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There was one day, one random Saturday in her life, when the air was unusually still—as if the universe was holding its breath alongside thousands of anxious students. The summer sun hung high, casting warm gold across the marble floors, but for one family, time had frozen. Or at least it had until—

"Diduuuuuu, Merit list is out!" Nivaan, Ehsaas younger brother, shouted from his room looking at the television.

Ehsaas sat up with a jolt, her sketchpad sliding from her lap to the floor with a dull thud. Her pencil clattered beside it, forgotten. For a second, she blinked, unsure if she had heard him right or if her brain—addled by days of anticipation and restless sleep—was playing games with her.

"What did you just say!?" she shouted back, already halfway off her bed.

Nivaan burst into her room, barefoot and wild-eyed, holding the TV remote like a sacred artifact. "Didu news me aa rha hai ki AFMC had released the merit list."

Her heart thudded in her chest like a drum. Not out of fear, but out of something messier. Hope. Doubt. Everything she had been quietly carrying for the past two years now came rushing to the surface.

"MUMMMAAAAAA PAPAAAAAAA" both the siblings shouted together getting all stressed and her eyes was already filled with tears.

A little girl who told her parents for the first time that she wants to be an army doctor and now when she was about to open her results, first step towards her dream.

When her parents entered the room and asked, "What happened?? And why they both are shouting??" She just slid her laptop towards them.

Nivaan was just hugging her and giving her moral support, because now, she had already started crying.

It is ironic for the whole family that Nivaan, meaning of his name is holy soul but his acts?? Never justified his name.

He was the naughtiest child in their entire bloodline—an unpredictable ball of energy, always up to something that tested everyone's patience. But when it came to his sister, Nivaan was never unserious. Mischief, yes. Pranks, always. But his care for Ehsaas ran deeper than most could understand.

He had his own way of loving her—through relentless teasing, dramatic performances to make her laugh, and a thousand little gestures no one else noticed. And Ehsaas? With a six-year age gap between them, she never saw him just as her little brother. To her, he was her responsibility, her shadow, her softness. She'd mothered him through scraped knees and math homework, through night terrors and bad moods. They had ruled the house together whenever their parents stepped out—he, the loud king, and she, the peaceful queen.

But today, the kingdom was quiet.

Today was different.

Their mother sat beside her now, trying to stay calm but failing. Her fingers trembled slightly as she asked, "Beta, what's your chest number again?" Ehsaas whispered it through a tight throat, and her mother carefully typed it in, not trusting her daughter's hands. Her father stood behind them with steady patience, submitting the form with a single click, his silence louder than any words.

And just like that, the house shifted.

One line of data. One number. One final moment between the girl she had been, and the woman she was becoming.

As the result page began to load, the seconds stretched. An entire childhood passed in those seconds—the first time Ehsaas spoke about being an army doctor, the day she saw a uniformed doctor walk through MH Military Hospital, the early mornings of NEET prep, the silent prayers before every mock test.

And now this.

Her breath caught.

Tears streamed faster, uninvited, unstoppable. She didn't even wait to see the screen. She didn't want to look.

She turned her face and buried it into Nivaan's chest.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He just wrapped his arms tighter around her small frame, like he was shielding her from everything that could go wrong—even though he had no idea what the result said either.

It was one of those rare moments when the whole house stood still. Not from fear, but reverence. As if they all knew this wasn't just a score. This was a dream knocking on the door.

The page finally loaded.

And all it took was one look—one shared glance between her parents—and her mother broke into a cry, half joy, half disbelief.

"You had done it meri besan ke laddu" her mother shouted taking her both the children in her arms.

And her father, wrapped his arms around his world, his family. When Ehsaas announced that she wanted to be in the army as doctor, he had imagined that day only.

The day where he will be watching her passing out parade and will salute her. This feeling was ethereal for him.

He kissed her head and blessed her with silent prayers.

Most Indian children grow up with a strange kind of distance between themselves and their fathers. It's not always coldness—sometimes it's the weight of unspoken expectations, or just the quietness of a man conditioned to love silently. The reasons vary, but the gap remains, floating in the background of family photos and dinner table conversations.

But if someone ever speaks of the two little munchkins of Anhad Singh, the story takes a sweet detour.

With Nivaan and Ehsaas, things are different.

They are not just his children—they are his world, his laughter on quiet evenings, his chaos after long shifts, his softest ache and strongest pride.

His marriage to Tripat was arranged, a decision made by two families with hopeful hearts and measured expectations. The beginning was quiet, cautious. Anhad, often away on duty, would return home only for quick lunches or at night when the world had dimmed down. They were two people in the same house, orbiting each other slowly—like the sun and moon waiting for the eclipse that would finally bring them closer.

But when they clicked...
They clicked.

And when they did, they became the most adored couple in the entire unit—an emblem of patience, understanding, and quiet companionship.

Their family became Anhad's kingdom.
Tripat, his queen.
And Nivaan and Ehsaas—his little Shehzaade.

Today, the palace was brimming with quiet emotion.
Ehsaas had just received her reporting letter.

As she sat with the letter in her hand, her thoughts drifted to that unforgettable day—the day the merit list was announced. That day had carved itself into the memory of the entire family. It wasn't just her success—it was the culmination of their collective sacrifices, patience, and unwavering belief.

She remembered those long nights of preparation.
How Nivaan would insist on making cold coffee for her. Of course, it was mostly an excuse. He loved the drink just as much but wasn't allowed that much caffeine at his age. So, he'd bring it in with a proud smirk, declaring it was "This is for Ehsaas di," and sneak a few gulps before handing it over.

A sweet little rebellion wrapped in sibling love.

Tripat, ever the nurturing soul, made sure food was ready no matter the hour. She fed her daughter with her own hands, slipping in soaked almonds and dry fruits in between bites, whispering softly, "For your brain, meri laddu...you need strength to conquer the world."

And then there was Anhad—the man of few words but deep emotions. His motivation wasn't always loud, but it was constant. A gentle pat on the back, a look of pride, sitting next to her in silence while she studied—his presence said more than words ever could.

For cracking an exam, books and strategy matter, yes. But what truly fuels a student through their darkest hours is love—the kind that makes you believe in yourself when you forget how.

She smiled softly, a lump forming in her throat as her fingers traced the edge of the old letter. The paper was slightly crinkled, the ink faded in places, but the weight of its words felt just as fresh. The past had a strange way of wrapping itself around her heart—warm, heavy, and aching all at once.

The room around her blurred a little as memories pulled her in. The sound of laughter, uniforms brushing against each other, old promises whispered between pages and prayers. She was completely lost in it—until—

A sharp smack landed on the back of her head.

She flinched and looked up, half-shocked, half-annoyed—only to find Nivaan standing there with the widest grin, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Uff, drama queen mode again?" he teased, folding his arms. "One letter and you're ready to star in a whole film."

She narrowed her eyes, rubbing the back of her head. "You really need a new hobby that doesn't involve hitting me, Nivaan."

He chuckled and plopped down beside her, resting his head on her shoulder. "But then how will I remind you that the real world still exists?"

She shook her head, the corners of her lips curling despite herself. Even grief or longing didn't stand a chance around him for too long.

"Pagal," she murmured.

"And you love me for it," he shot back instantly.

She rolled her eyes and smiled at his antics.

☃️

He was lost in his thoughts again. Eyes staring into nothingness, fingers clenched lightly on the steel bench, breath steady but heavy — the kind of silence that speaks louder than words.

A sharp tap on his shoulder jolted him back.

"Kya hua?" he asked, blinking at Nitin — his coursemate, his buddy, and the only person in the entire academy who knew how to read the silences between his words.

"Mujhe nahi... tujhe kya hua? Kahan kho gaya phir se?" Nitin asked, lowering his voice. The teasing tone was still there, but gentler this time.

Avyakt exhaled, ran a hand through his short, sweat-dampened hair, and leaned forward.

"Kuch nahi... Dadi mumma aur Dadu ke baare mein soch raha tha. Har chhutti jab ghar jaata hoon, lagta hai... they're just living for me now." His voice cracked slightly at the edges. "Main to yahaan hota hoon, wahan wo dono... ekdum akele. Na koi dhyan rakhne wala, na koi poochhne wala."

Nitin didn't interrupt. He knew this wasn't just overthinking — this was years of quiet guilt Avyakt had trained himself to bury.

"Kabhi kabhi lagta hai, main galat kar raha hoon. Selfish ho gaya hoon. Unhone mujhe sab kuch diya — pyaar, parvarish, sapne... aur main? Bas unhe akela chhod diya... unhi ke budhape mein."

His words lingered in the still air.

"Mujhe army join karni thi, sapna tha... par ab sapna pura karte hue lagta hai ki kahin... unki neend to nhi cheen li??"

There was a pause.

Then Nitin, still quiet, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Par bhai... sapne wahi to hote hain jo kisi ke liye sacrifice ban jaate hain. Unhone tujhe banaya is layak... kyunki tujhe kuch karte dekhna hi unka jeewan hai. Tu ghar chhod ke gaya nahi hai... tu unka fakr banne aaya hai."

Avyakt nodded slowly, but the ache didn't vanish.
He knew Nitin was right — but the love he carried for his grandparents came with a price: the ache of distance.

He remembered it like it was yesterday — the day he left for NDA.

The morning air was still. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but the house was awake, buzzing silently with the kind of energy only partings bring.

His grandparents stood in the verandah — His grandfather trying to look stoic, arms folded behind his back, eyes misting despite his best efforts, holding onto his ironed white shirt like it would keep him from leaving.

On the kitchen counter lay a steel box, carefully wrapped in a jute bag — filled to the brim with freshly made besan ke laddu, his childhood weakness. The sweet, nutty aroma lingered in the air, weaving itself into the fabric of that morning, etching a memory too stubborn to fade. She had prepared them late at night, her joints aching, hands trembling slightly, but her heart steady — driven by the kind of love that never complains.

Beside it were neatly stacked containers — matar mathri, meethe purhe, and namkeen boondi, each lovingly packed, labelled in her cursive punjabi, with notes stuck to their lids like tiny folded blessings,

"Yeh vali tab khana jab thak gaye ho..."
"Isme pyaar zyada hai, share mat karna..."
"Ye sabko de dena... sabko unke mummy papa ki yaad aa rhi hogi."

When she handed the bag to him, her hands hovered over it for a moment longer — as if reluctant to let go of what was holding her heart together.

He chuckled, tilting his head playfully, trying to lighten the air that felt far too heavy.

"Meri pyaari Dadi Maata, ye itne saare dibbe kis cheez ke hain?" he asked with a smirk, raising an eyebrow.

She gave him that look — half scolding, half smothering.

"Ye sab teri manpasand cheezein hain... agar wahan khane ko kuch accha na mile, to yeh kha lena. Par haan... sirf jab mann bohot zyada udaas ho, tab. Theek hai?"

He nodded, eyes misting before he could stop them.

"Aur jab khatam ho jayein to bata dena, dubara bana dungi." She added, voice softer now.

In that moment, he didn't care about the uniform folded in his bag or the path that lay ahead. He only felt her fingers brush his, her scent of rose water and cardamom, and the overwhelming realization that every ounce of strength he had ever known began in this kitchen — with her back turned, working quietly, lovingly... always for him.

"Besan ke laddu hai???" he asked, eyes widening with childlike hope, his voice almost betraying the calm exterior he wore like armour.

She turned to him, hands still busy tying the cloth knot over the box, and gave him that classic Dadi glare — the one that always had more love than scolding.

"Teri pasand ki cheez ho aur main na banu? Aisa kabhi hua hai kya, mere besan ke laddu?" Harnaaz, his grandmother replied, raising her brows in mock offense, the warmth in her voice wrapping around him tighter than any winter shawl.

He chuckled — a sound he rarely let out freely anymore.

It was a laugh that belonged to the five-year-old boy who used to sneak into the kitchen before dinner just to steal a warm laddu from the tray... and always got caught.

She walked closer and tapped his cheek gently, her thumb lingering there for a heartbeat longer.

"Ja raha hai tu duniya jeetne... par dil toh wahi ka hai jahan besan ke laddu ke dabbe pe hi hai na?" she said, her voice as gentle as the morning light slipping through the curtains.

He didn't respond immediately. No words came — just a sudden, fierce tug at his heart.

And then, he stepped forward and pulled her into a tight hug, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder. The tears he'd been holding back — the ones he didn't even know had welled up — finally gave in. They slipped silently, warm and raw, soaking into the faded fabric of her dupatta.

She didn't flinch.

Didn't care about the tears, the damp cloth, or the way her old back ached from standing too long.

Instead, her arms — those frail, strong arms — wrapped around him with the same ease she'd held him as a baby. She rubbed slow circles on his back, her palm pressing comfort into him, like she was trying to calm the storm inside.

"Ro mat, kaake. Aise kamzor nahi padte," she said, her voice steady but her heart breaking. "Aur tu kamzor padne laga, toh humein kaun sambhalega?"

Her hand continued its slow, soothing motion on his back. She didn't let her tears fall. Not now. Not in front of him.

He didn't reply. Just held on tighter. Like he could anchor himself in her arms and never drift away.

What he didn't know... was the other truth.

She and Dadu had been living with it for years. Burying it under care, food, discipline, and love. The truth they never had the courage to tell him.

The world believed his parents died with honor — a tragic accident and a line-of-duty sacrifice.

But behind that narrative was something darker. Something twisted. Something they feared would break him.

His mother didn't just die in uniform. She was betrayed — by someone in the system she trusted with her life.

And his father... hadn't died the way everyone said.

But how could they tell him that?
Not when he was still healing from what he thought he knew.

They had made a decision.

They would tell him everything — but only after he completed NDA. When his shoulders were strong enough. When his mind was steady. When he was more soldier than boy.

Harnaaz glanced toward her husband. He stood at the doorway, silent, watching. His eyes met hers.

After breaking the hug, he wiped his face quickly, as if tears weren't meant to be seen on his skin.

He turned and found his grandfather standing by the doorway — silent, composed, like a mountain weathered by years of storms.

His posture was straight, his eyes steady... but Avyakt knew. He knew that behind that calm exterior lived a world of pain carefully hidden, a grief too deep for words.

Without saying anything, he took two quick steps forward and wrapped his arms around him.

The old man didn't move for a second.

Then, slowly, he placed a hand on the back of Avyakt's head and rested his chin on it — like he used to when Avyakt was just a boy with bruised knees and a million questions.

They stood there — not as a soldier and elder, not as a grandson and guardian.

But as two men bound by loss, by love, by loyalty too deep to speak aloud.

"Tu bahut bada ho gaya hai, kaake," he finally murmured, his voice low and thick.
"Par mere liye tu ab bhi wahi hai... jo raat ko darr ke mare mere paas so jata tha."

Avyakt's grip tightened, his eyes burning again.

"Aur aap ab bhi wahi ho... jinke bina mai kuch bhi nahi."

Neither said anything more.

They didn't need to.

Some bonds are made of silence.

And some homes are built with just two hearts... refusing to fall apart.

He smiled at the memory—bittersweet and vivid.

The day of his departure played like an old film reel in his mind: the silent tears his grandmother tried to hide behind her dupatta, the way his grandfather's hand lingered a second longer on his shoulder, and the warmth of those final hugs that had said everything words couldn't.

There had been no drama. No long speeches. Just love—quiet, steady, and deep.

The image of his dadi slipping that steel box of besan ke laddu into his duffel bag, whispering "Apna khayal rakhna, puttar." still tugged at something in his chest.

And now, here he was.

In a new place, surrounded by uniforms, orders, and duty. A life he chose... but one that still made his heart ache in the quietest of hours.

He quickly wiped the tears threatening to betray him and took a steady breath.

Straightening his back, he tucked away the softness like he always did and made his way to the mess for the dinner.

But somewhere deep inside, so did the warmth of home—wrapped in steel boxes and memories that still smelled like ghee and love.

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That's it for today!!

I hope you enjoyed!

And I can promise, You are going to love this story of two besan ke laddu fans!
[Writer loves Besan Ke Laddu so much...]

Comment your favorite part, do vote and add this in your reading lists!!!

Till the next update,

Stay safe and healthy!

rk signing off!!