Chapter 4: A Glass Between Them

The house was quieter than usual.

Not the peaceful quiet of early mornings, nor the heavy silence that came after arguments.

This was something in between—a stillness that felt… expectant.

Saanvi had just finished organizing Meena's sarees for an upcoming kitty lunch when a maid approached her.

"Madamji," she whispered, "Ria madam is asking if you could join her for tea in the garden."

Saanvi paused, holding a folded ivory saree in her hands.

Tea?

With her?

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A few minutes later, she stepped outside.

The garden looked warm in the late afternoon light, with golden beams dancing on manicured hedges. Ria sat at the center table under the flowering guava tree, her hands nervously fidgeting with the teacup.

Saanvi approached calmly, her posture flawless, expression unreadable.

Ria stood up a little too fast. "Hi! I—I thought maybe we could talk? I know this is… awkward. I just… thought maybe we could be friends?"

Saanvi sat down, gently. “Friendship doesn’t need explanations, Ria.”

Ria’s eyes sparkled—almost as if she'd been holding her breath since she arrived.

“I really didn’t know about you,” she said quickly. “I mean… Dev never said anything. I wouldn’t have—”

“You don’t need to explain.” Saanvi interrupted with a kind smile. “Truly.”

There was silence for a beat, and then Ria leaned in.

“Can I ask something?” Her voice dropped. “Are you… angry?”

Saanvi looked at her for a long time.

“No,” she said at last. “But I don’t think I’ve ever had the luxury to be angry.”

Ria blinked. “I don’t understand.”

Saanvi stirred her tea slowly. “I know.”

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From a balcony above, Rivan watched the scene unfold.

He wasn’t spying. Not exactly.

He just happened to be there when Saanvi walked out into the garden.

And something about the way she carried herself—straight-backed, yet floating—had drawn his gaze again.

He watched the innocent girl across the table babble nervously.

And he watched Saanvi listen, with the calm grace of a queen hearing a child’s confession.

She wasn’t being cruel.

But she wasn’t being kind either.

“She’s not letting the girl in,” he thought.

“She’s building glass between them. Clear enough to see through.

Thick enough never to break.”

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That evening, Meena insisted everyone dine together.

She wanted to keep the air warm, to pretend normalcy still lived within these walls. The table was set with care—fine silverware, delicate bowls of sabzi, warm phulkas under linen, and lemon pickle glistening in porcelain trays.

Ria sat between Dev and Meena, visibly trying to make herself smaller. She smiled at everything and nothing, nodding too eagerly when offered food, and saying “Thank you” more times than necessary.

Dev stayed quiet—his fingers tapping rhythmically against the rim of his glass. He barely touched the food.

Saanvi moved with silent grace, placing daal bowls, refilling water, serving Meena first without needing to be asked. Her movements were like choreography—perfected over years.

“Ria,” Meena began gently, “you must try the bhindi. Saanvi makes it very well.”

“Oh! I—I already did. It’s delicious,” Ria said quickly. “She… she really does everything so beautifully.”

There was a pause.

Meena smiled, but didn’t reply.

Dev glanced sideways at Saanvi, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t have to serve us,” he said quietly.

Saanvi looked at him calmly. “It’s my place, isn’t it?”

Ria looked between them, uncertain whether to speak. She opened her mouth—then closed it again.

Rivan, who sat at the far end of the table beside Mr. Mehta’s empty chair, cleared his throat lightly.

“I’m not sure if it’s the bhindi or the silence that’s more seasoned here,” he said with a dry smile.

Meena chuckled softly—grateful for the break in tension. “That’s how family dinners are in this house. Very… elegant.”

Saanvi’s lips twitched, just barely. She turned to refill Rivan’s glass.