The Most Recovered Wounded Wings

Raghavi sat at her desk, flipping through the worn-out pages of an old register when the clerk approached her.

"How about the routine?" the clerk asked, her voice laced with casual curiosity.

Raghavi leaned back slightly, silent thinking and calculating. "I felt a spontaneous joy... like finally being able to walk after crawling for so long."

The clerk chuckled. "Everybody has to walk," she replied, returning to her files.

Raghavi’s gaze drifted to the window, where the sunlight streamed in lazily, casting soft shadows. A small girl sat on a makeshift throne in the courtyard across the street. Her posture was regal, her tiny hands gripping the armrests with an authority far beyond her years.

"Who is that small girl on the throne?" Raghavi asked, curious.

"Her name is Valarmathy," the clerk responded. "She’s the daughter of your old neighbour. I don't know how she travelled all the way here."

Raghavi nodded slowly. "This next street... it’s where my long-distance relatives live, isn’t it? The woman who used to quarrel often on the road?"

"Yes," the clerk confirmed, a knowing look in her eyes. "She has settled well now, with a heavy package and immense respect in both her family and society."

Raghavi sighed, a subtle weight pressing on her chest. "Aishwarya Rai’s road... will it get its national routine or just remain a communal routine?"

The clerk considered for a moment before responding. "This community is small. Her victory, though bright, is limited in scope."

Raghavi exhaled, her eyes steady with determination. "I have a bigger fight ahead," she said her voice firm. "Let them eat biscuits."

The clerk asked, "You never feel wounded or lost? These are all small games in super malls."

Raghavi smiled faintly. "If I do that, real life will be missed. We need not accept all the cow dung put on us, but we should know how to rear cows and breed hens at least. Life is that—hard play, no smart work."