Blood
The day felt unusually long for Apu.
Kushal didn't come to tutor her that afternoon. The absence of his familiar knock on the door, the sound of his bicycle stopping outside, even the faint strum of his guitar—everything seemed to be missing, leaving behind a strange emptiness. Apu had quietly taken Kushal's phone and kept it in her room, almost as if it were something precious. Yet, despite holding onto it, she had no desire to call his mother anymore. The sharpness in that woman's voice, the constant nagging—it lingered in her mind like an unpleasant echo she couldn't shake off.
Leaning against the slightly rusted iron window of her small room, Apu let the evening breeze brush against her face. Outside, the sky was slowly turning shades of orange and purple, as if the day itself was bleeding into the night. She opened her diary and began writing a new poem. Words flowed from her heart onto the paper—raw, unfiltered, and deeply personal.
Just then, a soft knock broke her concentration.
"May I come in?" Jaya's gentle voice came from the other side of the door.
Apu quickly straightened herself, wiping away the distant look from her eyes. "Of course, come in, Ma."
Jaya entered quietly and sat down on the edge of the bed. There was a certain weariness in her movements, as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders.
Looking at her mother, Apu asked softly, "Ma, won't Pu come today?"
Jaya shook her head. "No, today is his son's birthday. He won't be coming."
Apu nodded but said nothing. Silence settled between them, heavy yet familiar.
After a moment, Jaya reached out and held Apu's hand. Her grip was warm, yet trembling slightly. "My child," she said slowly, "never repeat the mistakes I made. Life doesn't give second chances easily. Think carefully before making any decisions."
Apu placed her other hand over Jaya's, gently reassuring her. "Don't worry, Ma. Your daughter isn't that weak."
She smiled faintly, trying to lighten the mood. "You know, Kushal-da said he would compose a song based on my poem."
Jaya pinched her cheek affectionately, though her eyes carried a hint of concern. "Kushal is a very good boy. But he belongs to a so-called 'respectable' family. And we…"
she paused, choosing her words carefully, "…we belong to what society calls something else. So, before you start building dreams, think carefully."
Apu leaned back slightly, her smile turning thoughtful. "Can dreams really be controlled by thinking so much, Ma?" she asked quietly. "Were you able to think that way?"
Jaya lowered her gaze. Her silence answered the question before her words did. "No," she admitted. "I couldn't. That's why I'm in this situation today. And because of me, you have to bear so much too."
Apu shook her head. "At first, it used to hurt,"
she said honestly. "But not anymore. I've understood something—people enjoy hurting others. They like rubbing salt into wounds. If we keep worrying about what others will say, then what will they have left to do?" She smiled, though there was pain hidden beneath it. "So there's no point thinking about all that."
Jaya looked at her daughter with a mixture of pride and sorrow. "My little girl has grown up so much," she murmured. "I have no one in my life except you, Apu."
Apu frowned slightly. "Why, Ma? Pu loves you a lot. Tell me… don't you love Pu?"
Jaya didn't answer.
Apu leaned forward, her voice softer now. "Tell me, Ma… don't you love him?"
Jaya slowly lifted her eyes. Tears had gathered at their corners, shimmering like fragile pearls. She tried to hold them back, but they slipped free, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. She smiled faintly through them. "See? I couldn't stop them."
She took a deep breath. "Just like tears don't listen to us… love doesn't either. But with time, tears dry up under the weight of circumstances. After a while, they stop coming. In the same way… some love can never be expressed."
Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Pu is helpless… and I am even more helpless than him."
The room fell silent again. Only the distant sounds of the evening—vendors calling out, utensils clattering—filled the air.
After a while, Apu spoke hesitantly. "Ma… can I ask you something?"
Jaya let out a small, tired laugh. "As if you wouldn't ask anyway. Go on."
Apu smiled slightly. "I really want to know your love story."
Jaya made a face, trying to brush it off. "My love story? It's better if you don't hear it. Some things are better left unknown—they keep the heart at peace."
But Apu wasn't ready to let it go. She moved closer, her tone playful yet earnest. "Please tell me, Ma. I've never asked before—who my father is… or what your relationship with Pu is. But today I really want to know."
Her voice grew softer, more vulnerable. "You always say my father was a good man… that because of him, we can still live in a respectable society. But don't I have the right to know about him? I carry his blood… I've grown up now. I want to know whose blood runs through my veins. Don't I have that right, Ma?"
Jaya remained silent.
Apu's eyes filled with tears, but she quickly wiped them away before they could fall. Still, Jaya noticed. She gently cupped Apu's face. "My blood flows through you too," she said. "Just giving blood doesn't make someone a parent. No… it doesn't."
She paused, then added softly, "But you will know the truth one day. I promise… I will tell you myself. Just wait a little."
Apu looked at her, searching her eyes. "I will wait, Ma," she said quietly. "For the truth… and for my right to know."
Jaya looked at her daughter's face, her heart tightening painfully. Inside, words echoed that she could never say aloud—
Some truths cannot be told… not without breaking everything. Your truth and mine are tied to many lives, Apu. I don't have the courage… not yet. But before I die, I will introduce you to your father. Forgive me…
Though those words remained unspoken, something passed between them—an unspoken understanding, a shared ache.
To break the heaviness, Apu suddenly said, "Ma, I wrote a new poem. Will you listen?"
Jaya straightened up slightly, forcing a smile. "Of course. Go on."
Apu began to recite, her voice steady yet filled with emotion—
"I long to lose myself in your eyes,
I'm terrified of ever losing you,
An emptiness fills me when I look for you in your absence,
With all my heart and soul, I desire only you.
In the silent nights as I count the stars,
Your name is all that comes to mind,
Perhaps I've never said it quite right—
You are my everything, nothing else I find."
As Apu recited, her voice seemed to carry more than just words—it carried her heart.
Jaya listened silently.
And in that moment, she understood something that Apu herself hadn't fully realized yet—
Her daughter had already given her heart away.
To be continued...