Chapter 7: Outcast

During the day, I wandered the streets. I would walk aimlessly past paan shops and crowded bus stops, blending into the noise of the city. Sometimes I’d buy a vada pav, eating it on a bench in the park.

At night, as soon as it got dark, I returned to the hotel to sleep. The streets outside buzzed with life—auto rickshaws honking, vendors calling out. But my room was silent, a world apart.

I stayed in the hotel for a week, but my mother still hadn't told me to come home. Each night, I checked my phone, hoping for a message. The screen stayed dark.

I had run out of money. My purse was empty, except for a few coins and a faded picture of my family from years ago.

I sent my mother a message on WhatsApp—Fingers trembling, I typed: “Amma, can I come back?” Only to find that she had blocked me. A dull ache settled in my chest. I stared at the green tick turning grey, wishing for even a forwarded good morning message.

At noon, I sat in the hotel lobby, lost in thought. The air-conditioning made my fingers numb. I stared out at the garden, watching pigeons peck at crumbs.

From a distance, I saw a handsome man and a beautiful woman standing by the indoor garden entrance. Even from far, I could sense the familiarity in the curve of his shoulders, the tilt of her head.

The man stood tall, his back to me, so I could only see his broad, straight shoulders. A familiar ache bloomed in my chest. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

The woman had a graceful figure, wearing an elegant saree, her face upturned in a smile at the man. The saree shimmered under the lights, blue silk with tiny sequins that caught the sun. But I could only see half of her profile. Even that was enough to recognize my sister.

I shook my head, wanting to see more clearly. I blinked, trying to push away the fog in my mind. But these days, I always had headaches, and everything seemed shrouded in a fog. My temples throbbed, vision swimming. It only made the scene before me feel more dreamlike.

I picked up my phone and took a picture of that beautiful moment. Maybe I just wanted proof that beauty like theirs could exist so close to me and yet so far away.

But I actually forgot to turn off the flash, and the shutter sound was at its loudest. The bright flash startled even the pigeons. I fumbled, cheeks burning.

They both noticed me immediately. Their eyes zeroed in on me, and I froze, phone clutched in sweaty hands. The man's jaw tightened. He looked ready to explode. I shrank back, wishing for invisibility. The look he gave me was anything but friendly. It was cold, like a slap in winter.

I watched as the two of them walked toward me, my heart pounding with anxiety. My mouth went dry. I gripped the edge of the sofa, breath shallow. Until Arjun and Priya stood over me, looking down. I felt small, like a child caught stealing sweets.

"Megha, why are you here?" Arjun's voice was still as cold as ever. His tone left no room for argument. I shrank into the cushion. I looked at Priya, too scared to speak. She glared, lips pressed in a tight line. I wished she would look anywhere but at me.

Arjun stretched out his long hand. His fingers were strong, unyielding. "Hand over your phone."

I timidly handed it to him. My hand shook so much the phone nearly slipped. Strangely, he knew my password. He swiped through my phone with the confidence of someone who’d done it before, making me wonder how much he already knew about my life.

I frowned, trying to remember ever telling him. But my mind drew a blank. Even I didn't know what those six digits meant. I had tried all my family members' birthdays, but none matched.

Arjun found the photo, his eyes narrowing dangerously. His thumb moved quickly, deleting it with practiced ease.

"Why did you secretly take a picture? Megha, what are you trying to do to Priya? Are you still trying to harm her?" His words struck like a whip. I shrank back, shaking my head. I shook my head frantically, so anxious I nearly burst into tears. My breath came in gasps. I pressed my lips together to stop them from trembling.

"No, I didn't." The words barely made it out. I sounded as lost as I felt.

I knew my sister was better than me. Even as a child, I watched her win everything while I stood in her shadow. I was so mediocre, I never thought of competing with her for anything. In our world, there was space for only one star, and it was never me.

But my mother said I once showed up at my sister's new serial launch in formal attire. She’d told relatives later, “What was she thinking? Always wants attention.”

Some reporters said that I looked similar to my sister, but our temperaments were completely different. My sister was noble and pure. I was quirky, pure, and kind.

But my kindness never seemed to matter. In every comparison, I fell short. They said I had a wider acting range. So the lead role my sister had landed suddenly changed hands.

I never understood how. One day I was a guest, the next I was accused of stealing her spotlight. In the end, I didn't get to act either. My dreams vanished like steam, leaving only resentment behind.

But my sister lost her chance to become a top actress. She never forgave me. Not really. So my sister hated me, hated that I stole everyone's attention, hated that I couldn't stand to see her succeed.

It didn’t matter how hard I tried to apologize. The rift only grew wider. No matter how I explained, no one believed me. The more I spoke, the more they turned away, eyes full of disappointment.

During that time, everyone targeted me. My family took turns expressing their disappointment. Even the househelp started speaking to me differently. I was a stranger in my own home. That suffocating feeling—It was like a nightmare. Each day bled into the next, cold and dark.

I never wanted to go through it again. Never.

"Please believe me, I didn't." I clung helplessly to Arjun's sleeve, begging him in despair. My tears fell freely now. I didn’t care who saw.

He frowned and said: His eyes searched my face, as if weighing my words. "Megha, are you still pretending? You never lost your memory, did you?" His words cut deeper than any wound. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to deny it—or confess everything.