Sudharma took the overnight bus back home the same night.
The journey felt longer than usual.
Not because of traffic.
Because exhaustion had finally begun mixing with irritation.
He slept in fragments.
Bus lights turning on unexpectedly.
Someone talking loudly on phone at two in the morning.
Tea stop near some highway where everyone walked around half-awake pretending they needed tea.
By sunrise, his headache had settled behind the eyes like unfinished thought.
Chikki’s house stood at the far end of an older residential lane lined with mango trees and uneven compound walls.
Sudharma had spent half his childhood there.
Summer holidays.
Cousin fights.
Festival lunches.
Afternoons sleeping on cool mosaic floors while ceiling fans made tired sounds above.
The house still smelled the same:
filter coffee,
coconut oil,
old wooden cupboards,
agarbatti.
His mother was sitting inside the hall when he entered.
She looked up once.
Then looked away immediately.
That hurt him more than anger would have.
Chikki came from kitchen wiping her hands on saree pallu.
“You came.”
“Hmmm.”
“Eat first.”
“Not hungry.”
“That means definitely hungry.”
Nothing changed in families even during emotional war.
People still forced food into each other.
The house remained strangely divided that entire day.
His mother stayed mostly inside one room with Naani.
Sudharma sat outside with Chikki and occasionally his cousin dropping in and escaping quickly after sensing atmosphere.
No one shouted.
That somehow made everything heavier.
By evening even silence had become tired.
Finally after dinner, Chikki sat opposite Sudharma near the verandah while rain started lightly outside.
“You know your mother not sleeping properly for days?”
Sudharma stayed quiet.
“She’s scared.”
“I know.”
“You’re also stubborn.”
“Hmmm.”
“She’s also stubborn.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
For several minutes only rain spoke around them.
Then Chikki said softly:
“You know why she’s reacting like this?”
“Because society.”
“No.”
Sudharma looked up.
“Society she can fight,” Chikki said calmly. “Fear she cannot.”
That landed differently.
“She thinks if something happens again…” Chikki paused briefly, “…you’ll break.”
The sentence remained between them quietly.
Because somewhere underneath all his arguments, Sudharma knew that fear wasn’t entirely irrational.
Life already had shown all of them how unpredictable it could become.
Still—
“I know what I’m choosing,” he said finally.
Chikki nodded slowly.
“I believe that.”
“Then?”
“She wants guarantee.”
Sudharma laughed softly without humor.
“No marriage comes with guarantee.”
“Tell that to mothers.”
Fair point.
Naani entered the conversation later without warning.
One moment she was inside room watching television loudly.
Next moment she was standing near doorway staring at him with visible disappointment.
“You always were favourite only,” she muttered. “Now see what you’re doing to your mother.”
“Naani…”
“She raised you with so much care. For what? To voluntarily bring difficulty?”
Sudharma stayed quiet.
Arguing with old grief and old fear felt pointless.
“She already suffered once,” Naani continued. “Why again all this?”
“Because I love her.”
The answer came more directly this time.
Naani shook her head immediately.
“Love love love. Life is bigger than that.”
Maybe.
But that still changed nothing inside him.
The discussions stretched deep into night after that.
Not one dramatic argument.
Several smaller ones.
Circular.
Exhausted.
Repeating.
At some point everyone became too emotionally tired to continue properly.
That was when Chikki introduced the final idea almost casually.
“Let’s check kundali once.”
Sudharma looked up immediately.
His mother also emerged from inside room hearing that.
“Kundali?” he repeated.
“What wrong in checking?” Chikki asked practically. “At least everyone mind will settle little.”
He almost refused automatically.
Then stopped.
Because somewhere he realized none of them were actually looking for astrology.
They were looking for reassurance from any direction possible.
Even irrational ones.
His mother spoke for first time properly that day.
“Ask Swara birth details.”
The sentence itself carried fragile willingness hidden underneath resistance.
Sudharma noticed it immediately.
Which is why he called Swara immediately.
She answered after second ring.
“You reached?”
“Hmmm.”
“How’s war?”
“Still independent nations.”
Swara laughed softly.
Then silence.
“What happened?” she asked after sensing his tone shift.
Sudharma leaned against the verandah pillar looking out at rainwater collecting near the gate.
“They want to match kundali.”
Long pause.
Then unexpectedly:
“Okay.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“What problem?”
“You don’t find this absurd?”
“Hmmm. But if it helps them emotionally…”
That answer calmed him more than he expected.
Swara gave the details without drama.
Date.
Time.
Place.
Before disconnecting she asked quietly:
“Your Amma okay?”
The question surprised him slightly.
“Hmmm.”
“She’ll come around re.”
“I hope so.”
“Parents get scared differently.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Exactly.
That was the problem.
Nobody here was truly fighting hate.
Only fear.
The astrologer saw them next morning.
Older man.
Small office near temple road.
Calendars everywhere.
Slow-moving fan making clicking noise overhead.
Sudharma sat through the entire thing with emotional detachment initially.
Birth charts opened.
Calculations discussed.
Planets blamed.
His mother listened with complete seriousness.
Naani almost prayerful.
Finally the old man removed glasses and spoke calmly.
“Most things matching well.”
Sudharma saw visible relief move through the room immediately.
Then the astrologer added:
“But…”
Of course.
“But what?” his mother asked quickly.
The old man looked back at the charts.
“Separation yoga strong.”
Silence.
“Meaning?” Chikki asked.
“They may not stay together for very long.”
The room became completely still.
The astrologer continued casually in the tone of someone discussing weather.
“Four years maybe. Five.”
Just numbers to him.
But inside that room the sentence settled differently for everyone.
His mother looked at Sudharma immediately.
Not victorious.
Terrified.
“I told you,” she whispered softly.
For one brief second even Sudharma felt cold move through him.
Not because he believed astrology deeply.
Because fear became dangerous once given language.
And suddenly everyone in the room had heard their private fears spoken aloud by a stranger.
Still—
He straightened slowly and said quietly:
“We’ll make it work.”
No one answered immediately.
Outside, temple bells rang for morning pooja while traffic slowly thickened across the town.
Inside, four people sat around a wooden table carrying entirely different versions of the future in their heads.
And none of them knew yet which one life had already chosen.
Shanbhogue Publications 
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