Sathya

“A six-foot-tall man—likely in his mid-twenties—appeared, effortlessly striking in a black shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing a slim gold chain resting against the curve of his neck. His Adam’s apple moved with quiet confidence. He wore loose beige trousers held in place by a simple black belt, the look casual yet deliberate. A sleek watch clung to his left wrist, and the sleeves of his shirt were neatly rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms toned just enough to notice. His hair dense, black, and brushed back, though a few rebellious strands had fallen onto his fore-head, softening the sharpness of his features. His lips—unexpectedly light pink—stood out against his warm wheat-brown complexion. Draped casu-ally over one shoulder was a bag that didn’t quite match the rest of him—delicate, almost feminine. It looked like something that belonged to his mother. He didn’t seem to care; he carried it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“What are you doing here?” he asked to Mohini, looking at Nia with sur-prise. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze steady.
“Your mom got hit by a suitcase, her knees are bleeding. Can you please ask her to do first aid quickly before it gets worse?” Nia stood up, her words tumbling out fast, her brow slightly furrowed.
“What? You got hurt? How? Show me,” he said, sitting down beside his mother’s knees, his hand gently lifting the fabric to reveal dried blood on her clothes.
“It must be a small scratch. It bled, but it’s stopped now—and see, the blood has hardened,” Mohini said in a casual tone, waving her hand as if to brush away the concern.
“I know it’s not hurting you, but sometimes a small wound changes into something bigger if we don’t look after it at the right time. See, it’s almost time to board—please go to the restroom and wash it out at least. The amount of blood is not that small,” Nia said, standing again as she spoke, bending to grab her bag and finally managing to lift it onto her shoulder.
“Well… thank you for taking care of my mom,” the man said, looking at Nia with deliberate attention, his eyes steady on hers.
“He is my son—Dev,” Mohini introduced, her voice carrying quiet pride.
“Nice to meet you,” Nia said, stepping sideways to leave the table space, her body angled toward the exit.
“It was nice meeting you too, Ma’am. I have to go. Bye,” Nia smiled, giv-ing a small nod before turning away and walking off.”
― Shweta Muduli, Violets: Where Love Blooms Quietly