In a city where politics decided everything, two families ruled from opposite sides of the battlefield: the Suryavanshi's and the Shekhawat's. Their rivalry had lasted for decades, leaving behind broken alliances, buried secrets, and wounds that refused to heal.
"Bachao! Koi hai? Mujhe bachao!"
(Help! Is anyone there? Save me!)
Her arms broke through the surface, small hands grasping desperately at empty air before the water dragged her under again.
My chest tightened.
No.
A moment later, she surfaced with a choking gasp, coughing as she tried to keep her head above the water.
"Bachao!"
The darkness around her swallowed everything beyond the water. Her face remained unclear, nothing more than frightened eyes and wet hair clinging to her skin before another wave struck her.
Then she disappeared.
The surface stilled.
My breath stopped with it.
No, no, no—
Footsteps pounded somewhere nearby.
A boy came running towards the water.
He did not hesitate.
He jumped.
The water swallowed him too.
For one unbearable second, neither of them appeared.
Then his head broke through the surface.
He looked around frantically before spotting her several feet away.
The girl surfaced again, gasping, barely managing to breathe before another current pulled at her.
The boy swam towards her.
Faster.
"Haath pakdo mera!"
(Hold my hand!)
She reached for him.
Missed.
"Please!"
He stretched farther.
Their fingers brushed once.
Then again.
Finally, her tiny hand closed around his.
He pulled her towards him immediately, one arm wrapping around her as she coughed against his shoulder.
"Mat chhodna..."
(Don't let go...)
He tightened his grip.
For a moment, the water dragged both of them under.
My nails dug into my palms.
They surfaced again.
The boy struggled towards the edge, dragging her with him until his fingers finally found the muddy ground. He pushed her forward first, then climbed out after her.
The girl collapsed beside the water.
She did not move.
The boy dropped to his knees beside her.
"Utho..."
His hands shook as he touched her shoulder.
"Please... utho."
(Please... get up.)
Nothing.
He shook her again.
"Utho na!"
(Get up!)
Still nothing.
His breathing turned uneven.
He looked around desperately.
"Koi hai?!"
No answer came.
He turned back to her, panic taking over completely now.
"Please..."
Then the girl coughed.
Her entire body jerked as water spilled from her mouth and she dragged in a painful breath.
The boy froze.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then his shoulders dropped.
Relief.
The girl coughed again, blinking weakly as her eyes slowly opened.
She looked at him.
Or tried to.
His face would not stay clear.
No matter how hard I tried to focus, there was only a blur where his features should have been.
Voices suddenly echoed somewhere in the distance.
The boy's head snapped towards them.
Something changed.
He stood.
The girl frowned.
"Ruko..."
He looked at her once.
Then turned away.
Her confusion disappeared beneath panic.
"Ruko!"
He kept walking.
She pushed herself up on trembling arms.
"Mat jao..."
Her knees gave way, sending her back onto the wet ground.
The boy did not stop.
"Mujhe chhodkar mat jao!"
(Don't leave me!)
Her voice cracked.
Something tore through my chest.
"Please..."
He slowed.
For one second, I thought he would turn back.
He did.
But his face was still nothing more than a blur.
The girl stretched one hand towards him.
"Mat jao..."
He stared at her.
Then turned away.
"No..."
He disappeared into the darkness.
"No!"
I woke with a violent gasp.
My head jerked upwards so suddenly that the stool beneath me almost tipped backwards. My fingers clutched the edge of the dressing table while I struggled to breathe, my chest rising and falling as though I had been the one dragged from the water moments ago.
For several seconds, I did not understand where I was.
The room slowly returned around me. My dressing table stood directly in front of me, an open suitcase lay near my feet, and clothes were scattered carelessly across the carpet. My head must have fallen over my folded arms while I was packing, but even after recognising my surroundings, my body refused to believe that I was safe.
My throat burned.
My hands were trembling.
Cold sweat clung to my forehead.
And somewhere deep inside my chest remained the same unbearable feeling of abandonment that followed me every time I woke from that dream.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Twenty-four years old.
Sitting safely inside my closet in Canada.
Yet a part of me still felt like that little girl lying beside the water and begging someone not to leave her behind.
I swallowed hard and pressed my palm against my chest.
That dream again.
I had seen it countless times over the years, but waking from it had never become easier. The same lake. The same drowning girl. The same faceless boy who appeared from nowhere, jumped into the water to save her, and disappeared before she could even understand who he was.
I did not know the girl.
At least, I did not remember knowing her.
I did not know the boy either.
And yet every time he walked away, the pain that tore through me felt horribly personal.
Why?
Why did her fear feel like mine?
Why did her desperation scrape against something buried inside me?
And why did watching that boy leave feel less like witnessing somebody else's memory and more like losing someone all over again?
My eyes burned, but this time I forced myself not to look away from the mirror.
There had to be a reason.
Dreams did not return with the same details for twenty years.
Dreams did not leave behind sensations that remained long after waking. Cold water against my skin. Burning lungs. Mud beneath small fingers. A voice begging someone not to leave.
And every time I had tried asking about it, my family had responded the same way.
Maa changed the subject.
Papa became unusually quiet.
Bua pulled me into her arms and told me not to think about things that frightened me.
No one ever gave me an answer.
I had been only four when I was sent to Canada, and almost everything before that age existed inside my mind as broken pieces. A courtyard. Someone laughing. A hand around mine. Dark water. A boy without a face.
Nothing more.
My phone stopped ringing.
The sudden silence pulled me back to the present.
I exhaled slowly and rubbed my palms over my face, trying to force the remains of the nightmare away.
Then the phone began ringing again.
I frowned and moved the silk scarf lying near my elbow.
The screen lit up.
Maa Calling.
My fingers stilled.
For a moment, I simply stared at her name.
Then I answered.
"Hello, Maa."
The weakness in my voice betrayed me immediately.
There was barely a second of silence before her tone changed.
"Vedika? Kya hua? Tum ro rahi ho?"
(Vedika? What happened? Are you crying?)
"Nahi," I lied automatically.
My gaze returned to the mirror.
Even I would not have believed myself.
My eyes were red, my face had lost all colour, and faint tear tracks still remained beneath them.
"Bas packing karte-karte aankh lag gayi thi."
(No. I just fell asleep while packing.)
"Tumhari awaaz aisi kyun lag rahi hai?"
(Why does your voice sound like that?)
I hesitated.
For one second, I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to ask her why that girl's fear felt so familiar, why the boy's disappearance always left me shattered, and why nobody had ever been willing to tell me anything about the years before Canada.
Instead, I whispered, "Bura sapna dekha tha."
(I had a bad dream.)
The line went quiet.
It was brief.
Barely noticeable.
But I noticed.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Kaisa sapna?" she asked.
There was something careful in her voice now.
Too careful.
I lifted my eyes towards my reflection.
"Wahi... paani wala."
(The same one... about the water.)
Another silence followed.
Longer this time.
The heaviness inside me slowly shifted into suspicion.
"Maa?"
"Hm?"
I swallowed.
"Woh chhoti ladki kaun hai?"
(Who is that little girl?)
Her answer came far too quickly.
"Sirf ek sapna hai, Vedika. Uske baare mein itna mat socho."
(It is only a dream, Vedika. Don't think about it so much.)
I stared at myself in the mirror.
Only a dream.
The same answer.
Always.
But dreams were supposed to disappear after waking.
They were not supposed to haunt someone for twenty years.
They were not supposed to feel like memories.
And most importantly, mothers were not supposed to fall silent before dismissing them.
Before I could push further, Maa changed the subject exactly the way she always did whenever the conversation drifted anywhere near my childhood.
"Achha, yeh sab chhodo. Packing ho gayi?"
(Alright, forget all this. Have you finished packing?)
I kept staring at my reflection for another second, irritation mixing with the uneasiness already sitting inside me. She had avoided the question again. I could have insisted, could have asked why the mention of that dream always made everyone uncomfortable, but I was tired of chasing answers from people who had perfected the art of giving me none.
So I looked around the room instead.
One suitcase lay open near my feet, another was overflowing with clothes, and half my wardrobe appeared to have somehow migrated onto the floor while I slept.
"Haan, Maa. Almost ho gayi."
(Yes, Maa. It's almost done.)
"Almost?"
I winced.
"Bas ek suitcase baaki hai."
(Only one suitcase is left.)
There was a suspicious pause.
"Video call karo."
(Video-call me.)
My eyes widened immediately.
"No."
"Vedika."
"Maa, I'm not ready."
"Mujhe tumhe nahi dekhna. Tumhara room dekhna hai."
(I don't want to see you. I want to see your room.)
Of course she did.
I glanced towards the pile of dresses hanging over the back of a chair, the open jewellery boxes scattered across the dressing table and the collection of heels I still had absolutely no intention of leaving behind.
If Maa saw this, she would probably forget that an entire ocean separated us and somehow appear in Canada just to lecture me.
"Maa, main rakhti hoon. Jaanvi bhi mere saath aa rahi hai na, uski packing bhi check karni hai."
(Maa, I'm hanging up. Jaanvi is travelling with me too, so I need to check her packing as well.)
"Yeh bahaane kisi aur ko dikhana. Maa hoon tumhari, sab jaanti hoon."
(Try those excuses on someone else. I'm your mother. I know everything.)
Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at my lips.
"Aise hi lawyer nahi hoon. Tum jhooth bologi aur tumhe lagega main pakad nahi paungi?"
(I'm not a lawyer for nothing. You'll lie and think I won't catch you?)
"Fine. Since you already know everything, I'm hanging up before this turns into cross-examination."
"Ek minute."
I paused.
"Tumhare Papa baat karna chahte hain."
(Your father wants to speak to you.)
Just like that, the remaining heaviness from the nightmare shifted beneath a sudden rush of excitement.
Papa.
A few days ago, he had finally said the words I had waited almost my entire life to hear.
Come home, Vedika.
Even now, remembering them made something warm spread through my chest.
For twenty years, my father had maintained one rule above all others.
I was not allowed to return to India.
When I was younger, there had always been a reason. School. Safety. His political responsibilities. Exams. University. Every year brought another explanation, and every year I had believed that perhaps the next one would finally be different.
It never was.
Eventually, I had stopped asking.
What bothered me more were the other rules that had followed me throughout my life. I was rarely allowed to travel without security. Papa disliked photographs of me appearing anywhere public. Very few people outside the family even knew Viraj Shekhawat had another daughter living in Canada.
He called it protection.
Sometimes, it felt suspiciously similar to being hidden.
Then, after twenty years of refusing every request I had made, he had suddenly called and asked me to come home.
No explanation.
No reason.
Nothing.
I should have questioned it more.
Instead, I had cried, laughed, booked my ticket and spent the next several days counting the hours.
"Hello, meri jaan."
Papa's warm voice came through the phone, immediately pulling me from my thoughts.
My smile widened.
"Hi, Papa."
"Kaisi ho?"
(How are you?)
"I'm great."
My gaze moved towards the mess surrounding me.
"Well... mostly."
"Packing abhi tak nahi hui?"
I narrowed my eyes.
"Did Maa complain already?"
He laughed. "Tumhari Maa ko complain karne ki zarurat nahi hai. Main tumhe jaanta hoon."
(Your mother doesn't need to complain. I know you.)
"Wow. So much faith in your daughter."
"Tum par poora faith hai. Tumhare time management par nahi."
(I have complete faith in you. Just not in your time management.)
I rolled my eyes even though he could not see me.
"Papa."
"Hm?"
My voice softened before I could stop it.
"I still can't believe I'm finally coming home."
There was a brief silence from his side.
"Twenty years," I added quietly.
Saying it aloud made the number feel heavier.
Twenty years of birthdays through video calls. Twenty years of looking at family photographs and trying to imagine myself standing inside them. Twenty years of knowing I had parents and a brother thousands of miles away while Bua's home became the only home I could properly remember.
"Maine Shekhawat Mansion ko sirf photos mein dekha hai," I admitted. "Mujhe yaad bhi nahi woh actually kaisa dikhta hai."
(I've only seen Shekhawat Mansion in photographs. I don't even remember what it actually looks like.)
"Kal dekh lena."
(You'll see it tomorrow.)
A childish excitement returned almost instantly.
"And Bhai?"
"Kya hua tumhare Bhai ko?"
(What about your brother?)
"Woh mujhe pehchaan lenge na?"
(He'll recognise me, right?)
Papa laughed.
"Vedika, tum dono ki kaafi baat hoti rehti hai. Woh tumhe dekhte hi pehchaan lega."
(Vedika, you two speak quite often. He'll recognise you the moment he sees you.)
"That is completely different. Camera ke through dekhna aur saamne milna same nahi hota."
(Seeing someone through a camera and meeting them in person are not the same.)
"Tumhe dekhte hi pehchaan lega. Sab tumhara intezaar kar rahe hain."
(He'll recognise you the moment he sees you. Everyone is waiting for you.)
My smile slowly softened.
Everyone was waiting for me.
For once, I allowed myself to believe those words without questioning them.
Perhaps I had spent too many years being angry about everything I had missed. Maybe it did not matter why Papa had changed his mind now. Maybe all that mattered was that tomorrow I would finally sit beside Maa instead of speaking to her through a screen, argue with Bhai in the same room instead of over a call, and walk through a house I had spent almost my entire life trying to remember.
"Haan, Vedika, ek baat dhyaan se sunna."
(Vedika, listen to one thing carefully.)
The sudden seriousness in Papa's voice made me straighten.
"Khud se airport se mansion mat aana. Veeranshu tumhe lene aa jayega."
(Do not leave the airport for the mansion by yourself. Veeranshu will come to pick you up.)
My excitement deflated almost immediately.
"Papa."
"Vedika—"
"I am twenty-four years old."
"I know."
"Then why does everyone still behave like I'm four?"
"Because situation waisi nahi hai."
(Because the situation isn't that simple.)
My brows pulled together.
"What situation?"
Silence.
There it was again.
A warning without an explanation.
"Papa?"
"Bas meri baat maan lo. Please."
(Just listen to me. Please.)
I rubbed my temple.
"Jaanvi mere saath hai. What exactly do you think is going to happen between the airport and the mansion?"
His next words came quieter.
"Kahin tumhe kuch ho gaya toh main jeete-ji mar jaunga."
(If anything happens to you, I'll die while still alive.)
I shut my eyes.
There it was.
His favourite weapon.
"Papa, you always emotionally blackmail me."
"Kya?"
(What?)
"You heard me."
He gave an offended sound. "Main tumhara baap hoon. Yeh mera haq hai."
(I'm your father. It is my right.)
"That is not how parenting works."
"I'm older than you."
"That doesn't automatically make you right."
"I'm a politician."
I stared at the phone.
"That somehow makes your argument worse."
His laughter finally broke through my irritation, and despite myself, I smiled too.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal.
Then my eyes drifted back to the mirror, and the unanswered questions returned.
The dream.
Maa's silence.
Papa refusing to tell me why travelling alone from an airport worried him this much.
Twenty years of being kept away.
Maybe going back to India would finally force everyone to stop avoiding the truth.
"Fine," I sighed. "I'll wait for Bhai."
"That's my girl."
The relief in his voice was immediate.
Too immediate.
I noticed that as well.
"Aur certificates rakh liye?"
(And have you packed your certificates?)
"Yes."
"Passport?"
"Yes."
"Documents?"
"Yes, Papa."
"Phone charger?"
My gaze slowly moved towards the charger still plugged into the wall beside my bed.
I remained silent.
Papa sighed.
"I knew it."
"I was going to pack it."
"Of course."
"I was!"
"Haan, haan."
(Yes, yes.)
I laughed.
"Okay, I genuinely need to finish packing now. Otherwise India pahunchne ke bajaye main yahin apne shoes ke beech mar jaungi."
(Otherwise, instead of reaching India, I'll die here surrounded by my shoes.)
"Tumhare shoes ke obsession ka kuch nahi ho sakta."
(There is no cure for your obsession with shoes.)
"Please don't insult my collection."
"Theek hai, meri jaan. Khayal rakhna apna."
"You too. See you tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
The word stayed with me even after the call disconnected.
I held the phone against my chest for a moment and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, I would see my parents.
Tomorrow, I would meet Bhai properly after twenty years.
Tomorrow, I would finally return to the place I had spent almost my entire life calling home without ever truly living there.
The nightmare still lingered somewhere inside me, along with Maa's suspicious silence and Papa's strange insistence about the airport, but for that moment, my excitement was louder.
A sudden knock sounded at the door.
I quickly wiped beneath my eyes before crossing the room and opening it.
Jaanvi stood outside wearing a triumphant grin, while twelve-year-old Advait looked as though someone had personally ruined his entire life.
"Di, meri packing ho gayi."
(Sister, my packing is done.)
I stared at my eighteen-year-old cousin.
"You?"
Her brows lifted. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"You take an hour to decide which T-shirt to wear."
"That is called having standards."
Advait pushed past her before I could reply.
"Aap dono bohot buri ho."
(You both are very mean.)
I blinked.
"What did I do?"
"You both are leaving me here."
His lower lip pushed into a dramatic pout, but the hurt underneath it was real enough to soften me immediately.
I bent slightly and pulled his cheeks.
"Mera chhota sher naraz hai?"
(Is my little lion angry?)
"Yes."
"You can come during summer vacation."
"That's still days away."
"You'll survive."
"I might not."
"So dramatic."
"I learned from you."
I gasped.
Jaanvi burst out laughing.
"See? Even he knows."
"Both of you can leave my room."
Advait's pout returned immediately.
I sighed, reached into the pocket of my hoodie and slipped some cash into his hand.
His entire face changed.
"Di?"
"This month's pocket money is from me."
His fingers immediately curled around the notes.
"But Bua doesn't find out."
He nodded solemnly.
"Secret."
"Exactly."
"Waise, kaunsa secret hai jo mujhe nahi pata?"
(By the way, what secret is this that I don't know?)
My body stiffened.
Advait froze beside me.
Jaanvi, the coward, immediately took one step away.
I slowly looked towards the door. Bua stood there with her arms folded, while Phuphaji watched us from behind her with obvious amusement. Her narrowed eyes moved from my face to Advait's suspiciously closed fist.
I smiled.
"Kuch nahi, Bua."
(Nothing, Aunt.)
"Vedika."
"Really."
Her eyebrow rose.
I had inherited absolutely nothing from this woman biologically, yet somehow one look from her still made me feel like a child caught stealing chocolate before dinner.
Before she could interrogate us further, I remembered the one escape available to me.
"Uncle, Papa asked you to call him. He said it was important."
His expression immediately became serious.
"Viraj ne?"
(Viraj did?)
I nodded.
He checked his watch before looking at the room behind me.
"Tumhari packing ho gayi? Chaar ghante mein flight hai."
(Is your packing done? Your flight is in four hours.)
Everyone turned towards the disaster surrounding me.
I slowly stepped sideways, trying to block their view.
"It looks worse than it is."
Jaanvi snorted.
Advait peered around me and stared inside.
"Di, yeh room hai ya fish market?"
(Sister, is this a room or a fish market?)
I looked down at him.
"You know that pocket money?"
His grin disappeared immediately.
"Beautiful room, Di."
Bua laughed and walked past me before I could threaten him further.
"Chalo, main help karti hoon."
(Come on, I'll help.)
"You don't have to."
She was already pulling one of the suitcases closer.
Of course she was.
Bua had never waited for me to ask for anything.
She simply noticed.
For twenty years, she had noticed everything. The fever I tried hiding because I did not want to miss school, the projects I remembered at midnight, the first heartbreak I pretended had not affected me and every single night that stupid nightmare had left me crying until morning.
She had never tried to replace Maa.
She had simply loved me like another daughter.
Watching her fold my clothes with the same care she had once used while packing my school bags made something tighten unexpectedly inside my chest.
I was finally going home.
So why did leaving her feel like I was leaving one behind?
"Di."
Jaanvi's voice pulled me from my thoughts.
I turned towards the closet and found her standing in front of my shoe rack with an expression of genuine horror.
"Please tell me you're not taking all these."
I stared at her.
"Obviously I am."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"India mein heels nahi milte kya?"
I walked over and picked up one of my favourite pairs of stilettos.
"These are not just heels."
She waited.
"I spent years collecting them."
"That still makes them heels."
"You wouldn't understand."
Bua shook her head behind us.
"Jitne suitcase mein aaye, utne hi jayenge."
(Only as many as fit inside the suitcase are going.)
I turned towards her in betrayal.
"Bua."
"No negotiations."
Traitor.
Still, within the next twenty minutes, with Bua and Jaanvi actually helping and Advait mostly contributing useless commentary, the room finally began resembling a place a human being could live in again.
By the time I returned after changing, the suitcases had already been taken downstairs.
I stopped near the dressing table and looked at myself one last time.
A little concealer had hidden most of the redness beneath my eyes. My hair was tied back neatly, and nothing about my reflection suggested that less than an hour ago I had been crying over a faceless boy from a dream I did not understand.
Good.
No one needed to know.
I picked up my phone and followed the others downstairs.
The moment I reached the entrance, the reality of leaving settled over me in a way it had not while packing.
This house had been my entire world for twenty years.
I knew every corner of it, every creaking stair, every hiding place Advait used after breaking something and every room Jaanvi invaded whenever she was bored. Most of the memories I actually trusted had been made beneath this roof.
Canada was familiar.
Safe.
And somewhere inside that familiarity was Kian.
The thought of him made my chest tighten slightly.
He had left for Spain that morning. Yesterday, he had practically dragged me away from packing because apparently twenty years of friendship entitled him to one final day together before we travelled in opposite directions.
I had not argued very hard.
Saying no to Kian had never been one of my talents.
We had spent hours revisiting our favourite cafe, walking through familiar streets and pretending neither of us was thinking about goodbye.
Now he was already gone.
"Vedika."
Bua's voice brought me back.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me.
I hugged her immediately.
"Khayal rakhna apna."
(Take care of yourself.)
There was a tremor in her voice.
"You too."
I held her tighter.
"And please don't cry, or I'll start again."
"Main kyun roungi? Tum kuch dino ke liye hi toh ja rahi ho."
(Why would I cry? You're only going away for a few days.)
I smiled against her shoulder.
We both knew she was lying.
Neither of us knew how long I would stay in India.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes were wet.
I pointed at them.
"Liar."
She ignored me and cupped my face instead.
"Phone karna."
(Call me.)
"Every day."
"Every day matlab every day."
(Every day means every day.)
"Yes, ma'am."
Advait stood a few feet away with both hands shoved into his pockets, suddenly far quieter than the boy who had spent the last half hour making fun of my room.
I walked towards him and pulled a gaming card from my jacket.
His head lifted immediately.
"Yeh mere liye hai?"
(Is this for me?)
"No, obviously I bought it for myself."
He frowned.
I laughed and placed it in his hand.
"Yes, idiot. It's for you."
His entire face brightened before he threw his arms around my waist.
"Love you, Di."
"Love you more."
I ran my fingers through his hair.
"And don't trouble Bua."
He pulled away with an offended expression.
"Main kab pareshan karta hoon?"
(When do I ever trouble her?)
Everyone stared at him.
He cleared his throat.
"Theek hai. Thoda."
(Fine. A little.)
A laugh escaped me, easing some of the heaviness gathering in my chest.
A few minutes later, I was sitting inside the car beside Jaanvi, watching through the rear window as the house slowly disappeared behind us. For the first time since Papa had asked me to return, I understood that I was not merely travelling to India.
I was leaving the only home I clearly remembered to return to one I barely did.
Jaanvi quietly placed her hand over mine.
"You'll be fine, Di."
I looked at her and smiled.
"I know."
I was not entirely sure whether I believed myself.
Halfway to the airport, Uncle turned slightly from the front passenger seat.
"Vedika, ek baat yaad rakhna."
(Vedika, remember one thing.)
"What?"
"Flight mein kisi unknown person se unnecessarily baat mat karna."
(Do not unnecessarily speak to strangers on the flight.)
My brows pulled together.
"Seriously?"
His expression did not change.
"Please."
Something about the seriousness in his voice wiped the amusement from mine.
"Why?"
"Bas meri baat maan lo."
(Just listen to me.)
I leaned back against the seat.
Another warning.
Papa did not want me leaving the airport without Veeranshu Bhai. Uncle did not want me speaking to strangers. Bodyguards had followed me for most of my life. Public photographs of me were discouraged, and very few people even knew that Viraj Shekhawat had a daughter.
Everyone seemed desperate to protect me.
Yet nobody had ever bothered telling me what they were protecting me from.
Jaanvi leaned closer.
"Di, aapko nahi lagta sab thoda zyada overprotective behave kar rahe hain?"
(Sister, don't you think everyone is behaving a little too overprotectively?)
I gave her a flat look.
"A little?"
She grinned.
"Maybe India pahunchte hi kidnappers line mein khade honge."
(Maybe kidnappers will be standing in a queue the moment you reach India.)
"Very comforting, Jaanvi."
"You're welcome."
I turned towards the window, but my smile faded within seconds.
Four years old.
Canada.
A lake I was apparently not supposed to remember.
A boy whose face my mind refused to show me.
Twenty years spent hidden from a country I had been born in.
And now, suddenly, everyone wanted me back.
Why?
The question followed me all the way to the airport.
By the time we completed baggage drop and security and reached the waiting area near our gate, excitement had managed to push the uneasiness aside again.
I checked the time for what was probably the tenth time.
Jaanvi sighed dramatically.
"Di, flight jaldi nahi aa jayegi baar-baar time dekhne se."
(Sister, the flight won't arrive sooner just because you keep checking the time.)
"I know."
"Then stop."
"I can't."
"Why?"
I looked through the large glass windows towards the aircraft waiting outside.
"I'm excited."
Her expression softened.
"I know."
I smiled and leaned back.
Somewhere beyond that aircraft was the family I had spent twenty years missing.
Bhai would be waiting for me at the airport.
Maa and Papa would be waiting at the mansion.
And perhaps somewhere inside that house were the answers everyone had spent years refusing to give me.
The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal.
Jaanvi immediately jumped to her feet.
"Di, jaldi."
(Sister, hurry.)
I laughed as I stood.
"You were literally telling me to stop checking the time thirty seconds ago."
"That was before boarding started."
She caught my wrist and pulled me towards the gate.
A while later, I settled into my seat beside the window while Jaanvi sat across the aisle, close enough to continue irritating me throughout the flight.
She looked at me and waved dramatically.
"Bye, Di."
I stared at her.
"You're literally one seat away."
"Still. Bye."
I shook my head, laughing.
"Bye, idiot."
As the aircraft began moving, I turned towards the window.
The airport lights blurred beyond the glass while the familiar city slowly began disappearing behind me.
Excitement filled me first.
Warm, overwhelming and almost childish.
Tomorrow, I would finally be home.
I should have felt nothing except happiness.
Instead, as the plane lifted higher and Canada disappeared beneath the clouds, the same uneasiness returned. I rested my head against the seat and looked out at the endless darkness beyond the window.
In a few hours, I would finally return to the place I had spent almost my entire life longing for.
I just did not know yet whether I was going home...
or walking straight back into whatever had forced my family to send me away twenty years ago.
Shekhawat Mansion
Indira had been uneasy ever since Viraj made that call.
"Aapne Vedika ko kis liye bulaya hai use pata nahi hai. Agar use pata chalegi toh kya sochegi woh—humne jhoot kaha use, ki hume uski bohut yaad aarahi thi." (Vedika doesn't know why you've called her back. What will she think when she learns the truth? We lied and told her that we missed her terribly.)
Viraj looked at her.
"Toh main aur kya kehta? Ki main uski shaadi karwane ke liye bula raha hu?" (What else was I supposed to say? That I was calling her back to get her married?)
Veeranshu stopped in the doorway.
"Kya? Aapne Vedika ki shaadi fix kar di? Use bina bataye?" (What? You fixed Vedika's marriage without even telling her?)
The warmth completely vanished from Viraj's face.
"Veeranshu, jo jaante nahi ho us bare mein kuch mat kaho. Uski bhalayi ke liye kiya hai maine." (Veeranshu, don't speak about matters you know nothing about. I did this for her own good.)
Veeranshu couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Toh ab Viraj Shekhawat ko apni hi beti ko ghar bulane ke liye jhoot bolna pad raha hai?" (So now Viraj Shekhawat has to lie just to bring his own daughter home?)
A bitter smile crossed his face.
"Aur dhoke se uski shaadi bhi karwa doge?" (And you'll trick her into getting married too?)
Viraj looked at him.
"Awaaz neeche rakho! Bhulo mat kiske samne khade ho tum!" (Lower your voice! Don't forget who you're standing in front of!)
Veeranshu met his father's gaze.
"Toh aapko bhi soch samajhkar baatein karna chahiye. Main hargiz Vedika ke saath yeh nahi hone dunga." (Then you should think before you speak too. I will never let this happen to Vedika.)
Viraj didn't seem affected by the threat.
"Tum kuch nahi karoge." (You won't do anything.)
"Woh toh waqt batayega, Mr. Viraj Shekhawat." (Time will tell, Mr. Viraj Shekhawat.)
He walked out.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Viraj was quiet for a moment.
"Dekha Indira, kaise baat ki tumhare bete ne mujhse?" (Did you see how your son spoke to me, Indira?)
Indira sighed.
"Toh Veer galat bhi toh nahi keh raha tha." (But Veer wasn't wrong either.)
Viraj walked over to the window.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
"Ek na ek din sabko pata chal hi jayega." (Sooner or later, everyone will find out.)
He was quiet for a moment.
"Main Vedika ko zyada din tak chhupa nahi paunga." (I won't be able to keep Vedika hidden for much longer.)
"Toh ab kisi ko pata nahi chalega kya? Ki woh hamari beti hai? Aapne kabhi use wapas nahi aane diya... bees saal beet gaye." (So no one will know even now that she is our daughter? You never allowed her to come back... twenty years have passed.)
For the first time that evening, Viraj looked tired.
"Tum bhi jaanti ho main bebas tha, aur aaj bhi hu." (You know I was helpless, and I still am.)
"Par hume kabhi maaf nahi karegi Vedika, jab use sach ka pata lagega." (But Vedika will never forgive us when she learns the truth.)
"Woh main sambhal lunga, tum tension mat karo." (I'll handle that. Don't worry.)
Viraj moved back towards the desk.
"Jab tak uski shaadi na ho jaye, duniya ko pata nahi chalega ki woh hamari beti hai." (Until she is married, the world will not know that she is our daughter.)
"Mere dushmano ki kami nahi hai. Sab mauke ki talaash mein rehte hain." (I have no shortage of enemies. They're all waiting for an opportunity.)
Viraj's voice hardened.
"Aur Suryavanshi toh intezaar mein baithe hain." (And the Suryavanshis are already waiting.)
Indira couldn't shake off the uneasiness settling in her chest.
"Mujhe kyun ghabrahat si ho rahi hai?" (Why do I feel so uneasy?)
Viraj walked over to her.
"Itna mat socho, kuch nahi hoga." (Don't overthink it. Nothing will happen.)
"Vedika Shekhawat is back."
The room fell silent.
Twenty years had changed a lot.
Apparently, not enough.
This time, he had no intention of letting her go.
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