choti maa

I looked at Tajveer mamu, and he already knew.

He knew what I wanted—no words were needed between us. The weight in my eyes was heavier than any question I could ask.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Malani—my Choti Maa.

She was still standing there, a little stunned from the way I had just pushed her hand away. I had never done that before… not to her. Not to the woman who had always treated me like her own daughter.

Malani could never have children. The world whispered it behind her back like it was a curse—but to me, she was the gentlest soul I had ever known. Every time my parents and I visited Kaalki Nagar, she would hold me in her arms like I was made of starlight, comb my hair with her golden fingers, whispering stories of the moon and rain. She even adored my brother and pampered him more than she did Tajveer.

To her, I wasn’t just a princess—I was her world.

And for me, she was Choti Maa. I remember how her face would light up just hearing that word from my lips. She said it gave her more joy than all the titles and jewels she owned.

My memories pulled me back to that day—the day I first saw her at the palace party celebrating mamu’s victory in the Bindu War.

She looked... ethereal.

She wore a flowing crimson saree embroidered with gold threads, her brown hair cascading down her back like a waterfall, and those golden eyes—eyes that sparkled like sunlit honey. But even then, I sensed something behind that beauty. A sadness that lingered no matter how many candles were lit around her.

She stood quietly among a circle of queens, all of them chattering and smiling. A noblewoman had just invited her to be a part of her unborn child’s Godh Bharai Rasam—the sacred pre-birth celebration.

Malani smiled gently, about to accept the invitation, when it happened.

The whispers.

“Why did you invite her?”

“Don’t you know she can’t have children?”

“Even after marrying a great king, she’s still… unlucky.”

“She might curse your child too…”

Their words were poisoned arrows hidden beneath silk smiles.

I saw it. I felt it.

That radiant smile on Malani’s face began to tremble… and then slowly fade.

Her eyes, once shining, dulled. Her posture stiffened. Her hands clutched her saree. Her breath became shallow.

She didn’t say anything.

She just stood there.

Alone.

Surrounded by a sea of jewels, laughter, and venom.

And then—

I ran.

I didn’t think. I didn’t care.

I ran through the crowd, pushing between sarees and perfume clouds, until I crashed into her legs and clung to her tightly.

“

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As I wrapped my tiny arms around Malani’s legs like a clumsy little koala, the entire courtyard fell into stunned silence.

The party that had just moments ago glittered with laughter, music, and the gentle clinking of bangles and anklets, now stood frozen in time.

Even she—my beautiful Malani, my chotimaa—stood still, her golden eyes wide with disbelief, shimmering with tears that refused to fall.

I looked up at her, lifting my little hand in the air, trembling but determined. “Maa,” I said, loud and clear, so the entire gathering could hear.

A sharp collective gasp swept through the circle of queens. Malani’s lips parted, her breath caught in her throat, and before anyone could blink, she bent down and scooped me into her arms.

Her hold was warm—tighter than ever. I could feel her heart racing against my cheek.

I smiled up at her, “I looked for you everywhere, maa. I called your name so many times… and now I found you.”

A few nobles shifted uncomfortably. The gossip had quieted. The poisoned tongues had fallen mute. Still in her arms, I turned to face them.

With a sweet, defiant smile, I folded my tiny hands. “Namaste.”

And then I bowed my head, pretending to be apologetic, before lifting it again with fire in my voice.

“I’m sorry I ran in like that,” I said innocently. “But I heard you all calling my ma unlucky. Saying she can’t have children…”

The silence deepened, thick like a curtain about to fall.

I tilted my head, blinking up at them. “Then who am I?”

Their expressions twisted in discomfort. Whispers tried to rise again, but I cut them down with a single sentence:

“If she can’t have babies… then how come I’m her baby?”

“I’m Tara. Her daughter. That means she did give birth… to me. And I belong to her!”

Gasps rippled again, but this time it wasn’t from shame—it was awe. Pride. Courage.

Malani’s grip tightened around me, her lips trembling, and finally—finally—those tears she held back began to fall.

One of the queens dared to ask, “But if you are her daughter, why was she hiding you? Why didn’t we ever see you before?”

I turned to look at Malani, cupping her cheek with my tiny hand.

“My ma said I was too weak,” I replied gently. “I had to stay hidden until I got stronger.”

I looked straight into that queen’s eyes, my voice like steel wrapped in silk.

“She wanted to protect me… from people like you.”

The murmurs died. Heads bowed. Some in shame, some in guilt.

I smiled again, childlike, yet oddly fierce.

“Ma said that bad people can cast nazar. So she kept me safe. But now…”

I looked around at the sea of silks, jewels, and suddenly unsure eyes.

“…now I know the truth. A family isn’t made by what people say. It’s made by love.”

Then, I turned to the crowd, raised my tiny voice, and shouted:

“Yeh Tara ki maa hai. Aur Tara, maa ki hai!”

(“She is Tara’s mother. And Tara belongs to her!”)

Malani broke into sobs, burying her face in my hair. And for the first time that night, her golden eyes sparkled—not with tears of pain, but with pride.

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