Chapter 6: Ironies and Revelations

Ever since I realised my daughter was reborn thanks to the WhatsApp forwards, I spent my days driving around Mumbai, trying to clear my head.

One day, outside Ananya’s old school, I spotted Kunal kneeling before the principal, begging to audit classes.

A few years back, his parents died after a long ICU struggle. All their savings vanished. Kunal, then just in middle school, had to close their shop and move to his dadi’s village. Now, desperate to get into a good college, he wanted to audit at a city school. But at his rural school, even teachers struggled with the board exam questions.

He’d finally gathered the courage to come to Mumbai, hoping for a chance. Alone in the city, he went from school to school, begging for a shot.

Seeing the principal’s uneasy face, I stepped in. “Let him enrol. I’ll pay his admission and do the paperwork.”

Kunal and I weren’t related. But in that moment, I saw it: what my daughter resented, another child would kneel and beg for.

How ironic.

As I signed the forms in the principal’s office, I glanced at Kunal’s hopeful face. For a moment, I saw the boy my own daughter once was—before she believed the world owed her everything.

After helping Kunal settle in, I returned home. As I reached the door, I heard a ruckus inside and my heart sank.

Opening the door, I nearly fainted.

A bunch of colourful hooligans lounged on my sofa, munching watermelon. Their slippers were scattered across my doormat, leaving muddy prints, and someone had left an empty Frooti packet on the TV stand. Watermelon juice dripped down their tattooed arms onto my couch. The TV blared a Bollywood song, and someone hummed off-key, feet propped on my old table.

"Uncle’s back? Come, sit—don’t be formal. Bhabhi’s making chai, Uncle."

A heavy cloud of Axe body spray and cheap cigarettes mixed with the sticky sweetness of watermelon.

"Who are you people? Why are you in my house?" I snapped, but seeing the spiky-haired Raj on my sofa, I already knew.

A skinny boy with bleached hair nodded at Raj: "We’re all Bhaiya Raj’s friends. Today Bhaiya Raj is here to meet his future father-in-law, and we’re here for support."

"Get out." I glared at Raj, cold.

"What did you say?"

"I said get out."

Raj waved a hand. "Ananya!"

She dashed out, apron on, spatula in hand. "What is it?"

Raj jerked his chin at me. "Didn’t you tell your dad we’re here to discuss the engagement?"

She froze, then mumbled, "I wanted to give Papa a surprise."

"Surprise? He still wants to kick my brothers out."

"Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to." She rushed to appease Raj, voice suddenly soft.

When Raj relented, she turned to me. "Papa, this is my boyfriend, Raj. Our relationship is stable now, so I wanted to bring him home to meet you. From now on, we’ll be family, so please look after him."

Her eyes flicked between us, searching for approval or anger. The kitchen behind her smelled of burnt onions, and for a second, I remembered her mother at that same stove—worrying, fussing, hoping. Now, there were new dramas, new scripts. But as Ananya looked at me, waiting for a reaction, I realised—sometimes, the real villain isn’t in the WhatsApp forwards. Sometimes, he’s just a tired father trying to do what’s right.