Chapter 1: The Crack of a Secret

News broke like a Diwali cracker: Kabir Mehra, the colony’s most eligible bachelor, had a secret wife and a daughter.

In the hush that followed, aunties leaned over their balconies, chai cups in hand, WhatsApp pings lighting up their phones as they whispered, ‘Arrey, did you hear? Kabir Mehra, that stone-faced boy, has a wife and child?’ The news raced through beauty parlours and kitty parties, catching fire in every corner of our Mumbai colony.

Kabir wasted no time coming forward to set the record straight.

"There’s no secret marriage, no daughter. Everyone knows—Kabir Mehra has always been single."

His voice, clipped and steady, rang out from the television like the snap of a lawyer’s file. The scrolling ticker below blared: 'Kabir Mehra dismisses rumours of secret marriage.'

I stared at his cold, handsome face on the screen, then at my daughter—her eyes red and confused, silently crying.

The silence in the drawing room was thick, broken only by the distant honking of an auto-rickshaw outside. Pari sat cross-legged on the sofa, clutching her stuffed bunny, her tiny fingers twisting the rabbit’s ear the way she did when scared. Her gaze flickered between the TV and me, searching for comfort.

Years of longing and attachment faded away in that instant.

The ache inside me was so old it felt almost familiar. But this time, something gave way—like a coconut finally cracking open after too many knocks. The love I had clung to, the hope that Kabir would one day claim us, slipped away with each of Pari’s trembling sobs.

When he came home, I didn’t take my daughter out to greet him as I used to, nor did I wait with excited anticipation for our reunion, even after a brief separation.

Gone were the days of waiting with my hair oiled and neatly plaited, adjusting the pallu of my saree and nudging Pari to stand straight by the shoe rack. This time, the house was quiet, our hearts even more so.

Instead, I opened the few messages I had received once again: a record of a vasectomy surgery from six days ago, and a single line from Amit: 'Amit had sent me a message: a photo of a hospital record—Kabir’s vasectomy, done just six days ago.'

"As long as you’re willing, from now on, Pari will be my only child."

The message was short, almost businesslike, as if offering a business deal rather than a family. But that one sentence thudded in my chest louder than any drum on Ganesh Chaturthi.

With tears in my eyes, I replied: "Come pick me up. I don’t want to stay in the Mehra family anymore."

My thumb hovered over the send button, heart pounding, as if by pressing it I’d be burning all the bridges behind me. The blue tick appeared instantly, as if fate itself was waiting for me to finally act.