There was a power in being invisible. And a lesson for eavesdroppers. Gāyathri learnt both the hard way.

Once she started taking her meals with the family members, she stopped confining herself to the room. There would be only adults during the meals, for the kids ate earlier and she ate in silence. Any questions addressed to her drew monosyllabic replies or she would nod her head.

However, nothing could stop Karthik and Anusree from meeting her, they treated her room as their own, but she did not mind the kids. With school and extra classes, they would only spend an hour or so with her.

To help her walk around without being noticed, she removed her anklets. Heavy silver ones with dozens of tiny bells, they had been an early birthday present from her mother. She was loath to remove them, the weight of those lovely silver chains was a constant reminder of her mother, but it would enable her to sneak around.

She walked about the house in her silent tread and would often come across interesting conversations, some remotely funny and some that left her fuming.

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The first incident was when she overheard a conversation in the kitchen.

The cook who was fifty or more and must have spent almost a lifetime in her father's home had accosted Shanta and was grilling her. Gāyathri, bored and thirsty, had wandered towards the kitchen to get herself water, rather than take a glass from the pitcher kept on the dining table. Maybe a walk through the house would banish the boredom, if for a few minutes.

The sullen reply of Shanta made her freeze, she had never heard that tone from the young girl, "I do not know anything else, she does not talk much. But then it is understandable, she is recovering from an accident and dealing with her parents' death. We all know she is Shekar Sir's daughter, and if you want more details, I think you should ask Bammagaru. "

The cook must have mumbled something, for Gāyathri could only catch the words, 'insolent brat' above the sound of Shanta's approaching footsteps. Not wanting to embarrass her, Gāyathri slipped around the corridor and waited for Shanta to disappear from view before sauntering into the kitchen.

The cook's face blanched at her entry. When Gāyathri saw that, an idea bough a mischievous smile to her lips. "Yellamma, you wanted to ask me something, I thought I heard you say my name?"

"No...just was asking Shanta—"

This was fun, Yellamma could not even meet her eyes and was trying to come up with an appropriate answer. It was interesting to watch her flustered expression turn to apparent relief for she fumbled, "—whether you like what I have been cooking. I could make something you like, you just have to tell me."

That was a quick recovery. Unwilling to continue the verbal skirmish, Gāyathri nodded, she could take advantage of the offer. It would be an act of better revenge too. "Could you make coconut and putnalu chutney for the idlis and dosas? I am not used to the peanut chutney."

Yellamma's enthusiastic assent was a sweet victory.

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Her next eavesdropping adventure was not so pleasant.

"I am telling you, it will be a good match."

It was the firm tone, more than the sentence, that attracted her attention. She tiptoed to the corner, near the large open window. It was a good thing she was in the garden and the voices floated out, she could always duck down behind the bushes if anyone approached.

"Yeah, both have a family drawback, so it would indeed be a good match. After all, neither of them can make any advantageous matches given their maternal lineage or rather, a lack of one."

That sarcasm was from Vani, the younger of her paternal aunts; who in contrast to her name could neither speak softly or eloquently or kindly. That was what her father had said. Nanna had spoken about his sisters, his affection evident in his voice even when he expressed disapproval. The contrast in emotions often surprised her, how could one be tender and critical? It might have been true of siblings.

Vani atta had been openly antagonistic about her and her mother. There was never any pretence at politeness; from the first meeting itself. Gāyathri had been looked up and down before being greeted with a condescending glare. Not one to back off, she had held the stare, which had Van atta remark that she was as insolent as her mother had been.

The sharp retort died on the tip of her tongue when Uma Atta intervened. "Be considerate, Vani, if not sensitive. There is a time and place for everything, we all know you disliked Lakshmi, but now that she is dead, maybe you should tone down your resentment."

Uma Atta was the eldest sister, older than her father by five years. She too seemed to be named wrongly. Uma was the valiant and brave personification of Goddess Durga yet Uma Atta seemed to be anything but courageous, though she never hesitated to put her younger sister in her place. Short and plump, with grey hair that refused to be tied into a bun, her aunt squeaked her opinions and objections. A difference of only a year between her father and Vani resulted in a high degree of sibling rivalry. While her father maintained that Vani had always been annoying and had turned obnoxious with age he had adored his elder sister, mostly because she kept Vani in check.

Vani Atta had reddened with suppressed fury and immediately stalked out of the room. Gāyathri never had a chance to meet either of them since that day. Not that she minded, it saved her the trouble of making up excuses to avoid them.

She would not have stayed and run the risk of being caught, if not for the intriguing conversation.

This time, however, it was her grandmother who shushed Vani. "That is not fair, to either of them. And Uma, do you not think it is too early to go around fixing matches for Gāyathri? She is very young and even if you wish to overlook her age, it is not even a couple of months since Somu passed away."

"Yes, amma, I know. And even Anand is young. But then someday or the other we would have to get her married. What is the harm in planning ahead? And you know that Somu liked Anand, he would have approved."

'Somu. Strange to hear her father called that, it gave an impression that he was a five-year-old kid. But then for his mother and elder sister, he would always be a kid.'

However, once the import of the conversation sunk in, Gāyathri smouldered with resentment. 'Preposterous, to be planning for her wedding. All these years, they had not bothered about her existence and now they concerned about her future. No, thank you, she would decide her future and who she would marry, if and when she felt like getting married.'

Then she heard her Vani atta, disdain dripping from every word. "Of course he would have approved, as would Anand's father. Anand's mother is of the same type, marrying far above her class and caste. A suitable match indeed, both children of ambitious gold diggers, entrapping men far o..."

'It was obnoxious and rude and demeaning and...' Her temper did not enable her to form more adjectives to describe her aunt's behaviour. Loath to hear anything further, she rushed off to her room, hoping she had not been caught in her haste to get away as quickly as possible.

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It was later, in a calmer state that she decided. Hearing about herself was not worth the altercation or heartache. She clasped her anklets back, from now she was going to announce her presence. The anklet bells would alert everyone as to who was coming and would give them a chance to change the topic.

Since she could not stay cooped in her room, that was a sure invitation for someone or the other to check on her, Gāyathri had to find a haven, preferably in the garden. A few walks and she stumbled onto the perfect hiding place.

It turned into her favourite haunt, a little patch of dappled grass between the jasmine bower and the parijat tree that had been planted near the corner of the boundary wall. Shady, cool and comfortable, she could be hidden from most of the household members with the added benefit of eavesdropping on the visitors to the bower. Not exactly eavesdropping, for she felt that her grand parents seemed to know she was there. But she was grateful that they did not openly acknowledge her presence or try to draw her out.

It gave her an impression of the birds visiting the garden, which one ignored hoping to let the birds understand that they were welcome and the humans meant no harm. Only here she was the bird, a thought that brought a soft smile to her lips.

Her grandfather was a daily visitor, who sat in silence, or engaged in soft conversation with her grandmother when she joined him in the evenings. It was a daily ritual, her grandmother knotting the jasmine flowers with twine to make a thick, closely woven and long fragrant garland.

They would sit and reminisce about their children, mostly about her father, which brought tears to her eyes. Mundane things; his likes and dislikes, strange habits and funny foibles. Each a memory laced with sorrow and loss. The more she heard, the stronger grew her realisation of Chandra's words; everyone grieves differently.

And it was indeed worse for a parent to lose a child.