled in the spaces with smaller flowers.

Now, as evening settles over the city and the celebration truly begins, Mahika stands in front of her mirror adjusting her outfit one more time.

She's wearing a deep emerald green kurta set, the fabric shot through with golden threadwork that catches the light when she moves. The dupatta is draped carefully across one shoulder, pinned with a small brooch that had been her grandmother's. Her mother had helped her with her hair earlier, weaving small jasmine flowers through the braid that falls over her shoulder. She'd protested at first — it felt like too much — but her mother had insisted, her hands gentle and sure as she worked.

"You should look like yourself on Diwali," her mother had said. "Beautiful and bright. New beginnings deserve to be celebrated properly."

Mahika touches the flowers now, soft petals against her fingertips, and thinks about beginnings.

About how a year ago she couldn't have imagined this: standing in her own house, waiting for Amoli to arrive, her friends gathering in the living room, her mother in the kitchen making the sweets she's been making for decades.

The doorbell rings, and her heart jumps all the way to her throat.

When she opens the door, the words she'd been planning to say dissolve completely. Amoli stands there in a burnt orange lehenga, the skirt flowing in soft, heavy folds around her legs. The choli is simpler, sleeveless and fitted, leaving her arms bare except for the delicate golden bangles that circle her wrists. The dupatta is draped across her shoulder and pinned at her waist, embroidered with small golden leaves that shimmer as she breathes. Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, and she's lined her eyes with kajal that makes them seem impossibly dark and deep.

She looks nervous and radiant and so beautiful it makes Mahika's throat tight.

"Hi," Amoli says, and her voice is softer than usual, almost shy.

"Hi." Mahika realizes she's staring and tries to recover. "You look—"

"Too much?" Amoli's hands flutter to her dupatta, adjusting it unnecessarily. "Naina helped me pick it out and she said orange was auspicious for Diwali but if it's—"

"You look perfect," Mahika interrupts, and she means it so completely that Amoli's anxious fidgeting stills. "Really. You're perfect."

A smile breaks across Amoli's face, genuine and bright. "So are you. The jasmine—" She reaches out like she wants to touch but stops herself, her hand hovering near Mahika's shoulder. "Can I?"

"Of course."

Amoli's fingers are gentle as they brush against the flowers woven into Mahika's braid, barely grazing her hair. "I love this," she says softly.

Before Mahika can respond, Dhruv's voice cuts through from inside. "Are you two going to stand in the doorway all night? Because we're eating all the ladoos!"