The streets were alive with the joyous echoes of laughter, the scent of sweets, and the vibrant hues of Holi. Everywhere, people smeared colors on each other, dancing to the beats of festive songs. Amidst this lively atmosphere, Chahat observed a scene unfolding before her.
A young man approached an elderly gentleman standing with a composed yet expectant demeanor. As soon as the old man's gaze fell upon the younger man, his expression softened with warmth.
"Abhiman, you came," the old man said, a smile breaking across his face.
Abhiman folded his arms and responded with a calm yet slightly distant tone. "Yes, I came. Though, from what I see, it seems like my presence here isn't really needed. Everything appears to be running smoothly without me."
The old man let out a deep sigh, his eyes reflecting a mix of pride and longing. "When children grow up and stand shoulder to shoulder with us, is there any chance they will still walk the path we lay for them? It seems like a dream—one that will never come true."
Abhiman met his grandfather's gaze with a firm, unwavering expression. "One should not dwell in dreams, Dadaji. Whether you accept it or not, reality remains unchanged. It's something we must all face."
Sensing the tension thickening between the two, a man standing beside Abhiman decided to intervene before their conversation took a more serious turn. With a playful grin, he grabbed a handful of powdered colors and smeared them across the old man's face.
"Happy Holi, Sir!" he declared cheerfully.
The sudden burst of color startled the elderly man for a moment before he chuckled, wiping some of the color off his beard. "Happy Holi, Angad. So, you've come as well."
Angad bowed slightly in respect. "Of course, sir! You know I am like Hanuman—always following my Ram."
The old man's laughter grew louder. "Good! At least this Hanuman knows today is a festival and remembered to wish me!" He turned his gaze back to Abhiman, his tone carrying an unspoken message.
Without hesitation, Abhiman bent down, took a pinch of color, and applied it respectfully to his grandfather's feet. His voice, though softer now, held a rare sincerity.
"Happy Holi, Dadaji," he said. "In this world, you are the only family I have. Why wouldn't I share moments of joy with you?"
As he spoke, he reached forward, grasping the old man's hand in his own. For a moment, time seemed to pause as their eyes met—one filled with a lifetime of wisdom, the other carrying the weight of unspoken words.
The old man squeezed Abhiman's hand gently and nodded. "It is good that you understand the importance of sharing happiness with family. Come, let me introduce you to the rest of the family."
He called for one of the house helpers to gather everyone. Within moments, two young men entered—Mihir and Vansh.
Mihir, ever composed, merely nodded in acknowledgment. Vansh, on the other hand, stepped forward with a friendly smile and extended his hand toward Abhiman.
Abhiman glanced at the outstretched hand for a moment before finally accepting the handshake. "Abhiman," he introduced himself with a slight nod.
The old man watched the exchange with mild disapproval. He clapped his hands together, shaking his head. "What is this? A formal business meeting? Since when does family reunite with handshakes?"
He gestured between them impatiently. "Come on, hug each other! You are family, not strangers!"
Abhiman and Vansh hesitated for a brief moment before finally complying, embracing stiffly while the old man laughed heartily. Around them, the sounds of celebration continued, but within their small circle, the festival had become something more—an unspoken bridge between past misunderstandings and future possibilities.