Everyone returned from the crematorium close to dawn.
The sky had just begun turning pale when the vehicles entered the lane again.
The house looked altered now.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Something essential had been removed from it during the night.
Inside, people moved slowly through exhaustion and ritual instinct.
Someone made tea.
Someone spread bedsheets.
Someone informed relatives about the next day’s procedures.
Sudharma sat in the lawn chair near the gate staring at nothing particular while dawn fully arrived around him.
Vinay eventually walked over carrying a cigarette packet.
Neither asked permission from the other.
They simply walked outside the gate toward their usual roadside tea stall almost automatically.
The owner recognized them immediately.
Then immediately regretted recognizing them.
His face changed.
“Anna…”
Sudharma only nodded once.
Tea arrived quietly.
No unnecessary sympathy.
No questions.
The morning traffic had started building already.
Office buses.
School vans.
People buying flowers near the signal.
Sudharma realized suddenly he had not eaten anything since the previous day’s lunch.
Not because he consciously refused.
Because the body had forgotten hunger entirely.
Vinay lit a cigarette and handed it over silently.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Then Vinay finally said quietly:
“Fifteen years da.”
Sudharma nodded faintly.
Friendship.
Calls.
Office.
Hospital.
Wedding.
House.
Entire sections of life now suddenly existed only in memory.
The tea turned cold between his fingers unnoticed.
When they returned home an hour later, the atmosphere inside had changed completely.
Now grief had entered its second phase:
ritual management.
Both families sat facing each other inside the hall.
Tired.
Emotionally stripped.
Still carrying grief differently.
And in the middle of all that, an argument had begun quietly.
Who would perform the remaining thirteen-day rituals.
Not out of ego.
Out of relationship.
Out of obligation.
Love.
Tradition.
Loss.
Her relatives felt she belonged there.
His family felt responsibility now rested with them.
Voices remained controlled initially.
Then sharper.
“Dharma says—”
“Traditionally—”
“She is our daughter—”
“She is his wife—”
Sudharma stood near the doorway listening for several minutes before anyone noticed him.
The moment they did, silence fell immediately.
Everyone turned toward him.
Waiting.
As though grief had now made him final authority over impossible emotional territory.
“What do you want?” someone finally asked softly.
Sudharma looked around slowly.
Two families.
Red eyes.
Exhaustion.
Anger hiding underneath helplessness.
Then he said quietly:
“I always thought she was the glue holding all this together.”
No one moved.
“Looks like the fire melted it.”
The sentence entered the room heavily.
Because everyone knew it was true.
For years Swara had quietly connected:
families,
friendships,
visits,
celebrations,
calls.
Now suddenly structure itself had become uncertain.
After long discussion, practicality finally decided what emotion could not.
The remaining rituals would happen from Sudharma’s hometown under guidance of his father.
Not because anyone loved her less.
Because rituals required functioning people.
And Sudharma was no longer functioning.
His father could not manage everything continuously from Bengaluru while depending on a grieving son already lost inside shock.
Once the decision settled, exhaustion replaced argument almost immediately.
Nobody had strength left to continue fighting.
Around late afternoon Sudharma and his father drove back to the crematorium to collect ashes.
The city looked unbearably normal again.
At the crematorium, workers recognized them instantly.
The previous night’s fire had already become routine memory there.
Ash collection happened quietly.
Methodically.
His father performed most actions while Sudharma stood beside him numb with fatigue.
At one point the worker handed over the clay pot respectfully.
Such a small container.
That disturbed Sudharma more than expected.
How could entire lives reduce into weight that one person could carry with both hands?
That night his parents left for hometown carrying the ashes.
His father needed to begin preparations immediately for the remaining rituals.
Sudharma stayed back in Bengaluru.
Police formalities still remained.
The MLC had not fully closed.
Postmortem documentation needed collection later.
Practical responsibilities continued arriving one after another without concern for emotional capacity.
Before leaving, his mother stood near the car for several seconds looking at him.
“You come after finishing here.”
“Hmmm.”
“Don’t stay alone too much.”
He nodded without answering.
Neither of them believed that instruction would actually be followed.
That night the duplex house became unbearable.
Until then people had continuously occupied space:
relatives,
friends,
rituals,
calls,
movement.
Now silence entered properly for the first time.
Sudharma unlocked the front door and stood inside the dark hall without switching on lights immediately.
The house smelled faintly of incense,
flowers,
and melted candle wax.
Every object had memory attached suddenly.
The sofa where she sat during movie nights.
The staircase where she spoke during calls.
The shawl still hanging behind dining chair.
He walked through rooms slowly as though entering someone else’s life.
Inside the bedroom, her side of the cupboard remained half-open exactly as she had left it.
One bangle still near the mirror.
Hair clip beside the lamp.
Ordinary things.
That was the cruelty.
Nothing around him looked dramatic enough to match absence.
The thirteen-day rituals passed through exhaustion rather than emotion.
Relatives arrived.
Priests instructed.
Food arrangements happened.
Condolence calls continued endlessly.
On the thirteenth day everyone gathered again at the duplex house for the mithra bhojana and condolence meeting.
Sudharma insisted on it.
“This house saw her alive,” he said quietly when someone suggested another venue. “Let people come here.”
So they did.
Friends.
Colleagues.
Relatives.
Neighbours.
People filled the same lawn that once hosted bonfires and birthday celebrations.
Now chairs stood in rows facing framed photograph and lamps.
Life had transformed the house brutally fast.
Inside, Swara’s belongings were slowly distributed.
Jewellery to cousins.
Sarees to nieces and sister-in-law.
Small keepsakes to people she loved.
No fighting.
No greed.
Only quiet selection through tears and memory.
“This one she liked.”
“She wore this during…”
Sentences kept stopping halfway.
By evening people slowly began leaving again.
Cars disappeared one by one from outside the gate.
Voices reduced gradually.
Until finally only Sudharma and his mother remained inside the house.
The house still looked the same.
Same walls.
Same rooms.
Same silence.
Only Swara was missing.
And somehow, that changed everything.
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