In the Name of Devayn
POV: Devayn Aaryan Khurana (Age 5)
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It was raining the day she was born.
Not the kind of soft drizzle that smelled like mitti and mango leaves.
No. It was the kind of rain that broke trees.
That sounded like war on rooftops.
The kind Devayn Aaryan Khurana liked.
He sat silently on the large velvet sofa, legs dangling, a storybook open on his lap — unread.
Around him, people were celebrating.
The adults laughed, clinked glasses.
Devayn’s mother whispered, “It’s a girl,” with a kind of sparkle in her voice he didn’t understand yet.
He didn’t care much for babies.
They were loud, red, and everyone looked at them too much.
But something made him look up when the door opened.
Just one look. Just once.
And that’s when it happened.
The nurse walked in holding a bundle wrapped in white and pink.
Tiny. Fragile. Breathing.
> “Ziyana,” someone whispered.
“Ziyana Rana. Born 12th August, 3:46 PM.”
That name—
Devayn didn’t know what names meant. But that one?
It settled inside his head like a quiet drumbeat.
Ziyana.
Ziyana.
Ziyana.
She was placed into her mother’s arms, who looked exhausted but smiling.
Everyone leaned in to coo, to stare, to bless.
He didn’t move. But he watched.
He eyes blinked open — not fully. Just enough.
And in that half-second…
She looked at him.
Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was just a baby twitch.
But Devayn felt it.
Like her gaze had threaded something through his ribs and tied a knot.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t cry.
But he remembered the moment like some boys remember falling off a bicycle.
Except he didn't fall.
He belonged. Somewhere he didn’t understand yet.
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Later that evening, when everyone was leaving, his mother tucked his shirt collar and said,
> “Devu, don’t run around the baby, okay? She’s delicate.”
He didn’t answer.
But he turned one last time to look at her.
rapped in blankets. Eyes closed. Breathing softly.
> “I won’t hurt her,” he whispered
“Ever.”
No one heard him.
But the rain did.
And it didn’t stop all night.
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Byyyyyyyyy byyyyyyyyy buba's ✨
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