The Second Sunrise

Angavai was ecstatic. She ran across the room and hugged the hostel warden who had just shared the happiest news she’d heard in years. Her appa was coming to visit! After two long years. She could barely contain her excitement. Darting  to the gate, she climbed up two rungs and craned her neck, eyes scanning the road.  There he was! He seemed to be lost in thought and his shoulders slightly hunched. Angavai, who had just turned 9 years old,  ran out of the gate to the end of the road and jumped into his arms.

“Appa! I am so happy that you have at last come to take me back home! When are we going back appa? Shall we go back after thanking Warden Madam and James Sir?”

The middle-aged man with a lined forehead and eyes which had so much of sadness, smiled but did not say anything. He did not want to disappoint little Angavai.

“Angavai… Angavai… you better come inside! It’s time for lunch. If you don’t come in now, you’ll have to go hungry till dinner,” called out Chitra, Angavai’s closest friend and soul mate in the orphanage.

Angavai was still standing by the gate, gazing at the road where her father’s figure had just disappeared. Her small fist clutched tightly around the shiny new one-rupee coin he had given her. Chitra was right — the hostel was strict about rules, and latecomers for any meal were punished by being denied food.

“Chitra, look! See this coin? Appa gave it to me,” Angavai said, showing the shiny new 1-rupee coin proudly before tucking it carefully into her skirt pocket.

That coin seemed to have a life of its own. Whenever she missed her father, Angavai would take it out and keep it under her pillow. Somehow, she was able to sleep better when she did that.

Once, the coin slipped from her hand and fell into the toilet. Her heart stopped for a moment — but without hesitation, she plunged her hand into the toilet bowl and fished it out. It wasn’t just a coin. It was a piece of her father, a piece of home.

It was around 7 p.m. when the warden called Angavai into her room. Someone was on the phone asking for her. It was their neighbour.

With a gentle voice, the neighbour broke the news — Angavai’s father had passed away two days earlier from a heart attack. The funeral was already over.

Angavai stood there, speechless. She didn’t know for how long she remained that way — her mind blank, her cheeks wet with silent tears. The warden held her hand, patting her head softly as waves of grief washed over the little girl.

“Now I am truly an orphan,” she whispered through her sobs. “I have no one… no one in this world to call my own.”

That night, she cried herself to sleep, clutching the one-rupee coin as tightly as she could — but somehow, even that small piece of comfort had lost its warmth.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

There are thirteen members, Chitra,” said Angavai, counting the guests who had come to the orphanage to sponsor their meal. “Imagine living in a house with so many people — a home you can actually call your own.”

Chitra and Angavai were now twenty years old, inseparable as ever. Their favourite pastime was to sit on the stone bench by the gushing river, spinning stories about their rosy future — homes filled with laughter, the smell of hot food, and the warmth of family they never had.

“Angavai,” Chitra whispered, nudging her playfully, “did you notice the man in the blue checked shirt? He can’t take his eyes off you!”

Angavai blushed, glancing quickly toward him. “Yes, I noticed the moment he walked in. He has such kind eyes — though he’s far too thin to be called handsome!” she giggled.

Maaran soon became a familiar face at the orphanage — along with his five sisters, who often accompanied him. The hostel hired him for small repair jobs, and before long, everyone had grown fond of him.

What began as shy glances soon blossomed into a quiet, tender romance. Angavai and Maaran’s affection grew naturally, like a long-awaited sunrise after endless nights. In time, their love culminated in marriage — a simple ceremony filled with joy and disbelief on Angavai’s part.

She could hardly believe such happiness was hers. Maaran’s family, who lived in the nearby village of Pachapalli, took care of all the wedding expenses with great generosity. For the first time in her life, Angavai felt surrounded — by people, by love, by belonging.

A week later, the two young women, Angavai and Chitra sat in the backyard of Angavai’s new home, beside the old neem tree, perched on their makeshift bench — two rocks placed side by side.

“So… Angavai,” Chitra teased with a grin, “how’s married life treating you? You look like someone who badly needs a good night’s sleep, although I absolutely love the happiness shining in your eyes!”

Angavai laughed softly, then sighed. “Chitra, I’m so happy that it almost scares me. Sometimes I wonder — why am I afraid to be happy?”

Chitra reached out and squeezed her hand. “Just relax, Angavai. All your troubles are behind you now. There’s no looking back — only ahead. You deserve this happiness. The only thing is… I miss you terribly, every single day.”

They hugged each other tightly, clinging to a friendship that had carried them through every storm.

It was almost time for Chitra to leave. She had just completed her B.Sc. Nursing and had secured a good job at a leading hospital in Salem. As she walked away, Angavai watched her go, her heart swelling with pride and an ache of parting — two orphans who had once shared everything, now stepping into new lives of their own.

Maaran’s five sisters were all married with grown-up children, and they lived close by. Angavai shared a wonderful rapport with her sisters-in-law. Her nephews and nieces — most of them around her own age — adored her. They doted on her, often stopping by to check if she was comfortable in her new home or needed anything.

Her mother-in-law, Shanmugavadivu, more than made up for all the warmth and affection Angavai had missed at the James Hostel for Orphans. She called Angavai ‘Paapa’, lovingly. Though uneducated, Shanmugavadivu was worldly-wise. She gave the young couple their space and took quiet joy in watching the deep love between Maaran and Angavai blossom.

Maaran’s younger brother, Vetri, a shy and soft-spoken man, admired his new Anni from afar. He rarely spoke to her, but his respect for her showed in his gentle manners.

Angavai, who had learnt Bharatanatyam at the hostel, found work as a dance teacher at the Mettur town school. For the first time in her life, she was surrounded by people who truly cared for her. Her education made her the family’s go-to person for advice, and everyone valued her opinion in household matters.

There were times when Angavai would sit quietly by herself, overcome with emotion. Tears of gratitude would fill her eyes as she thought of how far she had come — from a lonely orphan to a cherished member of a loving family.

She loved each one of them deeply and silently vowed to give her all to this home that had finally given her a place to belong.

Maaran had gone to town to shop for clothes for their Thalai Deepavali.

Angavai smiled to herself as she hung freshly washed clothes in the yard. Traditionally, the first Deepavali after marriage was celebrated in the bride’s home, but everyone in the family had decided to make it grand — so that Angavai wouldn’t feel the absence of her own kin.

For days now, her mother-in-law had been busy preparing festive bakshanam. Tins of thenkuzhal and ribbon pakoda lined the kitchen shelf, and a brass thooku brimmed with golden Mysore pak. That evening, they planned to make adhirasam together.

All of it was new to Angavai — the bustling kitchen, the laughter, the warm chaos — and she felt a quiet pride in being part of it. Shanmughavadivu, after offering the first batch of thenkuzhal to God, had insisted that Angavai taste one to check if the salt was right.

For Angavai, it tasted like heaven — not just the flavour, but the feeling of being home.

As she spread a bright red saree over the clothesline, her heart swelled with gratitude. She sent a silent prayer upward — for this new life, for the love that had filled her days.

Just then, she heard her mother-in-law, Shanmughavadivu, speaking on the phone. Her tone was tense.
“What are you saying? Where? Kadavule… Muruga! Yes, we’ll come right away…”

Angavai froze. Even before Shanmughavadivu turned around, something deep within her knew, it was bad news.

“Maaran met with an accident,” her mother-in-law gasped. “His scooter was hit by a tractor. They’re waiting for a vehicle to take him to the hospital… Come, let’s go!”

When they reached the spot, a small crowd had gathered. Maaran lay still on the roadside — no visible injuries, just an eerie calm on his face. He was unconscious. Angavai felt her knees weaken. Before she could even call out his name, the villagers lifted him into a van that a kind passerby had brought. The vehicle sped away before she could climb in.

At the hospital, the air smelled of antiseptic and fear.
Shanmughavadivu sat on the cold straight backed chair in the lounge chanting the Kanda Sashti Kavacham softly.  Vetri ran between the billing counter and the pharmacy, buying every medicine they asked for. Relatives and villagers arrived, murmuring words of comfort.  Through all this, Angavai didn’t speak.

She sat outside the Emergency Room, staring at the stark white wall, her eyes dry, her mind blank.

After what felt like hours, the doors opened. A middle-aged doctor stepped out, scanning the crowd until his eyes found Vetri.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “We tried our best… but it was a head injury. We couldn’t save him.”

The wails began the moment the doctor’s words sank in. The hospital staff tried to quiet them, but even they stood still, shaken — Maaran, newly married just six weeks ago, was gone.

Shanmughavadivu went straight to Angavai and pulled her into her arms. It was then that the trembling began — a deep, uncontrollable shiver that ran through the young girl’s body. Maaran’s eldest sister, Karthika, and her son Vinod gently guided her home.

Shanmughavadivu, amidst her own tears, watched her daughter-in-law with a breaking heart.
“How will I console this poor child? Oh God… why did this happen to us? Why was Maaran taken away so cruelly, so soon? He had only just begun his life with this girl. Muruga, do you not have a heart? What am I to do now?”

For Angavai, everything was a blur. She moved as if in a trance, hoping it was all a nightmare — that she would wake up to find herself laughing and talking with Maaran again. But after the funeral, the truth settled heavily: she was now a widow. All the happiness she had tasted for a brief month and a half had been ripped away.

Neighbours and relatives filled the house for days, offering condolences. Some spoke with genuine sorrow; others, with cruel tongues.

“This girl brought bad luck to the family.”
“Shanmughavadivu, send her back to the hostel — she’s a bad omen.”
“It must be her horoscope. Didn’t her parents and brother die too, leaving her an orphan?”

Shanmughavadivu silenced them every time. She prayed that Angavai never heard those venomous words.

But Angavai had heard them — and they sank deep into her wounded heart. Was she really cursed? Did she not deserve happiness? Why had Maaran left her without even a goodbye?

One afternoon, her grief exploded.
“Ayyo, ayyo! Oh God, why are you so cruel to me?” she screamed, pounding her head with her fists, then against the wall. The wails only stopped when she collapsed in exhaustion. Maaran’s sisters wept helplessly beside her, while Shanmughavadivu prayed for the girl’s shattered mind to find peace.

The rituals, as per Hindu tradition, were completed within ten days. Angavai often disappeared from home. The family assumed she was visiting the Mariyamman temple, one of her favourite spots — until one morning, Muthurangan from Nadu Veedhi arrived, his face grave.

“Amma… she’s been going to the cremation ground every day,” he confessed to Shanmughavadivu. “She sits there for hours, sifting through the ashes, crying, ‘No, I won’t believe you’re gone! Come back to me, Maaran! You promised me that we will be together, forever — how could you leave me alone?’”

Some villagers whispered that she even scooped up the ashes in her palms and put them to her mouth, hoping the act would somehow bring him back to life.

That evening, when Angavai returned home carrying a mud pot filled with Maaran’s ashes and charred bone fragments, Shanmughavadivu’s heart broke — but she knew she had to act.

“Stop!” she commanded. “Do not step inside. Go to the backyard — by the well. Now.”

Startled by the firmness in her voice, Angavai obeyed. Shanmughavadivu drew a bucket of water from the well and poured it over her daughter-in-law’s head.

“Listen to me,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “From this minute, accept that Maaran will not come back. I have accepted it — you must too. Bringing his remains home will not bring him back to life. Enough of this madness, Paapa. Let him go. Let yourself live.”

Her words — strong, loving, unyielding — cut through Angavai’s grief.

It took a year for acceptance to truly take root. But slowly, painfully, it did. Through it all, Shanmughavadivu and the rest of the family stood by Angavai like a rock — defying gossip, shielding her from cruelty, and helping her crawl out of the abyss of her sorrow.

It was around 11 a.m., and Shanmughavadivu was sitting on the porch, tying flowers with two of her neighbours. Angavai was away at school. She had started working a couple of months earlier, as Shanmughavadivu had insisted she must keep herself busy.

“Geetha’s a graduate too — she’ll be a good match for Vetri. You should start thinking about his marriage, Vadivu,” said Meenakshi, the well-meaning lady who lived across the road.

“Hmmm…” Shanmughavadivu didn’t reply, though she had a plan forming in her mind — one she was hesitant to voice.

“People might talk, Vadivu,” Meenakshi continued. “It’s not nice for Vetri and Angavai to live under the same roof. They’re both young… what if something untoward happens between them?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking too…” Shanmughavadivu’s voice trailed off.

“What — that something should happen? It’s like keeping fire and cotton together, Vadivu. How many stories have we heard!”

“Yes, I know,” Shanmughavadivu said softly. “But why not bring them both together in wedlock?”

“Vadivu, what are you saying? She’s a widow! Didn’t you see what happened to Maaran? And you want your other son to marry her too? What has come over you?”

“Why not, Meenakshi? She has no one of her own. I cannot send her away — she came here believing she’d spend her life with my son, but fate decided otherwise. She’s a good girl — kind-hearted and disciplined. She’s never once shirked her duty as a wife, daughter-in-law, or as an Anni to Vetri.”

“Do you think Vetri will accept this? She was married, and I don’t think she’s forgotten Maaran — she may never. Wouldn’t that be unfair to Vetri?”

“Of course, only if Vetri consents,” said Shanmughavadivu. “I’ll ask him today.”

“Don’t tell anyone else about this plan, Vadivu. The others won’t understand your broadmindedness. If both Vetri and Angavai agree, then we can slowly tell the world,” advised Meenakshi.

That evening, Shanmughavadivu spoke to her son.

“I’m fine with this plan, Amma,” Vetri said quietly. “I’ve always admired Anni for her qualities and strength. I think it’s only fair to marry her and give her the happiness she truly deserves.”

Shanmughavadivu’s eyes filled with gratitude. Vetri was a man of few words, but she could read his heart through his eyes. He genuinely cared for his Anni — his brother’s wife. Love would blossom between them someday. Lord Muruga would take care of that.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“But Chitra, how can you say this? I still have Maaran in my heart and always will,” said Angavai.

“Angavai, everyone knows how deeply you loved Maaran. But he’s gone, and he’s not coming back. I really think you should consider marrying Vetri. He’s a good man — caring, respectful. I’ve noticed the way he looks after you whenever I visit.”

“Chitra, I’m upset you even suggested that. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

Chitra sighed, understanding it would take time for her friend to accept this new proposal. But she was confident she eventually would. “Perhaps a few more calls,” she thought, “and a few gentle nudges.”

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

The wedding took place in a simple ceremony at the temple. A subdued Angavai looked at her new husband with mixed feelings.

God, please give me the mental strength to accept this kind soul as my husband, she prayed silently.

Shanmughavadivu, her five daughters, and their children rejoiced quietly — their decision had brought peace to their hearts.

“Amma, please be patient with Angavai,” Karthika said gently. “She’ll eventually accept Vetri. For now, he still sees her as his Anni. Give them time. Things will work out.”

“Yes,” said Shanmughavadivu. “Vetri already loves her — I can see it in his eyes. Let’s wait for Angavai to find her way to him.”

Two years rolled by. Life had found its rhythm again. Angavai and Vetri had settled into a quiet routine. Though Vetri still treated her like a revered Anni — much to the villagers’ amusement — there was a deep understanding between them, one built on mutual respect and care.

“I think you should learn driving,” Vetri said one evening. “I’ll take you to the driving school in Mettur. It’s only for fifteen days — soon you’ll be driving yourself.”

“As though we have a car! Why should I learn, Vetri?”

“I just want you to learn whatever you can. You’re capable of anything, Anga.”

“And what will you be doing while I learn all this? Chase goats?” she teased.

“No — I like to be chased by a goat. Catch me if you can!”

“So I’m a goat, am I? How dare you!”

Angavai ran after him, laughing, as Vetri darted toward the mangroves. Their laughter echoed through the fading light of dusk.

For a brief, golden moment, the ache in Angavai’s heart softened. Life had not given her the path she had dreamt of, yet it had quietly led her to peace again — one tender smile, one shared laugh at a time.

From the porch, Shanmughavadivu watched them with tears of gratitude glistening in her eyes. She turned quietly into the pooja room and lit the evening lamp.