Chapter 5: Coming Home

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5

I called my mom.

My fingers hovered over her contact, then I pressed call. The ringtone—'Mere Ghar Aana Zindagi'—made my eyes sting before she even answered.

We hadn’t spoken in years, but she picked up immediately.

'Anu beta?' Her voice was soft, worried, as if she’d been waiting for this call all along.

Tears poured down my face. The dam broke. The rickshaw driver glanced at me in the mirror but said nothing.

In my last life, from the day I left home after college until my death, I never spoke to my mom again. Not one call, not one festival together. Only silence and regret. Her smile haunted my dreams.

I can’t imagine her pain when she heard I’d died.

I pictured her alone in the big house, surrounded by my photos, holding back tears as relatives whispered.

This time, I just want to be my mom’s pampered little girl.

I wanted to curl into her lap, let her stroke my hair like when I was a child scared of thunder. This time, I’d stay.

'...It’s good you’re coming home. It’s good you’re coming home.'

She repeated it, her voice thick. I heard her bangles clink as she wiped her tears.

Her love gave me strength I thought I’d lost. I hugged my bag and breathed deep.

Soon, I boarded a flight back to Mumbai.

On the plane, a middle-aged uncle in the next seat offered me a toffee. 'Beta, everything will be fine. God tests the good ones.' I smiled, the kindness making my chest ache.

Before boarding, I checked Instagram—Priya had posted another fake-sincere update:

A selfie with smudged kajal, a caption full of performative vulnerability. Hundreds of comments poured in.

[Sorry everyone, I’ll be taking a break from writing for a while. The recent events have left me a bit overwhelmed. Ananya has always been a senior I admire. I want to take some time to adjust.]

Her fans sent hearts and 'get well soon' messages. I almost rolled my eyes.

Meera, my once-caring editor, reposted it:

A glossy graphic, #TeamPriya in bold. Meera’s words were all about 'healing' and 'moving forward'—full PR mode.

[Book fans, please give Priya some time. Next month, we’ll hold a fan meet in Mumbai. All are welcome!]

They were boosting Priya’s popularity, milking the sympathy.

I smiled, switched off my phone, and let myself finally sleep.

The airplane’s hum, the warm blanket, and my mother’s memory lulled me into my first peaceful sleep in years.

When I landed, my mom was waiting with a chauffeur and bodyguards in a white Audi.

She looked regal in a handloom saree, her hair in a bun, diamond studs at her ears. She hugged me tightly, making me feel like a child again.

She said she’d already started PR and legal prep to fight back.

Her voice was firm, her grip strong. The CEO spark was back. I almost felt sorry for Priya and Kabir.

'We’ll pursue this to the end. No one hurts my daughter.' She brushed my hair back, searching my face for new wounds. Her touch was pure love.

I lay in her arms as she stroked my back, her chin resting on my head. Her sari smelled of mogra and sandalwood. I let myself cry, safe at last.

The car was packed with biryani, paneer tikka, my favourite mango lassi.

She’d even brought rasmalai in an insulated tiffin. The aroma made my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten so well in months.

Afraid I was hungry, she’d started preparing the moment I called.

She fussed, piling my plate high, insisting I eat. Every bite tasted like home.

I hugged my mom tightly. For the first time in years, I belonged somewhere.

'Don’t worry, Mom. It’s not worth getting worked up.'

I squeezed her hand, trying to be the brave daughter she remembered.

I smiled. 'Soon, the real plagiarist will get what she deserves.'

She nodded, pride in her eyes. I leaned back, finally daring to hope for justice.