Chapter 6: The Bungalow

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6

Living back in our big bungalow feels incredible.

Waking to birdsong, sunlight streaming through tall windows—every day is a gift. The gardener waters the tulsi plant by the verandah, and the maid’s bangles jingle as she sets the breakfast table. The bell from the puja room tinkles softly. I feel like I’m in a dream.

No more early morning veggie runs or washing clothes by hand.

Aunty Suman brings hot aloo parathas for breakfast, laundry is magically folded by evening. I finally have time to think and breathe.

My bank account overflows; rent and bills are worries of the past.

Ma made sure every bill was paid. My old anxieties faded with every credit alert.

She even set up a study just for me.

The room is airy, full of the scent of new books and sandalwood polish. A carved desk, shelves of novels, a reading nook with plush cushions.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a top computer—everything I need.

I even found an old photo of Papa and me tucked into the desk, a quiet reminder of his dreams for me.

Every morning, I sunbathe by the window, do yoga, and enjoy lavish lunches with Ma.

We gossip, share fruits, laugh over old jokes. The afternoons are for shopping, lessons in horseback riding, yoga, and golf.

Old friends call, invites to charity galas and shopping sprees come in. Evenings are for high tea, long walks on the lawn, endless conversations.

At night, a glass of wine, a soak in the bathtub, and a sound therapist Ma hired to help me sleep.

She plays gentle ragas and ocean sounds. I drift off without nightmares. Slowly, the ache in my heart is healing.

My health—body and mind—has never been better.

I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. My smile is finally real.

Meanwhile, Priya’s hiatus dragged on and online dissatisfaction grew.

On my burner Insta, I watched the drama unfold with a glass of lassi.

People started to question:

[Can Priya actually write?]

[Could what Ananya said be true?]

[Why stop updating at the height of popularity? No professionalism at all.]

[Is she just playing us? Refund us now!]

The tide turned. Even Priya’s loyalists began to doubt. Meme pages switched sides. Schadenfreude tasted sweet.

Priya panicked, logging on more and more.

She posted cryptic stories, hinted at comebacks. But the harder she tried, the more obvious her struggle.

I knew her well—she was always spoiled, never truly talented. Writing was torture for her.

She’d try, hunched over her laptop, chewing her pen in frustration.

And this book was all my real experiences—a hopeless old crush.

No one could fake the messy, bittersweet feelings I’d poured in.

Even Kabir could only feed her scraps.

He never understood what made my stories tick.

So under pressure, Priya forced out a chapter with Kabir’s help.

It was a disaster—flat dialogue, clumsy twists. Readers called it out. Hashtags like #PriyaFlopChapter and #GhostwriterExposed trended.

Numbers plummeted, angry comments flooded in, and she deleted it almost immediately.

Screenshots flew around WhatsApp family groups. A distant cousin sent a meme about me; my chachi replied with a scolding: 'Bas karo, bacchon ki zindagi se mat khelo.' Even the elders were involved now.

Then Priya played the victim on Instagram—hospital selfies, IV drips, a single dramatic tear. Even media started to doubt.

But she also promised a big work at the Mumbai fan meet.

She begged for support, promising an 'exclusive reading.' The comments split—some worried, some mocking.

That day, I was shopping at Hermès, debating which bag matched my new outfit, when Meera messaged:

Standing before a wall of clutches, my phone buzzed. Meera’s name made my heart leap. Was this my chance for justice, or just another trap?

[Ananya, I see your IP is in Mumbai, and I’m here on business too. Let’s talk. Maybe I’ve misunderstood you.]

My thumb hovered over the reply button. Was this my chance for justice, or just another trap?