Chapter 1: When Gossip Becomes Destiny

My brother is the autistic male lead—he’s never liked talking since he was a child.

Ever since he was little, words just seemed to get stuck in his throat. Relatives would click their tongues, shaking their heads, muttering to Amma about some pandit’s remedy, while neighbours leaned over the balcony, exchanging looks as if sharing secrets about the latest TV serial. 'Kabir toh baat hi nahi karta, hai na?'—like my brother was some unsolvable puzzle.

Everyone thought I’d somehow cure him, but, unexpectedly—

I wanted to try kanji (fermented rice drink), but didn’t dare, so I had a sudden idea: I ordered a big glass for him and eagerly asked, “Arrey bhaiya, is it good?”

My brother’s hands jerked up, fingers fluttering in the air like he was shooing away a stubborn fly, his gaze darting to the kanji glass as if it might explode. His lips pressed tightly together, and for a moment, his face scrunched up, silently pleading, 'Don’t make me do this.'

When my family started pressuring me about marriage, I got annoyed and started spouting nonsense: “My brother found eight rishtas for me, I haven’t picked one yet.”

My brother’s face flushed red, then turned pale. A bead of sweat appeared near his hairline, and he looked everywhere but at me, as if the tiles on the floor had suddenly become fascinating.

The live comments on my Insta reel flashed endlessly before my eyes:

[Hahaha, little sister, you’re treating the male lead’s autism like a cheat code!]

[Look, the male lead is so anxious he’s about to talk!]

[Autistic male lead: Am I just the family’s professional scapegoat or what?]

The comments kept coming in a flood, mixing Hindi, Hinglish, and English, everyone giving their two paisa like this was a Bigg Boss episode. My thumb hovered over the screen, heart thumping, as the comments scrolled by faster than Diwali firecrackers.

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My brother has been autistic since childhood.

From the very beginning, everyone in our extended family seemed to have some advice: 'Try homeopathy, beta!' or 'Send him to that doctor in Kanpur.' But my parents couldn’t handle two kids, so they sent me—just weaned—to live with my dadi in a small town in Uttar Pradesh.

That one departure lasted seven years.

Every year, when Holi colours filled the streets and gulal drifted into our verandah, or when the smell of firecrackers floated during Diwali, I would wait for a phone call that rarely came, clutching the faded rakhi Dadi had tied on my wrist the last time I’d seen her. Except for Diwali and summer holidays, we hardly ever saw each other.

It wasn’t until I was old enough for school that they brought me home to Lucknow.

The city was bigger than I remembered, the air thick with the smell of diesel, samosas, and ambition.

The day I returned, I immediately saw a thin, young boy standing at the door.

He looked about eleven or twelve, his hair neatly oiled and combed, skin a bit pale, features delicate—only his dark eyes seemed slightly vacant. He gripped the doorframe, standing there uneasily, timidly peering at me.

His kurta looked freshly ironed, probably by Amma, but he clung to the wood like he might melt into it if I looked too long.

Mum held my hand, paused when she saw him, and introduced us: “Riya, this is your brother, Kabir. Come on, call him ‘bhaiya.’”

I pressed my lips together, hadn’t even opened my mouth yet, when suddenly a flood of glowing subtitles flashed before my eyes:

[Here we go, the supporting female character is about to start fighting for affection!]

[Wuwuwu, the male lead is already so miserable, and now he’ll be bullied by his demon sister!]

[I can’t even watch—didn’t she say at their first meeting, ‘I don’t want to call an autistic brother,’ and totally traumatise the male lead?]

[…]

But nobody expected what happened next.

Facing the boy’s faintly expectant eyes, I smiled and sweetly called out, “Bhaiya.”

The moment the words left my mouth, his eyes instantly lit up.

It was as if Diwali diyas had been lit inside those eyes, a tiny spark that made my chest ache for reasons I couldn’t explain.

He shuffled his feet, then looked away, as if embarrassed by his own happiness. I almost wanted to tease him, but held back.