Seven days after their son’s birth, the haveli was filled with joy, music, and the fragrance of fresh flowers. The golden drapes swayed gently with the breeze, and the courtyard was decorated in traditional Rajput style—rangoli at the entrance, marigold garlands hanging from every corner, and the aroma of ghee sweets drifting through the air.

Relatives and friends gathered, their faces beaming with happiness. The sound of dhols and shehnai filled the atmosphere, and every elder came forward to bless the baby.

Poornima, dressed in a soft pink saree with intricate zardozi work, held her son in her arms. Veeresh, wearing a cream sherwani with a golden safa, stood proudly by her side. His protective hand never left hers or the baby’s tiny blanket.

The priest recited mantras as the family sat for the puja. At the auspicious moment, Veeresh leaned closer to Poornima and whispered, “Ready for the name?” She smiled and nodded.

With the priest’s signal, Veeresh gently took his son from Poornima’s arms and announced,

“From today, he will be known as Ayan Veeresh Rajput.”

Applause and cheers echoed through the courtyard. The elders blessed little Ayan, some saying, “May he be as brave as his father” and others teasing, “And as stubborn as his mother.”

Veeresh chuckled, looking at Poornima. “He’s going to have your smile,” he said softly.

Poornima, her heart melting, kissed Ayan’s forehead. “And your strength,” she replied.

As the ceremony ended, Veeresh stood with Poornima and Ayan, looking at the gathered family. For the first time, he felt a deep, unshakable sense of peace—this was his family, his legacy, and his world.

That night, after everyone left, Veeresh cradled Ayan in his arms and murmured,

“My son… my pride… my reason to live.”

Poornima rested her head on Veeresh’s shoulder, knowing in her heart that their journey was just beginning—together.