The Sunny Sky Calls Us

Anjali stirred awake as Maahi shifted beside her, pressing her small, warm body closer in the quiet darkness. It was still early — the light outside barely touched the edges of the curtains — but the soft click of the front door signaled her father-in-law had already left for his morning walk. Like clockwork. Everything in this house ran like that: routine, ritual, unchanging. Across the room, her mother-in-law snored lightly on the other mattress, while the air hung with the faint smell of incense and yesterday’s masoor dal. Anjali lay still, holding Maahi gently. These few pre-dawn minutes were hers alone — before the day claimed her voice, her time, her child. Maahi whispered in her sleep, “Mumma…” Anjali closed her eyes, letting the word soothe her like prayer. --- By 7:15, the house was fully awake. Her mother-in-law was in the kitchen clattering steel vessels; her father-in-law sat in the living room reading the newspaper with his glasses perched low on his nose. He looked up and gave Anjali a polite nod, the same one he gave her every morning — a gesture more formal than warm. He rarely interfered, rarely spoke, and never contradicted his wife. Maahi ran toward her grandfather and jumped into his lap. “Dadu! Guess what? I had a dream we were on a plane!” He chuckled, patting her head. “Going where, my pilot beti?” “Canada! With Mumma!” The room stilled for a second. Her mother-in-law turned around sharply from the stove. “Canada again?” she muttered, almost under her breath. “She’s filling your head with foreign nonsense now too?” Anjali busied herself in the kitchen, avoiding her father-in-law’s glance. --- By 8:00 AM, her husband, Raghav, walked in from the bedroom. Dressed in crisp formals, he smelled of aftershave and sandalwood talc — a man perfectly put together, always. He gave Anjali a curt nod and headed straight to Maahi, lifting her into his arms. “Daddy’s princess! Ready for school?” Maahi giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck. Anjali stood in the corner, watching them. They looked like a photograph — perfect, easy, untouchable. And yet, she felt entirely outside the frame. Raghav could be warm, even gentle — but only with Maahi. With Anjali, their marriage had slowly become a transaction: he provided, she maintained. Her work was always “a hobby,” her ambition “a distraction,” and her visa dream “a betrayal.” Last week, he had said it outright: “No wife of mine is moving to another country alone with my daughter. You can forget that application.” She hadn’t replied. She hadn’t told him the file was already being processed. --- At the breakfast table, her mother-in-law placed a steel plate in front of Raghav. “You should tell your wife to stop working late into the night. She’ll ruin her health and this child’s upbringing.” “She’s not listening to anyone these days,” he muttered, buttering a paratha. “Every time I look at her, she’s on a call with someone in Canada.” Her father-in-law cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s just a phase. Let her finish what she started.” Anjali glanced up — surprised by his quiet defense. But he never looked at her directly. Later, as Maahi picked up her schoolbag, Anjali bent down to kiss her. Maahi hugged her tightly. “You’ll come with me today?” Before she could answer, her mother-in-law cut in, “No, Maahi. Dadi will take you. Mama’s too busy.” Maahi’s face fell slightly, but she nodded. Anjali swallowed the lump in her throat as she watched them walk out. Another morning. Another goodbye. Another theft. She returned to her laptop, powered it on, and stared at the IRCC portal. Still in progress. She reached under the table and touched the folder that held all their dreams — hers and Maahi’s. Every paper, every stamp, every form was a feather she was slowly, painfully stitching back onto their clipped wings.