Chapter 8: Old Roots, New Bonds

After college, I started volunteering at the orphanage every month.

Those afternoons—helping with homework, singing old songs, serving biryani on Eid—became my refuge. Even after marrying Arjun, I never gave up this ritual.

I’d save what little Arjun gave me, skipping coffee or new kurtis to buy storybooks for the kids—sticky hands tugging at my sleeves, voices calling, "Didi, ek aur story sunao!" The smell of Dettol, chalk dust, and warm milk always lingered.

Because I’m an orphan myself. It’s a truth I rarely share, but it’s shaped everything I do.

I grew up in the orphanage until age eight, when Dadi found me huddled in a corner during a monsoon, hair matted, eyes swollen.

Dadi, a retired teacher in crisp cotton sarees, always smelled of sandalwood soap. She saved the best piece of mithai for me, stretched her pension to cover my tuition and living, and stitched my uniforms with care.

After growing up, I followed her example—returning to the orphanage, making sure no child ever felt forgotten.

Most volunteers were retired teachers or housewives, so Amit stood out—tall, well-dressed, his lawyer’s briefcase comically out of place among crayons and chalk.

He approached me, asking gently about the kids—Anjali with her toothy grin, Raju who loved cricket, Reema who hid behind my kurti. Amit wrote everything down, listening carefully.

Though I remembered his harsh words to Arjun, I answered for the children’s sake. Professionalism came first.

Finally, I asked, “Any more questions?”

He looked at me a long moment, making me shift my weight.

“Mrs. Malhotra, thank you for your help. May I treat you to a meal?”

I should’ve refused—married, and he was my husband’s friend, once calling me materialistic. But when he mentioned tandoori, my stomach betrayed me, growling at the memory.