Did Rahul just propose to me?

The words hung in the air between us, heavy, demanding an answer. I looked at him, my heart pounding, my mind racing to process what had just happened.

He was watching me expectantly, his eyes filled with a confidence that unsettled me. Did he really think I would jump at the proposal without hesitation?

I smiled softly, gathering my thoughts before speaking.

"Look, Rahul, I appreciate your direct approach. And trust me, this means a lot to me." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "But I have a few responsibilities in life—ones I can't ignore. That's the only reason I've been single all these years."

Rahul frowned slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. "I don't get it, Maithili. Are you just giving me a random excuse to reject me?"

I frowned, taken aback by his assumption. "Why do you think I'm giving you an excuse?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Maithili, as far as I know, you're an only child. You lost your father when you were young, and it's just you and your mother. And she works. So, in all this, where do you have such great responsibilities that you're rejecting me?"

I let out a small chuckle, shaking my head. "Hmm, you're right. My mother... she is not my responsibility." I let the words linger before adding, "She's more than that."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

I inhaled deeply, steadying myself. "Rahul, before I even consider your proposal, you need to know something. You need to understand what you're getting into."

Rahul leaned forward, his eyes searching mine. "Maithili, what are you trying to say?"

I met his gaze head-on. "As you said, I am the only daughter to my parents. I lost my father when I was thirteen, and from that moment on, it was my mother who stood beside me—who fought for me, supported me, and never let me feel alone."

Rahul listened silently, his expression unreadable.

"She sacrificed so much for me," I continued, my voice thick with emotion. "And now, as she's growing older, I want to be there for her, just like she was there for me. It's not just a choice; it's a responsibility I will not ignore."

Rahul frowned slightly. "I still don't get what you're saying, Maithili. Are you afraid marriage will take you away from her?"

I took a deep breath, bracing myself. "I want my mother to live with me—wherever I am—even after marriage."

Silence.

A thick, heavy silence that spoke volumes.

Rahul leaned back, his expression a mix of amusement and disbelief.

"You mean to say... you want your mother to stay with you after marriage?" he asked slowly.

I nodded firmly.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Have you gone mad, Maithili?"

My eyebrows knitted together. "Excuse me?"

Rahul sighed, as if trying to reason with a stubborn child. "Look, Maithili, you're a girl. After marriage, you'll be coming to my home—to live with my parents." He leaned forward, as if trying to explain something painfully obvious. "How do you expect your mother to stay with us? It would be uncomfortable for my parents, and even for your mother."

My stomach turned.

"And besides," he continued, in a casual tone that infuriated me, "isn't your mother a working woman? She earns for herself. I'm sure she can take care of herself too."

I stared at him, feeling a sudden chill run down my spine.

Was he real?

In which era was he even living?

For a moment, I couldn't believe how small-minded his thoughts were. I had thought—I had hoped—he was different. But clearly, I was wrong. All men are same.

I took a deep breath, my patience wearing thin. "So that means your parents are not capable of looking after themselves, Rahul?"

He frowned. "Of course, they are. But as their son, it's my responsibility to look after them. And as my wife, I expect you to support them too. That's just how it is, Maithili. After we get married, you will be coming to my home."

I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief. "So, what you're saying is, I can support my mother financially, but she can't live with me?"

He sighed. "No, that's not what I mean. Your mother is working, Maithili. She earns for herself, right? If she were dependent on you, that would be different. But in this generation, with all the expenses, we need to run our family—you, me, our kids, and my parents. We can't take extra burdens."

I clenched my fists under the table.

Extra burden? I couldn't believe my ears. Is he real, did he call my mother a burden.

"So, if your parents are your responsibility, isn't my mother my responsibility?" I asked, my voice unwavering.

He hesitated. "I accept that, Maithili. But that's not how society works. Think about my parents—what will they think of you? Of me?"

I let out a humourless smirk.

"Rahul," I said, looking him straight in the eye, "I can't be how society wants me to be. I have my own choices, my own responsibilities."

His face fell. "Maithili, just think once. You can't just say no based on this."

"Rahul, this isn't a small thing for me," I said firmly.

He sighed. "If you want, you can visit your mother regularly. She can even rent a place nearby, and you can see her whenever you want. There are alternatives, Maithili."

I smiled softly but knowingly.

"But I don't need alternatives, Rahul."

"Maithili, just think once. Not only me, but no one will say yes to this ridiculous thing," Rahul said, his voice rising in frustration. "How can you stay without marriage, without a man in your life? Because no man can accept this."

I felt my heartbeat quicken, my temper flaring. "I don't need a man to support me, Rahul," I replied, my voice steady but firm. "I'm very much capable of taking care of myself and my mother too."

His face contorted in disbelief. "This is the problem with working women, Maithili. You think you're a man, you think you can do everything alone."

I took a sharp breath, my anger bubbling to the surface. "I never thought you were this chauvinistic, Rahul. Thank you for opening my eyes."

His expression hardened, but I didn't stop.

"So, keep your outdated thoughts with you, Rahul. And keep your proposal too. Because this conversation ends here."  And with that, I made my decision.

I took out some money and placed it on the table before looking at him.

"The lunch is on me," I said firmly.

With that, I stood up, grabbed my bag, and turned on my heel, walking away—feeling lighter with every step.

Rahul called after me, his voice almost pleading. "Maithili, let's sit and talk. Maybe we can find a common solution, a middle ground. If... if you want, you can support her financially."

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"You still don't understand, Rahul. And I don't expect you to."

Taking a deep breath, I exhaled, feeling a sense of closure. "I have my values, my beliefs, my choices, and they don't revolve around your idea of how things should be. It was nice meeting you, Rahul. Goodbye."

And with that, I walked away, leaving behind not just Rahul, but the outdated mindset I refused to bow down to.

I stormed out of the restaurant, my heels clicking against the pavement in sharp, angry beats. The cool evening air did little to calm my frustration.

How could I be so wrong about him?

I cursed myself, feeling a wave of irritation rise in my chest. Of all the men, why did I have to develop a crush on Rahul? I had thought he was different—understanding, open-minded. I had admired him once—his confidence, his charm, his way of making conversations seem effortless.
 But today, he had stripped away any illusion I had built around him. Beneath the polished exterior, he was just another man carrying the same outdated beliefs that society had imposed on generations who believed a woman's duty was to adjust, to sacrifice, to mold herself according to society's expectations. The very idea of ever having a crush on him now felt like an insult to my own intelligence.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers hovering over Shivam's number. I needed to give him a piece of my mind. Why did he even tell Rahul about me? But then I sighed, pushing the thought away. Confronting Shivam could wait. Right now, I just wanted to go home, away from this suffocating disappointment.

As soon as I stepped into the house, I took a deep breath and forced a smile onto my face. Ma shouldn't know about this. The last thing I wanted was for her to worry about me.

"Ma, I'm home!" I called out, placing my bag on the couch.

She emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Oh, good! How was lunch with Rahul?" she asked, a hopeful smile on her face.

I forced a casual shrug. "It was just an old friends' catch-up, Ma. Nothing more."

She looked at me for a second as if trying to read between the lines, but thankfully, she didn't push further.

During dinner, Ma suddenly spoke. "Maithili, tomorrow I'm going to meet my friends. It's been a long time since we caught up, they have aske me to join them at a restaurant."

I smiled, "That's great, Ma. You need to relax and enjoy yourself."

Later that night, as I lay on my bed, the conversation with Rahul played in my mind like a broken record. The way he dismissed my mother as an 'extra burden'—it all played on a loop in my head.

Why? Why couldn't men think that the parents of girls were also parents? Why was it so hard for them to understand that they needed care too, just like their own?

It wasn't about equality—it was about basic humanity. Parents are parents, regardless of gender. And yet, society dictated that only the son's parents deserved care, while the daughter's parents had to make do with mere visits. Why was it so normal for a girl to leave everything behind and take care of her husband's family, yet unthinkable for a man to do the same? Were my responsibilities as a daughter any less than his as a son?

A bitter smile played on my lips. If every man thought like Rahul, then I was fine being single.

I sighed, trying to shake off the frustration, but my phone buzzed again. Rahul.

For the tenth time.

I clenched my jaw and blocked the number.

Within seconds, another unknown number popped up. Again.

"Unbelievable," I muttered. Why couldn't he understand a simple NO? Why did his ego bruise so easily?

I had made my stance clear, yet he refused to let go.

I threw my phone onto the bed, exasperated, and my eyes fell on a framed photograph beside my bedside table.

My family.

Me in the middle, my father on one side, my mother on the other. A complete world in itself.

I picked up the frame, running my fingers over my father's smiling face.

"Papa," I whispered, my voice barely above a breath, "you were the best. I don't think I'll ever find a man like you—with your values, your kindness, your unwavering sense of right and wrong."

A sad smile tugged at my lips.

"But I'm happy the way I am, Papa," I whispered, hugging the frame close. 

With that thought, I finally felt my body relax.

Slowly, sleep took over, lulling me into much-needed rest.

Smiling softly, I closed my eyes, letting sleep take over. 

Next morning sun bathed the city in a golden hue as I fastened my earrings, giving my reflection one last glance before stepping out of my room. Sundays were special—not because they were a day off, but because of the little ritual Ma and I had followed for years. A temple visit in the morning.

Ma was already waiting for me by the door, dressed in a crisp light-blue saree that complemented her warm, glowing skin. 

"You look beautiful, Ma," I said with a smile, adjusting the edge of her saree.

She chuckled. "Trying to flatter me so early in the morning? What do you want, Maithili?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "Nothing! Can't I just compliment my mother?"

She raised an eyebrow but smiled knowingly. "Let's go before we get late."

The temple was a familiar sanctuary—one that had witnessed years of whispered prayers, silent tears, and hopeful wishes.

By the time we reached home after the temple visit, it was nearly eleven. The peaceful energy from the prayers still lingered, making the morning feel lighter. Ma and I settled in for another round of chai, our usual Sunday ritual. The conversation drifted to current affairs—politics, a new law that had been passed, and a ridiculous viral video that had been making the rounds.

Ma sipped her chai thoughtfully. "The world is changing too fast, Maithili. Sometimes, I feel like I can't keep up."

I smiled. "That's because you still read the newspaper, Ma. Twitter is where the news is."

She rolled her eyes. "Some of us still prefer real journalism, you know."

I laughed, shaking my head. Ma glanced at the clock and sighed. "It's already 11:30. We need to leave, beta."

I stretched lazily. "Yeah, yeah, let's go."

Grabbing my car keys, I locked the door behind us, and we made our way to the lift. 

Settling into the driver's seat, I turned to her. "Where's the restaurant, Ma?"

She pulled out her phone and shared the location. "It's not far."

The drive was smooth, the roads relatively empty since it was a Sunday. Ma hummed softly along to an old Kishore Kumar song playing on the radio.

As we neared the restaurant, I slowed down and pulled up to the curb. Before she could step out, I turned to her with my usual firm expression.

"Okay, Ma. Call me as soon as you're done. I'll come pick you up—don't i repeat do not come alone."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Maithili, I'm not a child. I can manage."

I gave her a pointed look.

She sighed dramatically and raised her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. I'll call you."

Just as she was about to step out, she turned back "Why don't you come inside and say hi to everyone?"

I groaned inwardly. "Ma, what will I do there? It's your friends' gathering."

She tilted her head. "You know Poornima Aunty, beta. Just say hello and leave. It would be rude if you don't."

I let out a slow breath, knowing there was no getting out of this. When Ma had that determined glint in her eye, there was no point arguing.

"Fine," I relented. "I'll just say hello and leave."

Her face lit up in victory. "That's my girl!"

I rolled my eyes playfully. As she stepped out, I drove ahead to find a parking spot. Turning off the engine I stepped out of the car and walked into the restaurant.

Little did I know, this wasn't just a casual visit.

Walking into that restaurant would change everything.