"Hello... hello… this is Teja. Who’s this?"
"Hello… Buchanna…" The voice on the other end was filled with urgency. It was my sister.
 

Only my mother and sister ever called me by that name. Hearing it now, in the middle of the night, shook off any trace of sleep. I had answered the call lying in bed, but now I sat up straight.

"Sis… what happened?" I tried to sound calm, but fear crept into my voice.
"Dad isn’t doing well… I admitted him to the hospital. He was asking for you just yesterday. Mom is with him… come quickly."

"Dad… how is he now? There’s nothing serious, right? Can I talk to Mom at least? I’ll leave immediately…"
"He’s stable… but there’s no signal in the hospital. Just come soon." She hung up.

I couldn’t sleep after that. My heart was heavy with worry.

Beside me, Sunil and the kids were fast asleep. My sister wouldn’t call unless it was urgent. What had happened to Dad? A sense of dread filled me. Should I go alone, or should we all go together? This was sudden… but it made sense for all of us to go. Mom had been asking us to visit for a long time. It had been almost six years since I last took the kids there. In fact, ever since our younger daughter was born, my parents had only seen her through video calls. It was time.

I booked urgent flight tickets and arranged leave from work.

After informing Sunil, I packed up the kids and left immediately. I didn’t care about the cost—only time mattered. I booked taxis in advance, stayed in constant touch with my sister and brother-in-law over the phone, and finally, we reached our hometown.

The village had changed. The dirt roads were now paved with cement. The thatched huts with cows in front were replaced by small concrete houses. The traditional stone benches where people once sat and talked had disappeared, replaced by walls and gates. The sacred morning ritual of smearing the threshold with turmeric, decorating it with fresh cow dung, and drawing white rangoli patterns was now replaced with colorful designs on cemented porches. Civilization had arrived, and with it, the struggle between old ways and modern life.

The car moved slowly. Sunil and the kids, exhausted from the journey, were asleep. A fresh breeze blew in from the green fields, cooling my skin but unsettling my heart. I hadn’t slept at all—my thoughts wouldn’t let me. Memories flooded my mind.

Dad had worked at Azam Jahi Mill. He was the youngest of three brothers and a sister. But before I was born, two of my brothers had died—one in the morning, the other in the evening. Another brother had passed away earlier. My mother, they said, had wept so much that her heart had nearly broken. That’s why, when I was born, they pierced my nose as a protection ritual and named me Bikshapati, hoping I would survive.

At home, everyone—Mom, Dad, and my sister—called me Buchanna. No one else did, except my maternal uncle. When we got engaged, Sunil had heard them call me that and thought they were talking about someone else.

Dad had given me another name, though. When he admitted me to school, he said, "The Sun is the visible God, and my son is a blessing from Him." And so, I was named Surya Teja.

Every morning, at precisely 4 AM, the mill siren would blare, waking Dad up. Within half an hour, he would be ready and out the door. Mom would pack his breakfast, and my sister and I would deliver it to him. We carried a long tiffin box with multiple compartments—one with gadaka (jowar rice), another with curd, another with raw mango pickle or curry, and the last one with more curd. A small pot of water was always in hand—not for drinking, but to pour over our bare feet so they wouldn’t burn on the hot ground as we ran to the mill.

Dad loved singing devotional and patriotic songs. He often recited Dasharathi Shatakam, especially the verse:

"Muppuna kaala kinkarulu mungita nilchina vela… Kaphamu kuththuka jochchina vela… Raama… nee naama smarana kaluguno kalagado?"

He also sang Narasimha Shatakam, songs about Mahatma Gandhi, and even Urdu songs, since we lived next to Muslim families. Because of our neighbors, he spoke Hindi fluently, too.

Evenings in our home were special. By 7 PM, everyone had finished dinner and gathered on the stone bench outside. Since the streetlight stood right in front of our house, neighbors naturally gravitated toward it. Men performed dramas and recited verses while women watched, seated separately. Children played along, beating tin cans like drums. Those moments were so lively that the day’s exhaustion melted away.

I studied at a nearby town’s hostel for my intermediate studies. It was the first time I had ever been away from my parents, and it was difficult for all of us. They eagerly awaited my weekly visits, their eyes searching for me long before I arrived.

Dad loved me deeply. I remember one day, Mom had cooked boda kakarakaya curry (a type of bitter gourd), my favorite dish.

Dad told her, "Pack some for our son. I’ll take it to him."

Mom protested, "He’ll be home in two days. Why waste money on a bus ticket?"
Dad was determined. "He loves this curry. I need to give it to him today. If you’re worried about the ticket money, I’ll go by cycle."
"Forty kilometers on a cycle? Are you mad?" she scolded. But she packed the curry anyway.

That very day, I had an urge to see my parents and left for home. There were no phones then, so while Dad was cycling toward my hostel, I was already on a bus heading home.

By the time Dad returned, exhausted, Mom scolded him playfully, "You gave everything away! You didn’t save even a little for him at home."

That night, we laughed so much. Even though I missed eating my favorite curry, the happiness of seeing Dad was worth it.

Now, the car jerked to a stop, breaking my thoughts. Sunil stirred awake. I looked outside. We had stopped in front of a house with a tent.

"This isn’t our house," I almost told the driver—but then I saw my brother-in-law, uncle, and other relatives rushing toward the car.

A cold shiver ran through me. I looked again.
It was our house.
A funeral pyre was burning in front of it.
Everything that followed felt like a blur.
 

That night, I sat beside my mother under the jasmine tree. The fragrance of jasmine, marigold, and lilies filled the air, but my heart was restless.

I turned to her. "Amma… do you really want to sell this house?"
She didn’t reply. But the silent tears in her eyes spoke volumes.

The next morning, my sister said, her voice trembling, "No bird has touched Dad’s remains till now… Maybe he still has a wish left unfulfilled. Pray properly, Buchanna."

Though I never believed in such things, I closed my eyes and made a wish for my father.
The moment I opened them—
"Look, Buchanna! Birds… so many of them… all flocking together!"
It was true. A flock of birds had suddenly gathered.

I turned to my family and said, "This house is not going to be sold. I will fulfill my father’s dream. A cultural hall will be built here. And no woman should be forced into meaningless widowhood rituals. That is my vow."

As I finished speaking, applause erupted around me.
My mother kissed my forehead and held me tightly in her embrace.
It felt like my father’s reassurance… and my mother’s boundless love.