Chapter 3: Childhood Bonds and Rivalries

Arjun and I have been neighbours since childhood—our flats opposite each other on the third floor, a sunlit corridor separating us. Most evenings, Arjun’s mother would holler for him to come inside while Amma scolded me for muddying my clothes. We were always together, always up to mischief.

I’m just an ordinary human, but he’s a fox shapeshifter. He was never allowed to forget it. On hot afternoons, I’d tease him, "Arre Arjun, acting like a puppy again!" He’d sulk, but I knew he liked the attention.

Our society claimed all kinds of races coexisted peacefully. In reality, there were always whispers. Whenever a non-human family moved in, elders would mutter behind their chai. On paper, everyone was equal. Diwali, Eid, Christmas—we celebrated together, sharing sweets if not always acceptance.

But there were always prejudices. I remembered the looks Arjun’s mother got at AGMs, the way uncles hesitated to invite Arjun to birthday parties. But we ignored it. In our gang, there were no labels, no barriers.

When we were kids, Arjun was bullied by others. I still remembered the day older boys stole his tiffin, calling him "bhediya ka bachcha." Arjun had stood there, fists clenched, eyes shining with unshed tears. That was the first time I ever threw a punch. Amma scolded me, but secretly she was proud—"My Priya never lets injustice win," she’d tell neighbours.

I’d pat his not-yet-grown ears, telling him they were cute, not freakish. He’d sniffle, wipe his nose, and let me ruffle his hair. "Dekh, one day you’ll be famous for these ears!" I’d tease. His smile would come back, slow and shy.

So Arjun stuck to me, playing only with me. We became inseparable. On Rakhi, he’d tie me one back, giggling about "equality."

Until Kunal showed up.

Kunal came quietly, like the monsoon—soft and sudden. His family rented the old Kapoor bungalow. No one noticed him at first except me. He first came to our house as a guest; elders told him to play with me and Arjun. Amma served us jalebis. Kunal sat quietly, nibbling his, barely making eye contact. "He’s a shy one," Amma whispered. "Go make him feel at home, beta."

A child’s circle is small, and Kunal was an outsider. Our world began and ended with us. Anyone new was a threat—especially for Arjun, who watched Kunal with narrowed eyes.

Arjun was openly hostile. Even as we pretended to play ludo, his tail would lash, his ears flattening when Kunal got close.

But I liked making new friends, so I reached out to Kunal, touching his slightly cool hand. He blushed, panting and retreating. His cheeks flushed an unnatural red. Suddenly, I saw Kunal sprout small sharp horns and a slender black tail—furless, smooth, heart-shaped at the tip.

I was too shocked to speak. It was like something from a mythological serial—one moment a regular boy, the next, transformed. My heart thudded painfully. I fell on my bum and started bawling. The shock was too much. Amma came running, scolding me and fussing over Kunal, who looked even more miserable.

I liked furry things; those without fur weren’t cute at all. In my childish mind, softness meant safety. Kunal’s sharp horns and smooth tail frightened me, made him seem distant, though he looked just as lost as I felt.

So I disliked Kunal, the asura. For weeks, I avoided him, hiding behind Amma’s sari. But he kept coming, every weekend, sitting quietly in a corner, tracing patterns on the floor with his tail.

Even if I didn’t want to play, he’d curl up in a corner all day. My heart softened a little, but the distance remained.

Later, as we grew up, my dislike faded. By college, he was just another face—someone to nod at during society meetings. But he never tried to get close. Not like Arjun.

But in my heart, Arjun always came first. He was the one I turned to, the one who knew my favourite ice cream, who remembered my birthday, who made me laugh even on the worst days.

But now, that world was crumbling. The truth burned inside me, sharp and cold. Arjun had admitted I was just a tool to defeat Kunal. Why? The question echoed, desperate and raw. Why would he do this to me? To Kunal?

A boy’s voice, young and nasal: "Bhaiya, seriously, isn’t Priya your little childhood sweetheart? Why do you hate her so much? And Kunal, what did he do to offend you? He clearly doesn’t like Priya, yet insists on competing with you for her?"

They were discussing me like a cricket trophy. My hands balled into fists. Arjun snorted, voice tinged with resentment. "That tomboy Priya has been clinging to me since we were kids, always wanting me to show my ears and tail, treating me like a pet dog. Why wouldn’t I hate her?"

His words stung. I remembered all those times I’d begged him to let me braid his tail, to play fetch, to race up the stairs. Did he really hate me for that?

"And she’s so gullible. I kept her dangling, told her I hadn’t reached adulthood yet and couldn’t get close to her, and she actually believed it. Hahaha! We shapeshifters are naturally gifted—I’ve been an adult and dating for ages, had over a dozen girlfriends already..."

A cruel laughter echoed. My cheeks burned with shame and anger.

"As for Kunal, hmph, I just don’t like him. Just an asura, a low-level creature—what right does he have to be better than me? He even dared to warn me not to hurt Priya. Of course I won’t let him off easy."

A memory flashed: Kunal, small and silent, standing between me and bullies. Maybe, all along, he’d been trying to protect me.

"You guys don’t know, do you? Kunal’s feelings for Priya go beyond a simple crush. Priya is his destined partner. When they first met at age five, Kunal couldn’t control himself and transformed because he met his destined mate."

The truth, so casually tossed out, took my breath away. "He looked so ugly then—how could Priya possibly like him?"

The memory of Kunal’s first transformation—his frightened eyes, my tears—made sense now. I felt a pang of guilt, sharp and unexpected.

"I held back my disgust and kept Priya hanging just to annoy Kunal. Tsk tsk, Kunal is already twenty-five and only now entering adulthood. Isn’t it because Priya refuses to get close to him..."

The full weight of his words crashed down. Everything—every joke, every cruelty, every distance—it all fit together. Because of me, Kunal had suffered.

My heart felt struck by a hammer. I leaned harder against the wall, fighting tears. How could I have been so blind? So selfish?

So that first meeting, when Kunal suddenly grew horns and a tail—it was because I was his destined partner?

The realisation left me shaken, knees threatening to give way. Was this what it meant to be someone’s fate?

And now, Arjun had tricked me here just to torment Kunal. All those years of rivalry, all those petty fights—had it all been about this?

From what they said, the one truly suffering through adulthood is actually Kunal...

My mind raced, trying to piece together what I’d missed. Had I ever truly seen Kunal—really seen him?

"Bhaiya, but what if Priya comes and finds out you’re fine?"

"What else? Act cute and she’ll fall for it. I know Priya—she’s easy to coax. At worst, I’ll let her pet my tail for a bit. So annoying. Afterwards I’ll have to wash it thoroughly—if my fur picks up her scent, the others will make a fuss."

His voice was dismissive, cold. The boy I’d thought I loved—was he always this heartless?

A chorus of laughter followed, cruel and dismissive. I felt small, exposed.

Ha. So he’s just a fickle fox after all.

I steadied myself, didn’t push open the lounge door or storm in to confront him. My legs shook, but I forced myself to breathe, to remain still. Barging in wouldn’t change anything. I was done being their pawn.

I looked at my phone. It was already one in the morning. The screen glowed, mocking me. My heart pounded, heavy and slow. It had been fifty minutes since Kunal messaged me. Regret churned in my stomach. Had I already let it become too late?