It was already past one in the afternoon.
The people of the old house, out of warmth and courtesy, insisted that they stay back for lunch. It was a natural gesture—no one lets guests leave without eating, especially when they've come all the way from the city.
But the elder and second brothers politely refused.
"Just before getting down from the car, we had food," they said, keeping their tone respectful. "And we still have some work in the nearby city. After that, we need to head back home."
They glanced towards the children playing outside.
"The kids are with us," they added. "We don't want it to get too late and end up reaching home after dark."
Their reason was practical, but also thoughtful.
The hosts understood. Though they insisted once more out of affection, they didn't push further. In villages, such refusals are accepted when spoken with respect.
The decision was made.
It was time to leave.
Outside, the children were called back, their play interrupted reluctantly. The lively courtyard slowly returned to its usual quiet as the family began preparing for the next part of their journey.
The elders called out to the children, asking them to get into the car. The kids came back reluctantly, still full of energy and happiness after playing with the village children. Their laughter slowly faded as they settled into their seats, though their faces still carried the joy of those moments.
Inside the old house, before they left, a final traditional gesture took place.
In the hall, the three married women were called forward. As per custom, they were given arishina (turmeric) and kumkuma (vermilion). It was a simple yet meaningful ritual—a sign of respect, blessings, and goodwill.
The women received it with quiet smiles, applying a little on their foreheads. It marked not just the end of the visit, but also carried a sense of connection—something that remained even after they left.
It took them about one and a half hours to reach the outskirts of the city. On the way, a few suggested stopping at a nearby town to rest or eat something.
But Mr. Nagaraju immediately said, "No… let's go to the next city."
His tone was firm.
No one questioned him.
He had his reasons.
Years ago, after facing a major financial loss, he had returned to his hometown hoping to recover, thinking that familiar people and known surroundings would support him.
But that decision… had turned into the biggest mistake of his life.
People often say it's important to stay connected to one's native place—that roots matter, that relationships help in difficult times.
But for him, it had been the opposite.
What he experienced there had changed his perspective completely.
People who encouraged him to his face… spoke negatively about him behind his back.
Support felt temporary.
Judgment felt constant.
Instead of finding strength, he had found pressure, comparison, and silent criticism.
That phase had left a deep mark on him.
So now, as the car moved forward, he didn't even want to stop there—not even for a short while.
For others, it might have just been another town on the way.
But for him, it carried memories he had no interest in revisiting.
And so, without looking back, he chose to move ahead.
It took them nearly one and a half hours to reach the outskirts of the city where they had planned to stop.
But when they looked back, all the children were fast asleep—heads resting against windows, shoulders leaning on each other, completely lost in deep sleep after the long, tiring day.
Seeing this, the elder brother gently said,
"Let them sleep… we'll go to the next city and stop there."
No one disagreed.
The car continued moving.
They finally reached a nearby bus stand and stopped near a small vegetarian hotel. Since they had visited the temple that day, they followed the custom of eating only vegetarian food.
As the car came to a halt, the three wives gently woke the children. One by one, the kids opened their eyes, still sleepy and confused. Inside the car itself, they quickly adjusted their clothes and fixed their hair before stepping out.
The elders led them into the hotel. Everyone went to wash their hands first, then came and sat down with their parents.
As usual, the three couples ordered full meals, while the children excitedly asked for masala dosa, vada, and idli.
The service was quick.
Almost immediately, the meals and idlis were served. The husbands and wives began eating their meals, while the children started with the idlis. Since they had ordered three plates, each plate had two idlis—so each child got just one to begin with.
They ate happily, waiting for the dosas.
Soon, the masala dosas arrived—hot, crisp, and smelling delicious. One bite, and it was clear… the taste was really good. The children instantly forgot their sleepiness and started eating with full interest.
They finished their food, feeling satisfied after the long day.
When the bill arrived, as usual, it quietly made its way to Mr. Nagaraju. Neither of the other brothers reached for it—they simply let it pass, almost like an unspoken routine that had formed over time.
Without making any fuss, Nagaraju took the bill and paid it.
No one discussed it.
It was understood.