Chapter 2: Shadows at Home

Ever since I came back from abroad, I always felt my mind wasn't working properly. Everything was always slightly out of focus, like I was trying to read without my glasses. Sometimes, in the afternoons, I’d wake up and not remember falling asleep at all. I’d stare at the ceiling fan, trying to piece together the hours I’d lost.

I spent most of my days sleeping. Even when the pressure cooker whistled or the maid swept noisily outside my door, I’d barely stir. The distant clang of utensils and the hiss of tadka felt far away, like echoes from another life.

I thought maybe I was ill. But no fever, no cough—just this bone-deep tiredness I couldn’t shake. Each morning, I told myself I’d do better. Each night, I gave up again.

My mother tried to reassure me. She’d stand in the doorway, arms folded over her faded cotton saree, and say, "You've been a little lazy pig since you were a child, never as self-disciplined as your sister." There was a familiar fondness in her voice, but a shadow of worry in her eyes.

A slight smile played on her lips, softening her words. "It's fine, everyone is different. If you're sleepy, just sleep." But sometimes I caught her looking at me with worry in her eyes, like she was searching for something that had gone missing inside me. The sight of her twisting her pallu made my stomach twist too.

I poured myself a huge cup of strong filter coffee, hoping to wake myself up. The aroma filled the kitchen, rich and earthy, mixing with the faint memory of Amma’s old steel tumbler. I even added two extra spoons of instant coffee, just in case.

But it didn't help at all. I stared into the swirling liquid, willing it to bring me back to life. I tapped my temples, feeling frustrated, when the front door sounded.

The metallic clang of the iron bell echoed through the house, mixing with the distant hiss of the pressure cooker and the scent of tadka. For a moment, everything felt so normal, it hurt.

The househelp announced: "Young Miss has brought Arjun Malhotra home." She lingered a moment, grinning knowingly, before disappearing back to the kitchen to supervise the pressure cooker. Her knowing look made my cheeks heat up.

My parents' eyes instantly lit up with delight. It was as if a filmstar had walked in—my mother began adjusting her saree pleats, and my father patted down his hair, suddenly looking years younger. The excitement was almost embarrassing.

My father hurried out to greet them. He almost tripped over the doormat in his haste, slippers slapping loudly against the marble. I watched, half amused, half resigned.

My mother was about to follow, but suddenly remembered something. She looked at me, troubled, her hands twisting the end of her pallu as she avoided my gaze. Her voice softened, as if she felt guilty even bringing it up.

"Megha, you…"

I nodded obediently. "I know, Arjun doesn't like me." I tried to keep my voice light, as if it didn’t matter. But inside, it stung—like the silent ache after a slap. My fingers tightened around the coffee mug.

"Didi's marriage is important. I'll leave first, I need to catch up on sleep anyway." I tried to smile, but it wobbled. Amma gave a relieved nod, patting my hand softly. Her touch was both comfort and dismissal.

My mother looked at me, yawning, and finally relaxed. She pressed my shoulder gently. "Good girl," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder as if afraid someone would overhear.

I had only walked a few steps before I remembered I hadn't taken my coffee cup. The scent of coffee still lingered, teasing my senses. I hesitated at the doorway, torn between pride and the familiar comfort of caffeine. My phone buzzed with a WhatsApp notification, but it was just another group forward. I stared at it a moment, the emptiness inside me suddenly sharper.

Later, I wanted to try drinking another cup. I thought of adding more sugar this time, just for a change. Maybe sweetness would help.

As I turned around, I accidentally met a cold, piercing gaze. Arjun was standing by the console, hands in his pockets, staring straight at me. For a split second, I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding.

Almost instinctively—

I forgot all about the coffee cup and ran away. My slippers slapped against the floor as I bolted up the stairs, my dupatta fluttering behind me like a flag of surrender.

As if being even a second late would cost me my life. I didn't stop until I was back in my room with the door locked.

I even pushed a table up against it. It was an old study table, heavy with my forgotten schoolbooks and a broken geometry box. I dragged it across the tiles, breathless, my palms slick with sweat.

Only then did my heart, which had been pounding in my throat, finally settle down. I sat on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, palms clammy. I listened for footsteps, but all I could hear was the faint buzz of the ceiling fan.

I can't explain why, but whenever I see Arjun, an overwhelming emotion rises up inside me—fear. I ducked under the table, feeling like a child hiding from a scolding after breaking Amma’s favourite cup.

My mother said it was because Arjun Malhotra was born to be above others, and anyone around him would feel crushed by his presence. She’d say, “Woh toh Malhotra hai, beta. Unke saamne toh bade-bade log hil jaate hain.”

"Let alone you, a natural little weakling." She said it with a mix of fondness and exasperation, but I felt the sting of truth beneath her words. The label fit too well.

My mother told me never to show myself in front of Arjun. "He doesn't like girls who look cute but are actually stupid. His eyes will only linger on outstanding girls like your sister. Do you know what kind of family the Malhotras are? If we can marry into the Malhotra family, that's several generations of effort saved." Her voice was reverent, as if Malhotra was not just a surname, but a magic word.

"Megha, you have to be sensible."

I am very sensible. I would nod, obediently folding my hands in my lap, as if that could make me invisible.

So every time Arjun came to our house, I made sure to avoid him. My mother was very pleased with this and would sometimes pat me on the head. She’d smile, a rare thing, and I’d close my eyes and try to hold the feeling in my heart.

That was the greatest reward for me, and I treasured it. It felt like being blessed by the goddess herself. For a few moments, everything was all right.

So, I never dared tell my mother—Even if she didn't say anything, I would still avoid Arjun on my own. Just the thought of his voice made my stomach twist into knots. My feet would carry me away without a second thought.

The aura he carried was too suffocating. It was like sitting in a crowded Mumbai local at rush hour, unable to breathe, desperate for a sliver of space.

I felt deeply uncomfortable. Crushed. As if my heart was being squeezed tightly in someone's fist. And there was a strange, bitter ache. It was almost like homesickness, but for a place I’d never really belonged to.

Downstairs, the house was full of laughter and happiness. The sound of spoons clinking, distant giggles, and my father’s booming voice floated up to my room. I pressed my face to the pillow, shutting my eyes tight.

Amid that laughter, I fell asleep.