The decision did not become easier the next morning.
If anything, it became more difficult.
Devika had expected that choosing one college would make the others disappear from her mind.
Instead, each possibility seemed to grow clearer.
The first offered a reputation that would open doors.
The second offered an academic environment that made her curious.
The third had something harder to describe. It felt quieter. Less overwhelming. When she imagined herself walking across its campus, she could almost picture the ordinary days: the library, the classrooms, the conversations after lectures, the evenings when she would return to a room that was no longer home.
That last thought made her pause.
Leaving home had always been an idea.
Now it was beginning to resemble a date on a calendar.
At breakfast, she mentioned nothing.
Raman was reading the newspaper.
Fathima was preparing lunch.
The ordinary rhythm of the house continued around her.
She looked at them both and suddenly realized that choosing a college would mean changing the shape of the house itself.
Not dramatically.
There would still be the same furniture.
The same morning tea.
The same loom room.
The same conversations.
But one chair would begin staying empty.
That was the part nobody mentioned when they spoke about higher education.
The student left.
The family remained.
And both had to learn the new distance.
That afternoon, Raman received a message from Nandakumar.
A customer wanted to visit the loom room.
Not to place an order.
Just to see how the saree was made.
Raman stared at the message.
The request was simple.
Yet he felt the old discomfort return.
His work had always been private.
The loom room was not a showroom.
It was where he thought.
Where he failed.
Where he started again.
Where he could sit for several minutes staring at a thread without anyone asking what he was doing.
Allowing someone inside meant allowing them to see the process behind the finished cloth.
He finally replied.
Tomorrow afternoon is fine.
Then he put the phone away.
The next day, the customer arrived with her daughter.
She was a woman in her early fifties, dressed simply, carrying no expectation of being impressed.
Raman showed them the loom.
The daughter stood quietly near the doorway.
The mother asked questions.
How long did one saree take?
How did he choose the colors?
What happened when a mistake occurred?
Raman answered patiently.
Then the daughter pointed toward a nearly finished saree.
"Can I touch it?"
Raman hesitated for half a second.
Then nodded.
She ran her fingers gently across the fabric.
"It feels different."
The mother smiled.
"Different how?"
The girl thought.
"I don't know."
Raman smiled.
"That's usually the beginning of knowing."
The woman laughed.
"You're making philosophy out of cloth now."
"I think the cloth was doing it first."
They laughed together.
The visit lasted less than an hour.
After they left, Raman remained in the doorway for a while.
The room didn't feel invaded.
It felt slightly larger.
Perhaps privacy and openness were not opposites after all.
Perhaps a room could remain yours even after someone else had been allowed inside.
That evening, Devika asked him about the visit.
"How was it?"
"Fine."
"Did they like it?"
"I think so."
She smiled.
"You were nervous."
Raman looked at her.
"How do you know?"
"You rearranged the same threads three times before they came."
He laughed.
"You notice too much."
"I learned from you."
He shook his head.
"No."
She smiled.
"You taught me to notice."
In Sharjah, Sameer had narrowed his own choices to two jobs.
The first paid more.
The second offered better technical training and a clearer progression.
He had already decided which one he preferred.
Still, he hadn't accepted it.
He wanted to ask one more question.
The next morning, he called the company representative.
"What happens after one year?"
The answer was vague.
"Depending on performance."
"And after two?"
Another pause.
"There may be opportunities."
Sameer thanked him and ended the call.
Then he called the other company.
This time he asked the same questions.
The answers were specific.
Training.
Certification.
Responsibilities.
Possible progression.
Nothing was guaranteed.
But the path was visible.
That was enough.
He accepted the second offer.
When he told Abdul, the older man simply nodded.
"You chose the harder road."
Sameer smiled.
"I chose the clearer one."
Abdul looked pleased.
"Sometimes they're the same."
That evening, Sameer told Raman.
"Congratulations," Raman said.
"Thank you."
"What made you choose it?"
Sameer thought for a moment.
"I could see where it might take me."
Raman smiled.
"That's useful."
"But I'm not sure it will work."
"You don't need to be."
Sameer laughed.
"You say that very easily."
"I've had more practice being uncertain."
A few days later, Devika received the first formal communication regarding counselling.
Dates.
Documents.
Instructions.
Deadlines.
The future had become administrative.
She found that strangely reassuring.
Dreams were vague.
Forms were not.
She gathered her certificates and documents carefully.
Fathima checked each one twice.
Raman checked them once.
Sameer asked for photographs of everything.
"Why do you need copies?"
"In case."
Raman laughed.
"Your brother has become an office."
Sameer smiled.
"Experience."
That night, Devika sat alone in her room.
Her three choices remained before her.
She looked at the one she had quietly preferred for several days.
Then she imagined leaving.
The thought hurt.
Not enough to make her stay.
Enough to make the decision real.
She imagined waking in a different city.
Eating breakfast without her mother's voice from the kitchen.
Returning from class without hearing the loom from the next room.
Calling home instead of walking into it.
She closed her eyes.
The absence was already visible.
Yet beneath the sadness was something else.
Anticipation.
A life could be loved deeply and still be left.
Leaving did not mean rejection.
Sometimes it meant trusting what home had already given you.
The next morning, she entered the loom room.
Raman was working.
She stood beside him.
"Appa?"
"Hm?"
"I think I'm ready to choose."
The shuttle continued moving.
He didn't stop.
"Then choose."
She smiled.
"You're not going to ask which one?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it's yours."
She looked at him for a moment.
Then nodded.
She didn't tell him immediately.
She didn't need to.
For now, the decision belonged to her.
And that was enough.
The road had not yet opened completely.
There were still forms to submit, dates to meet, places to travel to and possibilities that could change before anything became final.
But something had shifted.
She was no longer standing between three futures.
She had begun walking toward one.
And behind her, quietly and without resistance, the other two remained what they had always been:
lives that might have been,
but did not need to become regrets.