Initially, Rani was an average student, but she possessed a sharp mind and an insatiable curiosity. She was always eager to learn and read. From completing her school homework to playing and studying in the evenings, she would spend her days at their home, only returning to her own house when darkness fell.
Arjun was the brightest student in their class, yet his heart was even greater than his intellect. He would go to any length to bring a smile to Rani's face.
Arjun's mother, Kamla Devi, had needed little time to dissolve Rani's hesitation and make her feel completely at ease in their home.
"Child, you must be hungry. Eat something first, then study,"she would often say with gentle affection.
Gradually, Rani began to feel that Arjun's house was not merely a neighbour's home, but a safe shelter where her heart found peace. No one scolded her there, no one taunted her, no one treated her as a burden. For the first time, she was cared for just like everyone else.
In the empty patch of land outside that very house, Rani had planted a tiny sapling. One day, she arrived carrying a small plant in a bag. As she was carefully setting it into the soil, Arjun asked in surprise, "Where did you get this from?"
Pressing her lips together in a shy smile, Rani replied, "From the garden behind the school—the one where we used to play."
The old gardener uncle had given it to her, saying, "Take good care of it, and one day it will grow into a mighty mango tree."
Together, the two children planted the sapling in a corner outside the house. Soft sunlight filtered over that spot. Though the plant was small, there was boundless love in Rani's eyes for it. She built a protective boundary of bricks around it so that no animal would mistake it for fodder and devour it.
"Rani, why don't you plant it in your own house?" Arjun had asked innocently.
That day, Rani spoke words that stirred something deep within Arjun's heart:"My home is only a rented house, Bittu. How will it flourish there?
Where will it spread its roots?
Who knows, we might move somewhere else tomorrow. This mango tree would eventually belong to the landlord."
"Your house is your own. This plant needs a real home. If it grows here, it will be called yours."
She added softly, "It will bloom and bear fruit beautifully here. And when I eventually leave, it will become your friend. You can share all your heart's secrets with it, and somehow, those words will reach me."
Arjun remained silent for a long time that day. For the first time, he truly understood how important it was to have a home of one's own. And perhaps for the first time, the thought that Rani might one day leave this house and move to some other rented dwelling filled him with quiet unease.
By then, Rani and Bittu had become inseparable companions in each other's lives. As the days passed, the sapling grew stronger, and so did the bond between Rani and Bittu. She had slowly become an integral part of Arjun's household. During festivals, she sat with them as family.
On Raksha Bandhan, Arjun's sister would tie a rakhi on his wrist, while Rani joined in the colours of Holi with abandon. Sometimes, she even stayed for dinner.
Kamla Devi would often say, "Why don't you tie a rakhi on Arjun as well? One day, he will protect you too."
With fearless candour, Rani would reply, "He is Bitti's brother and my friend. He will always remain my friend. I don't want to make him my brother. I already have one brother, but he lives very far away. I can barely even remember his face now."
Arjun, too, liked her bold and uninhibited nature. He had never wanted to make Rani his sister either.
Kamla Devi would often remark, "Rani, every time you step into this house, it fills with joy and brightness."There was always an unspoken sadness lingering on Rani's face, but the moment she entered the courtyard of this house, that sadness seemed to fall away behind her.Time had strengthened the young tree. Rani had nurtured it with immense care and affection, watering it as though it were a part of her very soul.
Arjun would tease her, "Rani, do you come here only for the tree, not for us?
"Rani would burst into laughter and reply, "I love the tree because, unlike you, it doesn't ask me silly questions."
She said it in jest, but Arjun's heart had begun to take even her jokes seriously.
The sigh of Chumki's first husband echoed like a lament, as if his anguished plea had finally reached the ears of the divine. Chumki, who had deprived 'Raja ' of his father, was now cursed to spend her entire life yearning for a son of her own. An incompleteness, a deep and unrelenting ache, gnawed at her from within.
With the passage of time, Chamanlal began to change. By then, he had already become the father of two daughters. Yet when years slipped by and Chumki still failed to bestow upon him the treasure of a son, his demeanor grew increasingly harsh.
He turned irritable over the smallest matters, often withdrew into brooding silence, and frequently vented his frustrations—born of his own failures—upon both mother and daughters.
Deep within Chamanlal's heart had taken root the conviction that without a son, his lineage would perish. This obsession slowly transformed his nature into one of barbs, complaints, and bitter words.
For Chumki, this was the harshest punishment of all. The very son she had once abandoned without hesitation for Chamanlal's sake now haunted her, piercing her heart with his absence. Fate plays a cruel and capricious game. The woman who had felt no qualms in forsaking her son had never imagined that her inability to give Chamanlal a male heir would turn her life into an eternal torment.
She herself had pushed her beloved child, the Raja, away from her; now she spent her days and nights yearning for a son, enduring constant taunts.
Her failure to bear Chamanlal a male child had altered his character beyond recognition. Chamanlal had never taken kindly to the Rani. Her very presence irritated him. He viewed her as a burden, a shadow he wished to erase from both his life and his family. Her existence wounded his pride.
All of this inflicted sharp pain upon the Rani, yet she could not fathom why she was treated with such discrimination?
Though she lived in the house, she often felt like an outsider. The man loathed her from the depths of his soul and longed to be rid of her at the earliest opportunity. His behavior tormented her, especially after the truth of her attempted drowning in the river came to light.
Equally damning was the silence of Chumki, who had known everything yet remained mute, watching the crimes against her own daughter with the cold detachment of stone rather than the warmth of a mother.
The Rani's quiet sobs went unheard. Chumki had chosen compromise in every circumstance and now burned ceaselessly in the flames of remorse. The truth was that the man could no longer bear the sight of her either.
At ten years old, the Rani possessed neither the understanding nor the courage to know whom to hope in, whom to complain to, or to whom she might confide her pain.
Until the day Chamanlal had thrown her into the river, she had regarded him as her father. Once the truth emerged, she gradually learned the art of silence. She knew almost nothing of her real father—only a hazy memory, a blurred face, and fragments of overheard conversations.
She had always seen Chamanlal as her father because, for as long as she could remember, he had played that role. The harshness he showed her had seemed like a father's discipline, and so she had accepted his stern ways with a child's trusting love.The hands she had once held with complete faith while strolling through fairs and riding boats now belonged to a stranger who harbored jealousy and resentment toward her. Discovering this was an agony beyond words.
Even the rare times the word "daughter" slipped from his lips, her young heart would swell with joy. She thirsted for his praise. When he called out "Come, daughter" to her younger sisters, she longed for the same affection, the same sense of belonging.
On the days he spoke to her kindly, she would glow with happiness. For a few fleeting moments, the house would feel like a home. Yet the truth remained: the Rani's home never truly became hers.
Chumki knew that Chamanlal had never wanted to keep the child, but she herself lacked the strength to stand firmly by her daughter. She was a woman who drifted with circumstances and placed her own happiness above all else. She could never take Rani in her arms and offer her solace. Caught between Chumki's indifference and Chamanlal's rage, Rani grew up swallowing daily portions of fear and despair.
Even Rani's smallest actions began to grate on Chamanlal—the way she fussed for something, knocked over a glass while playing, returned late from school, or clung to her mother at night when ill. The consequences were always the same: his fury, his shouting, his shoving, and sometimes a torrent of abuses.
Chumki would occasionally try to intervene, only to fall silent before Chamanlal's cutting words. She believed the family could only survive if she endured it all.
Questions often rose in Rani's eyes:"Am I truly unwanted?"
"Why doesn't Mother love me?"
But she never voiced them. She learned to live quietly with her wounds.
Among Chamanlal's friends, Rani became the butt of jokes. "Arre brother, you got trapped. You could have married any girl, but you entangled yourself in an illicit relationship with Chumki and ended up having to take responsibility for her daughter as well. The wife is fine, but why take on this extra headache?"
Such remarks only inflamed Chamanlal further. Several times he devised plans to cast Rani aside forever, yet for one reason or another, they never materialized.
Over time, Arjun came to learn that Chamanlal had made not one, but several attempts to remove Rani from his path—each of which had failed.
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