"I don't know Maa. I am not ready yet," I said. This was not the Saturday I had waited for the entire week.

I did not look into her eyes because I knew she would read me. People with same eyes can never hide things from each other. All they need is eye contact, and they see everything going on in the other person's mind. I had my mother's eyes. I knew when she used to smile at me every morning how disappointed and tired she had grown of her life, and I might be the only reason she braves everything with a smile.

"It is not like we want you to settle with her right away, but at least meet her. You can start off as friends, and if it doesn't work out, we'll see", Maa consoled me. I had had an argument with Papa, who had raised the topic of my marriage out of the blue. Maybe it was not so sudden, and I had been ignorant towards all the subtle hints they had been giving me. Papa had shown me her photograph on his phone and informed me that she was going to be his daughter-in-law. As I was his only son, there was no confusion about what he had in mind.

I had raised my concerns backed with modern ideas of 'active choice', 'compatibility', and 'commitment issues'. Papa took it all down with a single argument of 'lack of responsibility'. I could not argue about responsibilities with the man who had been taking care of his parents and children for more than two decades. So all I did was walk away from the scene. I wanted to ask him how committing to a life-long relationship with a mind clouded with insecurities was responsible, but I chose to keep quiet.

Crashing on my bed, I wondered how much I had grown up. I used to be the kid who sat on the groom's lap at every wedding. Then I outgrew that age and simply focused on the food being served or the pretty ladies trying to steal the bride's thunder at her wedding. I never knew when I became the groom on whose lap some mindless nephew would sit and stare at the fussy cameraman or the ever-giggling bridesmaids. I was 27 and had no plans of getting married till 30. Here I was in my bedroom, about to lose my bachelorhood because even if I was 'irresponsible', my family was not.

Instagram had been a lifesaver in situations like this for me. I often scrolled my feed for memes and would soon forget all my worries. Temporarily. I saw her photograph and suddenly, the cosmos seemed to be roasting me. It was taken at Shreya's honeymoon, and she had captioned it #throwback. She had been sharing her honeymoon pictures like shreds of evidence, ever since her belly had swollen unusually like a balloon, thanks to her husband and she were bedridden. I kept thinking of the day she visited my home a week before her wedding. We broke up unofficially when she officially invited my family to her wedding. I watched her getting married and waited until the end of the ceremony. The hopeless romantic that I used to be, I silently hoped she would rise, walk up to me, and we would elope. I did not know where we would go or why did we need to run in the first place if we had to get married and we had everything right there, but logic takes the backseat in the world of fantasy.

She stood up, took her oaths with her husband, wept a bit and then drove to her husband's home while I kept eating ice-cream with gulaab jaamun. I had no reason to starve myself as I had surrendered to my fate and witnessed her break all the promises of Love she had made to me. Now when I think of it, I feel she did the right thing. Not because I loved her any less or one should choose money over Love any day, but she was getting a secured future. Her husband has a balanced lifestyle and can support her in a matured way. All I had was Love. No matter how much we romanticize it, Love simply adds spice to your life. No one can survive on spices alone. Money, which buys you bread, is the bread in this analogy.

I was thinking about everything that could have been when Maa walked into my room. I blurted out the lines even before listening to her. That is how my personal relations had been. I usually jumped with my arguments into a simple conversation. Maa simply smiled and rubbed my back to ease me. It always worked. Whether I was choking on food or emotions, she would soothe my ailing system by rubbing my back, and it felt good again. She knew what would cheer me up

"Don't overthink it! Go help Dadi. She is alone downstairs", she said and ruffled my hair.

As Maa walked out of my room, my thoughts went to Dadi. She had been very quiet lately. She had changed a lot since Dadaji passed away.When he was alive, she used to be a fierce woman who never compromised with anything. She used to keep Dadaji on his toes. She had the innocence of a child with the anger of a teenager. She used to get quite emotional while playing Ludo. She was often accused of physically assaulting the opponents who defeated her, be it her grandchildren or her sister. The day Dadaji left us, she became mature, and the home became silent. It was not a peaceful silence, rather a deafening one. She never played Ludo again after that.

I saw her sitting alone with a plate of rice. She was picking the stones and was very efficient at it. As she saw me sit next to her, she smiled and went back to her chore, humming peacefully. I did not know what to say. When Dadaji was alive, I used to keep asking her for stories from their youth. Dadi would tell me stories that I could never associate with my Dadaji. Maybe she crafted some of the stories out of her fantasy, but I would never know. She was the only witness of those stories if they had been real.

However, things had changed. I never knew what to say to someone who had lost a close family member, and I actively chose to avoid mentioning them. Some of my school friends had lost one of their parents, and I could not help but become sympathetic and extremely cautious about what to say to them. I could not put myself in their shoes and walk that road because it was not meant for me, so I chose to pay silent respect to their struggles.

Dadi broke the silence after some time. "Do you remember what he told you about the first day he saw me?" she asked without looking up from the plate of rice.

"Dadaji?" I confirmed.

She nodded without looking up. I thought she was going to break down, but she kept humming. I said, "Dadaji said he was disappointed. But since he was getting married to you that night, it was probably too late." I knew I might regret what I had said, but that had been the truth. I had asked Dadaji the question many times, often trying to get Dadi to hear it and watch them have some harmless quarrels that looked cute at their age. He had confessed it to me years ago.

Dadi giggled like a girl of thirteen. She said, "He was quite charming. I realized it years later when I became more sensible. When I was married to him, he was fifteen, and I was a couple of years younger. We were not to stay together for a few more years, so I had my teenage at my parents' home. He used to write letters to me, but he was too shy to address them to me. He used to address them to my father and write formal greetings for the first two paragraphs. All he said about me was "I hope she is doing well." "

It eased the air between us. I never knew what I should say to console someone when she was feeling low or crying. I usually end up saying something silly, hoping to fill the awkward silence with awkward words. Dadi looked at me and said, "We were not the romantic couples you see in movies. I was never the ideal wife, thanks to my short temper, but he never gave up on me. I was barely 20 when I was sent to this home for the rest of my life. It was frightening."

"When I had your Badi Bua and your Papa, I knew he should be earning now, so I coaxed him to find a job that pays well enough. He hated me so much for sending him away from his children. He cried like a baby when we saw him off. When he wrote to us, he addressed your Bua even though she could not read yet. He was angry because I had made him take that road, but I knew we had to be independent for the sake of our honour. After all, we were grown-ups, and it made no sense to add mouths to the family if we couldn't afford to feed them."

Dadi looked so happy reliving those moments. I thought she had forgotten I was listening to her. Her eyes glowed with happiness. She kept the stones in a separate bowl and pushed the rice in a heap. She said, "Do you know what he wrote in every letter?"

"That he loved you and missed you?" I made a lame guess.

She looked at me and said, "Have some shame! He is your Dadaji. He was not shallow like everyone today, throwing compliments, words and promises without meaning them." I failed to mention Dadi was a savage lady when it came to making people realize things. She never hesitated to share what she thought. This had led to several narrow escapes for Dadaji. She had called someone 'a thief in appearance' because she was suspicious of his actions, and Dadaji had to pacify the crowd.

"He used to assure everyone in the family with his disarming smile and his "Don't worry. I'm here". Those words in his letters were my assurance that he had sent that letter. It was his seal of promise", she said. "Our marriage was not my choice. I will not lie that it was good or some fairy tale. There were days when I regretted everything. My parents, my in-laws, him - mostly myself. Some days made me wonder why am I even here? My parents had married me off when I barely knew what should be the proportion of water to rice while cooking it. He was smarter than me, and that made the relationship a bit bearable."

"He knew I loved to play Ludo, so he got me a board with pieces from his first salary along with a saree. He bought clothes for every member of our family and that year, we all extravagantly celebrated Diwali. I tore the Ludo board when he defeated me in a game that I was close to winning. It was childish of me, but he laughed it off."

"Your Dadaji was a man of words for everyone. He delivered what he promised. He loved everyone so much that to ensure everyone was well fed, he could sleep with an empty stomach. The only person he remained indebted to was your Dadi. Once we had some rough financial conditions. He borrowed ₹146.43 from me, and I had warned him that I would charge compound interest. He had agreed to it. Even today he owes me ₹1432.40. I have kept an account of it all. It has been 24 years now, and he has not yet paid me back. I don't think he will, but I will not give up my claim."

"Your Papa showed you the photograph on his phone itself, didn't he? What all can happen on your phone truly amazes me. I did not have the luxury to choose my husband or even when I get married. He earned for the family till he got old and then he retired. I did not have that option either. There is a huge divide in the way we were treated at our in-laws. He was the first person to eat at my home. I was the last person to eat at his home. I faced so much all these years that I turned sour. However, he never complained. Now, when I look back, I feel blessed as I truly never deserved him."

I could not help but think about Shreya. I had seen us growing old together. Now, it all seemed like a distant dream. Dadi was lucky. She never experienced Love and heartbreak. I asked her, "So when did you fall in love with him, Dadi?"

"Love is something your generation obsesses over a lot. I don't know much about Love but the way your generation handles relationships, it must be a fragile thing. My relationship with your Dadaji was based on something firm. I respected him. It doesn't matter if he is not with us anymore, but I still can't say his name. Your generation has forgotten what it means to respect each other. You crave to be understood but never care to understand. You want to take risks, but you have forgotten how to believe. You people are so lost in your phones that you never realize the world we live in is outside that small device. Maybe it can do too much for your own good!"

"I have nothing against love marriages or choosing your own partners. You can marry your soulmate but you will not be happy if you are not respected the way you deserve to be. It is not something to be taken for granted. In our times, we rarely had divorces. I am not suggesting suffering in a toxic relationship, but in general, we used to respect each other. You can marry the richest person whom you love and who loves you back, but if he doesn't respect you, you will feel hollow every night before breaking down completely."

Respect, it dawned upon me, was the real thing. Age, experience, Love, relationships and everything else depends on it. They are all things that can add flavour to your life, but it is not money, but respect that is food for your soul. There might be days when the food is salty or bland, but it is essential to nourish your soul every day with respect. And just like everything else, the first person you need to earn this respect from is YOU.

Dadi looked me in my eyes and said, "You might think you are not ready for a new relationship as you are still juggling your past. The thing is you will never be. You don't play the flute perfectly in your first attempt. In the beginning, things might be so bad, you may want to run away. Still, it is only perseverance and respect for the relationship that makes you perfect. I know you since you could not control your bladder while sleeping. You are capable of loving people the way they deserve to be loved. I don't think there is anyone you cannot love. Maybe I don't know what love is for you but I can assure you I have lived something far superior and given a chance, I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. Your father must have chosen someone great for you. Maybe you will regret delaying this. Remember, life is for making mistakes, not carrying regrets to your grave."

"Dadi, I thought I would be cremated", I cracked a lame joke, and Dadi smacked me before spitting to ward off evil. She took her plate of rice and the bowl of stones and walked towards the kitchen. Maa was going to cook Khichdi. I smiled at Maa. She looked into my eyes and smiled back. A rare, hopeful and happy smile that makes your soul feel blessed.

Later that night, I walked into Dadi's room and saw her looking at a purple and green saree. I sat beside her quietly and watched her fold the saree back neatly. A few letters had been bundled in a pile and kept in a corner. She scribbled something in her small pocket diary and kept it under her pillow. As she shut her casket, I managed to see one half of a torn Ludo board peaking at me.

Dadi went out to keep her denture in the cup. I took out the diary to see what she had scribbled. It contained a passport-sized photograph of Dadaji. Her handwriting was poor but legible. Don't worry. I'm here.

I kept the diary back in its place before Dadi walked into the room. I wished her good night, kissed her cheek and was about to leave when she asked me, "Can we play Ludo on your phone?"

I could not help but smile.