Suramya

Prologue Part 3- Ruchya.

Maghe Sankranti is the festival of joy. It symbolises movement of the sun, movement of life. We don't fly kites like the Rajasthanis or Gujaratis, and nor do we celebrate harvest like the southern states. We just... celebrate.

Well, at least we would've been if we weren't currently weeping at the loss of my father.

By 'we' I mean, the entire state of Koshi.

My father died at 7:08 pm, on 13th January. Which was yesterday.

A loud sob from my aunt, Chantin, brings me back to my senses.
I've lost my only friend in the entire world. I've lost my father.
The realisation hits me like a rock and a tear swells in my eye. But I don't allow myself to cry. Buba(1) wouldn't have wanted that. He would've wanted me to take care of the others who are as much as pained with his loss.

"It's alright, phupu(2)." I rub her shoulder as to trying to comfort her.

She sniffles and sobs even louder at my words. "Kiran." She wails. And many other people around me do the same.

Sigh.

I understand their pain. I understand their display of grief. But my father wouldn't have wanted that. He wasn't the kind of person who'd like people crying at his funeral. He wouldn't want them to cry because he died but smile for he lived.

I reminisce about the days we were together.

He was my entire life.

All the music lessons he gave me, all of the languages he could teach me. He always believed that knowledge was the most powerful weapon of all, one that never sees failure. He thought me how to live, how to think, and how to never mourn loss. Because it is inevitable. And he learned that the hard way.

My mother died right when I was born. So I grew up with my father. And he was an amazing personality. A very well-known, amiable man, who was good to everyone no matter what. I guess one could guess that about a Mata Saraswati's devotee.
His entire life, has he been a great worshipper of Mata Saraswati.

For if anything bad happened to me; say a wound, he would tell me 'Don't worry. Mata will take care of it.'

Or, when I was 5 and scared of ghosts, he would say 'Mata's right here, Ruchya. She won't let anything happen to you.'

So, even if my mother died early, I wouldn't say I grew up without a mother.

I had Mata. And she was all I needed.

"Ruchya?" Comes the voice of our neighbour, Devnand. He was my father's friend since childhood. I've always had two homes. One mine and the other his. He always looked at me like a child of his own.

"Uncle." I uncross my legs and stand up straight, as he dives in to embrace me tightly.

"I'm so sorry, child. Are you alright?" He pulls away.

"No. But it's fine." Comes my straight reply.

He sighs.

We join the funeral again and I accept all the condolences from the attendees.

Once they leave, and I complete some after-death rituals for him and wind up everything, Devnand uncle calls for me.

"Yes, uncle?" He is seated on the couch and he pats the fabric beside him as a gesture for me to take a seat.

I do.

"Ruchya, what do you plan to do now?" He said.

"What do you mean?" I ask, caught off guard by his question.

"I mean... there's no better way to say this but... you're on your own, now. Of course, I'm here for you but I can't keep you."

I ponder upon his words. He's not wrong.

"Yes, I get that." I finally say.

"So, what will you do now?"

I take another moment to think when I realise I have no solution to that.

"I don't know."

"And that's fine. I might have an idea for you." He offers.

"What is it, uncle?" I feel intrigued.

"I have a friend in Assam. He was also your father's friend. We were really close in our childhoods. I wrote a letter to him about Kiran's... departure. So, I have an offer for you. Just hear me out before you deny it."

"Sure."

"Why don't you go to Assam? There is a hostel there, very well known. You can study there all you want and Ballabh will also be there for you. I don't know the exact location... but he lives somewhere near the edge of Assam." He says.

"Yes. Buba's(1) mentioned it to me too, the hostel." I even remember him telling me about Ballabh uncle. He was a close friend of my father since his childhood, but he moved to Assam just a year before I was born. They still sent each other letters and were in contact.

The offer was really tempting as the hostel of Assam is one of the most well-known in the entire peninsular country of India.

If I were to study there, it would be like a dream. But there was a problem of course.

"But will Ballabh uncle be comfortable with me staying with him?" I question.

"Consider him as your kaka(3), Ruchya. He would be more than happy to keep you at his place."

I nod and wonder about it for a few seconds.

"If I say yes now, would it be too quick of a decision?" I ask.

"Of course not, child. It would be totally fine. If it's a yes then go pack your things, I'll manage a transport for you." He pats my shoulder.

"And the house? Who will take care of it?"

"I will. After all, I live just next door. I'll look after it and also, you can come here anytime you want. This is your home. Got it?"

"Got it."

I think about everything that can happen. Nothing looks too bad with that. I do all the calculations, sketching out all the possible consequences of this decision, and see no harm. Hence, I do it.

I pack my things; clothes, books, and all the necessities. I swing my guitar up into my shoulder. I can't live without it. And just before I leave for the trip, I take a blessing of Aunt Jasmine— Uncle Devnand's wife, hug Uncle Devnand as a gesture of thanks and goodbye and I sit in the car he's arranged for me.

There's a sense of nervousness in my veins. I feel my leg slightly shaking as the car starts. I focus on my breathing and count numbers in my mind.

There's this gut feeling of danger that's kicking my insides. But at the same time, there's another gut feeling that's telling me that I have to go.

So... it can be dangerous for me, but I still have to go?

Why. How.

Calm down, Ruchya.

Nothing can go wrong. As long as I have Mata.

Translations:
(1) Buba: A word to address one's father, in Nepali.
(2) Phupu: A word to address one's paternal aunt, in Nepali.
(3) kaka: A word to address one's paternal uncle, in Nepali.

A/N:
Just a reminder that this is a prologue, to show what their life is and how they're going to be continued in the story. So yeah it's short

UM RUCHYA IS SO FINE LIKE HELLO??? SMART GUYS? WHO ARE SASSY AND SARCASTIC? GODDAMN.

I haven't yet completed Samukta's and Kavi's prologue so😀
Imma write it today ig

AND YES HOPE YOU LIKED IT THANKS FOR READING MWAHHH