The weeks that followed were an exquisite kind of agony for Damiano Vihaan Arjun Moretti.
He had promised himself that he would win his wife's heart again. Not through expensive gifts, grand gestures, or the influence of his name, but through the little things he had failed to give her when she needed them most.
And he tried.
The internationally celebrated chef, the man whose presence could command an entire kitchen, began rearranging his days around the quiet rhythms of his family.
He cooked for Alankrita, not the elaborate dishes that appeared in magazines or the masterpieces he prepared for world-renowned personalities, but the simple Telugu meals she loved. He remembered how much ghee she preferred in her dal, how she liked her rice, and which vegetables she avoided. He learned to prepare her favourite dishes with the same patience he gave to the most complicated recipes.
When she studied, he took care of Raghuveer. When she grew tired, he brought her tea. When she complained of a headache, he gently massaged her temples. He made sure she had everything she needed for university and even began asking about her assignments, her lectures, and the articles she was reading.
He tried to make her feel included.
He tried to make her laugh.
He tried to become the husband she deserved.
But Alankrita had changed.
She was never rude to him. She never deliberately hurt him or refused the things he did for her. She thanked him whenever he brought her something. She ate the food he prepared. She listened when he spoke.
Sometimes, she even smiled.
But that smile was different.
It was polite. Brief. Distant.
It never stayed long enough for him to believe that everything was alright.
Something inside her had closed.
Alankrita was still young. Beneath the responsibilities of motherhood, marriage, and university was a girl who had once wanted to be celebrated, cherished, and remembered without having to ask for it.
She had endured so much at an age when most girls were still discovering themselves. She had faced pregnancy, childbirth, loneliness, and the responsibility of raising a child while continuing her education.
And when she finally believed she had found a family of her own, the one day she wanted to feel special had become the day she felt most invisible.
She could not forget it.
The cold food.
The decorated table.
The saree she had carefully chosen.
The unanswered calls.
The messages that remained unread.
And the sight of her husband returning home with their sleeping son, seemingly unaware that his wife had spent the entire evening waiting for him.
She remembered every detail.
Arjun's attempts to make things right were sincere, but her heart could not immediately understand that.
To him, each new day was an opportunity to prove his love.
To her, each new day was another reminder of the day he had forgotten her.
She watched him with Raghuveer, and her heart softened at the sight. She loved seeing her son happy. She loved the way he reached for his father, the way Arjun carried him, kissed his cheeks, and made him laugh.
But sometimes, watching them together made her feel even lonelier.
They had each other.
And she still wondered who she had.
She was the mother of Raghuveer, the wife of Arjun, and a member of the Moretti family.
Yet, somewhere along the way, she had forgotten what it felt like to be Alankrita.
One afternoon, Arjun finally broke.
He had spent the morning trying to talk to her. He had asked about her university work, offered to take her out, and even suggested that they spend the evening together.
She had politely declined.
She had thanked him for preparing lunch and returned to her study.
That was all.
No argument. No anger. No accusation.
Just a quiet retreat.
Somehow, that silence hurt him more than the slap she had given him on her birthday.
He found Lavanya in the conservatory, tending to her orchids. Sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling, illuminating the delicate flowers arranged around her.
She looked up when she heard his footsteps.
One glance at her son was enough.
"Arjun?"
He stopped in front of her.
For a moment, he said nothing. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, trying to gather the words that had been tormenting him for days.
Then his voice broke.
"Mamma..."
Lavanya immediately put down her gardening shears.
"What happened, figlio mio?"
He lowered himself onto the nearby chair and buried his face in his hands.
"I am losing her."
Lavanya's expression softened.
"She is still here, Arjun."
He shook his head.
"No, Mamma. She is here, but she isn't with me." His voice trembled. "She speaks to me. She thanks me. She smiles when I do something for her. But I can see it in her eyes. She doesn't look at me the way she used to."
He swallowed painfully.
"I keep trying. I cook for her. I take care of Raghuveer. I make time for her. I ask about her studies. I try to make her happy, but nothing reaches her."
His eyes filled with tears.
"I know I hurt her. I know what I did. But, Mamma..." He looked at his mother helplessly. "I never wanted her to feel that she wasn't important to me."
Lavanya moved closer.
"Arjun..."
"I made her wait for me on her birthday." His voice grew quieter. "She had prepared everything. She had dressed up. She wanted to celebrate with her husband. And I wasn't there."
He wiped his face, but the tears continued.
"I was so happy spending the day with my son that I forgot the woman who gave him to me. The woman who carried him, gave birth to him, and raised him when I wasn't there."
He looked at his mother.
"How could I do that to her?"
Lavanya sat beside him and gently held his hand.
"You made a mistake, my son."
"A terrible one."
"Yes. But you cannot spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for it."
He looked down.
"She doesn't need another apology from me, Mamma. She needs to believe that she matters. And I don't know how to make her believe that anymore."
Lavanya gently cupped his cheek.
"Then stop trying to convince her with words. Give her reasons to feel loved. And be patient. She is young, Arjun. Her heart has endured more than it should have had to endure. You cannot expect it to heal simply because you have finally understood where you went wrong."
He closed his eyes.
For the first time in a long while, the great Damiano Moretti sat before his mother with no answers, no confidence, and no solution.
Only a broken heart.
A few days later, Dr. Sumitra arrived.
Her presence brought a familiar warmth into the apartment. She immediately went to Raghuveer, showering him with kisses and blessings before settling down to spend time with Alankrita.
She noticed the change in her granddaughter.
Alankrita was quieter than usual. She smiled when spoken to, but the brightness that usually accompanied her was missing.
Sumitra understood that something was troubling her, even when Alankrita did not openly discuss it.
She also noticed Arjun.
He was attentive, considerate, and constantly trying to make his wife comfortable. But there was an unmistakable sadness in his eyes.
That afternoon, Sumitra found him in his study.
He was looking through some documents, though his attention seemed to be elsewhere.
"Arjun."
He immediately stood.
"Amma."
She looked at him carefully.
"Have you eaten?"
He gave her a faint smile.
"Yes."
"Have you slept?"
He hesitated.
"Somewhat."
Sumitra sighed.
"At least you have not forgotten how to answer questions."
A small smile appeared on his face.
She settled into the chair opposite him.
"Tell me something. How is Alankrita?"
His smile disappeared.
"She is... alright."
Sumitra raised an eyebrow.
"Do not give me that answer. I have known that girl long enough to recognise when she is pretending."
Arjun lowered his eyes.
"I am trying, Amma."
"I know."
"I don't know what else to do."
Sumitra remained silent for a moment. Then she leaned forward.
"Do you remember what is coming?"
He looked at her questioningly.
"What?"
"Alankrita's star birthday."
Arjun blinked.
"Her star birthday?"
"Yes. Her Nakshatra Janmadina."
He straightened slightly.
"When?"
"Very soon. Her Janma Nakshatra is Uttara Phalguni. We have her Nakshatra birthday coming up in a few days."
For a moment, Arjun simply stared at her.
Then something changed in his expression.
Sumitra noticed it.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
He slowly stood up.
"Amma..."
"What?"
"Tell me everything."
She smiled faintly.
"Everything about what?"
"Her Nakshatra birthday. What we should do. The rituals, the arrangements, everything."
Sumitra's eyes softened.
"Why?"
Arjun looked towards the living room, where Alankrita was spending time with Raghuveer.
"Because I cannot give her that birthday back."
His voice became quieter.
"But perhaps I can give her another memory. One that belongs only to her."
Sumitra watched him for a moment.
Then she smiled.
"Now you are thinking like her husband."
The next two days were filled with secret preparations.
Arjun approached the occasion with the seriousness of a man preparing for the most important event of his life.
The same precision with which he planned international culinary events was now devoted to one purpose: making Alankrita feel special.
But this time, he did not want an extravagant celebration simply because he could afford one.
He wanted something that belonged to her.
Something that reminded her of her childhood, her traditions, and the home she had grown up in.
Sumitra guided him through the preparations. Lavanya joined them, helping with the arrangements and ensuring that everything reflected the traditions Alankrita cherished.
The apartment was transformed quietly.
Fresh flowers were arranged. Traditional decorations were prepared. The kitchen was filled with the fragrance of familiar ingredients. Small oil lamps were kept ready, and intricate kolam designs were planned for the floor.
Arjun personally supervised every detail.
He wanted the food to taste like home.
He wanted the decorations to remind her of her grandmother's house.
And above everything else, he wanted her to know that he remembered her.
Not merely as Raghuveer's mother.
Not merely as his wife.
But as Alankrita.
The morning of her Nakshatra birthday arrived.
Alankrita woke up and instinctively reached towards the other side of the bed.
It was empty.
She was not particularly surprised. Arjun often woke up early to attend to Raghuveer.
She quietly got out of bed, freshened up, and walked towards the living room.
But the moment she stepped through the doorway, she stopped.
She couldn't move.
The entire living area had been transformed.
Fresh banana leaves and beautiful traditional decorations adorned the space. Intricate kolam patterns had been drawn across the floor. Small brass lamps flickered gently, filling the room with a warm golden glow.
Fresh flowers were arranged everywhere.
The fragrance of sandalwood mingled with the sweet aroma of payasam drifting from the kitchen.
For a moment, Alankrita wondered whether she had entered the wrong room.
Then she saw them.
Arjun stood in the centre of the living room.
He was dressed in a simple white dhoti and angavastram, his usual formal appearance replaced by something traditional and deeply familiar.
In his arms was Raghuveer, dressed in a tiny traditional kurta.
The little boy was wide awake, looking curiously at the glowing lamps and colourful decorations.
Beside them stood Sumitra, her face glowing with affection.
Alankrita's eyes widened.
"Amma...?"
Sumitra smiled and walked towards her.
"Shubha Nakshatra Janmadina, puthri."
Her voice was filled with warmth.
"Happy star birthday, my child."
Alankrita brought her hand to her mouth.
For a moment, she couldn't speak.
She had almost forgotten her Nakshatra birthday.
It was a part of her heritage, a beautiful tradition that connected her to her childhood and the family she had grown up with.
And they had remembered.
They had all remembered.
Arjun slowly approached her.
His eyes remained fixed on her face, searching for even the smallest sign of happiness.
"Happy Nakshatra birthday, Alankrita."
She looked at him, her eyes already becoming moist.
He stopped a little distance away.
"I know I cannot erase what happened on your birthday," he began. "I know that no celebration can undo the way I made you feel that day."
His voice softened.
"But I wanted you to have another memory. A beautiful one. One where you don't have to wait for someone to remember you."
He glanced at the decorations around them.
"Today is yours. Your day. Your star. Your traditions. Everything here is for you."
Alankrita looked around again.
The lamps.
The flowers.
The kolam.
The familiar arrangements.
And finally, him.
The man who had once forgotten her birthday had woken up early to prepare a celebration rooted in the smallest details of her identity.
Her lips trembled.
"Arjun..."
He gave her a gentle smile.
"Let us celebrate you today."
Sumitra stepped forward and gently held Alankrita's hand.
"Come, puthri. We have a few rituals to perform."
A soft prayer began.
Sumitra guided her through the traditional observances, offering blessings for her health, happiness, prosperity, and long life. The morning unfolded with prayers and the familiar rhythm of rituals that connected Alankrita to her roots.
Arjun remained beside her throughout.
He did not interrupt.
He did not demand her attention.
He simply made sure she had everything she needed.
And as the prayers continued, Alankrita felt something unfamiliar beginning to stir inside her.
For weeks, she had been carrying the memory of that birthday like a stone inside her chest.
But this morning, someone had made an effort to remember her in a way that reached beyond an ordinary date.
Someone had thought about what made her who she was.
And that someone was her husband.
After the rituals, Arjun invited her to sit at the dining table.
A beautiful traditional meal had been prepared.
Steamed rice, ghee, dal, pumpkin curry, and several dishes she loved. At the centre was a bowl of freshly prepared payasam.
The aroma took her back to the familiar kitchens of her childhood.
Arjun served her first.
He placed each dish carefully before her, watching her expression.
"Try this," he said softly.
She looked at the plate.
"You made all this?"
"Yes."
"Everything?"
"With a little help from your grandmother."
Sumitra laughed.
"A little help? He practically interrogated me about every ingredient."
Arjun smiled.
"I wanted to get it right."
Alankrita looked at him.
Then, slowly, she picked up her spoon.
She tasted the food.
It was delicious.
But more than that, it felt familiar. Comforting. Like a small piece of home had travelled all the way to London and found its way onto her plate.
For the first time in weeks, she ate without feeling the heaviness that had accompanied every meal.
When she looked up, Arjun was watching her.
Not impatiently.
Not expecting praise.
Just hoping she was enjoying herself.
A tiny smile appeared on her face.
"Very nice," she murmured.
Arjun's expression changed immediately.
It was such a small sentence.
But after weeks of polite acknowledgements and distant smiles, it felt like a gift.
He smiled back.
"Thank you."
The afternoon belonged to them.
After the rituals and lunch, Sumitra tactfully took Raghuveer for his nap.
Arjun and Alankrita were left alone in the living room.
The lamps continued to glow, and the fragrance of flowers lingered in the air.
For once, the silence between them did not feel unbearable.
Arjun sat a little away from her.
"Would you like to go somewhere?" he asked. "We could take a walk. Perhaps visit the park."
Alankrita looked around the room.
Then she shook her head.
"No."
He nodded.
"Alright."
She hesitated before speaking again.
"Here is good."
Arjun looked at her.
A faint relief passed through his eyes.
"Then here it is."
He did not insist on taking her out or filling the afternoon with activities. Instead, he noticed the book she had left on the table.
It was one of her university readings, a detailed volume on media ethics.
He picked it up.
"May I?"
She nodded.
He opened the book to the page marked by her bookmark and began reading aloud.
His voice was different from the one she knew from his cooking shows and professional interviews. It was softer, slower, and without the commanding authority that usually accompanied him.
He read a few paragraphs, occasionally pausing to consider an argument.
Then he looked at her.
"What do you think about this point?"
Alankrita glanced at the page.
"Which one?"
"The author's argument about the responsibility of journalists when reporting on public figures."
She considered it.
"I think the author is confusing responsibility with restraint. Journalists should be responsible, but that doesn't mean they should avoid asking difficult questions."
Arjun raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting."
She looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because I disagree."
A tiny smile appeared on her lips.
"Then you are welcome to disagree."
He laughed softly.
And just like that, a conversation began.
They discussed the book, the author's arguments, and the ethical responsibilities of journalists. Arjun challenged some of her views, and Alankrita defended them with the confidence of a young woman who knew her subject.
He listened carefully.
He asked questions.
He did not dismiss her opinions or speak to her as though she were someone who needed to be guided through every thought.
He treated her like an equal.
And slowly, Alankrita began to forget the distance between them.
For nearly an hour, they were simply Arjun and Alankrita.
Not a husband trying to win forgiveness.
Not a wife trying to protect herself from being hurt again.
Just two people sharing a conversation.
At one point, Arjun closed the book and looked at her.
"You have a remarkable mind."
She lowered her eyes.
"Really?"
"Really. You notice things most people overlook. You question what others simply accept. I have met journalists twice your age who don't think as deeply as you do."
She smiled shyly.
"Thank you."
"I mean it."
There was no exaggeration in his voice.
He genuinely admired her.
And that mattered.
Because for so long, Alankrita had felt that her identity had been reduced to motherhood and marriage.
That afternoon, he reminded her that he saw the woman behind both.
A little later, Arjun reached for a small wooden box he had kept beside him.
He placed it gently on the table.
Alankrita looked at it.
"What is this?"
"A little something for you."
She glanced at him.
"Another gift?"
He shook his head.
"Not another gift to make up for anything."
He paused.
"This is something I wanted you to have."
She slowly opened the box.
Inside, resting on a bed of dark velvet, was a beautiful fountain pen.
Its barrel was crafted from deep blue lacquer, decorated with delicate silver constellations. Beside it lay a finely bound leather journal, its pages made from beautiful Italian paper.
Alankrita's eyes widened.
She carefully lifted the pen.
It was elegant, substantial, and exquisitely made.
"Arjun..."
He watched her reaction.
"I wanted to give you something that belonged to your world."
She looked at him.
He continued.
"Your words brought me into your life. Your work, your writing, your questions... they are all a part of who you are."
He gently touched the edge of the journal.
"I know how much you love writing. And I know how much your dreams matter to you."
Then, with a small smile, he added:
"Your grandmother told me about the significance of your Nakshatra. I thought this might be a beautiful way to honour the journalist in you."
Alankrita looked down at the pen again.
For a moment, she could not find the words.
She ran her fingers over the silver constellations.
"It's beautiful."
"Do you like it?"
She nodded.
"It's perfect."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Arjun smiled.
And this time, her smile stayed a little longer.
The evening passed gently.
There were no grand declarations or elaborate plans.
Just the three of them.
When Raghuveer woke up, Alankrita and Arjun fed him together. The little boy made a mess of his food, giggled at his father's expressions, and reached out with his tiny hands whenever he wanted another bite.
Arjun patiently wiped his mouth.
Alankrita laughed when Raghuveer smeared food across his father's shirt.
"Look at you!" she exclaimed.
Arjun looked down at himself.
"I believe your son has declared war on me."
"Our son," she corrected absent-mindedly.
Arjun looked at her.
She seemed not to notice what she had said.
But he did.
And the words settled somewhere deep inside his heart.
Later, after Raghuveer had been settled, they shared a light supper.
Arjun began telling her stories about his childhood in Italy.
Not the stories that appeared in newspapers or the grand accounts of the Moretti family.
He told her about the silly things.
How he had once tried to cook pasta as a child and nearly set off the kitchen alarm. How he had got lost among the vineyards. How his brothers had laughed at him whenever one of his experiments went wrong.
Alankrita listened, occasionally laughing at his descriptions.
Then she shared a story of her own.
She told him about the times she had hidden in her university library to read novels instead of studying for examinations.
He laughed.
"You?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
"I find that difficult to believe."
"Why?"
"Because you look like someone who would prepare an entire timetable before breaking a rule."
She narrowed her eyes playfully.
"Well, you don't know everything about me."
"I am beginning to realise that."
Their laughter filled the room.
It was not loud or extraordinary.
But it was genuine.
And for Arjun, that little moment was more precious than any award he had ever received.
When it was finally time to sleep, Alankrita carried the journal and fountain pen towards her room.
Arjun followed her only as far as the doorway.
He did not presume that one beautiful day had erased everything that had happened.
He knew better now.
"Goodnight, Alankrita."
She turned towards him.
"Goodnight, Arjun."
He smiled.
She had said his name without bitterness.
Without distance.
It was a small thing, perhaps insignificant to anyone else.
But to him, it meant everything.
He waited until she entered before gently closing the door.
Inside, Alankrita placed the journal on her bedside table.
She picked up the fountain pen once more, running her fingers over its delicate silver constellations.
Her mind returned to the day.
The glowing lamps.
Her grandmother's blessings.
The traditional food.
Raghuveer dressed in his little kurta.
Arjun sitting beside her, listening to her opinions and reading her university book.
And the way he had looked at her when she smiled.
She remembered her ruined birthday too.
That memory had not disappeared. The hurt was still there, buried beneath the happiness of the day.
But perhaps it no longer occupied every corner of her heart.
For the first time in weeks, she did not fall asleep thinking about how lonely she was.
She thought about how someone had remembered her.
How someone had taken the time to understand what would make her happy.
How someone had spent an entire day making sure she felt important.
The wall she had built around herself was still standing.
But it no longer felt quite as cold.
A small door had opened.
And through it, a little warmth had entered.
She was not completely healed.
She was not ready to forget.
But she was beginning to feel good again.
And somewhere in the apartment, Arjun lay awake with a quiet smile, remembering the little moments of the day.
He knew he still had a long way to go.
But that evening, for the first time in weeks, he had seen a genuine smile on his wife's face.
He closed his eyes.
Perhaps love was not always about grand declarations.
Sometimes, it was about remembering the little girl hidden beneath all the responsibilities.
And making sure she never had to ask to be celebrated again.