Chapter 1: Shagun and Shadows

When I was a child, every Diwali, my father would take my little sister and me to Uncle Sharma’s house to pay our respects. I would get a crisp thousand-rupee note as shagun—a traditional envelope given to children for good fortune—but Sneha Sharma was never happy. She would snatch my money and sneer, “Shagun chahiye? Pehle kutte ki tarah bhonk ke dikha.”

Even as the sweet smell of incense and ghee lamps filled the Sharma living room, and the faint crackle of diyas flickered in every corner, Sneha’s words cut through the festive warmth like a slap. In that moment, I felt the sting of humiliation more sharply than the sparks from a patakha bursting at my feet. The difference between our families sat on my chest, heavier than the weight of the new kurta my mother had ironed with so much care.

Uncle Sharma was stunned for a moment, then smiled and said to my dad, “Arrey, bachche toh kuch bhi bol dete hain, no need to mind.”

He gave an awkward chuckle, glancing at my father with a half-apologetic, half-superior air, as if to remind us that such things were best laughed off, not taken to heart. The elders exchanged looks, their smiles stretched thin, as the murmur of relatives and distant Lata Mangeshkar songs drifted from the Sharma TV room.

I was furious, but my father secretly kicked me under the table and whispered that I should bark quickly.

His toe jabbed my ankle, sharp and urgent. "Bas, do it and finish, beta," he hissed under his breath, eyes pleading. For a second, I looked around at the elders—forced smiles stuck on their faces, the men’s eyes flickering away, and my mother’s gaze fixed on the floor, her hands twisting her dupatta so tightly the veins stood out. My cheeks burned with shame. My fists clenched under the tablecloth as I struggled to swallow my pride, the way only a child in a grown-up's world can.

My little sister didn’t understand anything. She happily imitated a puppy’s bark, got the shagun, and then begged me to buy her a jalebi from the mithaiwala outside.

Her laughter rang out, bright and oblivious, as she grinned up at me, clutching the crumpled envelope. "Bhaiyya, jalebi chahiye!" she pleaded, eyes shining. It was as if the world’s cruelty had slipped past her entirely, sweet as the syrup dripping from the jalebis swirling in hot oil outside the gate. The mithaiwala outside flipped jalebis in bubbling oil, the air sticky with sugar and the scent of cardamom.

We sat together on the Sharma family’s doorstep. My sister held her jalebi, delighted, and let me take the first bite.

The marble steps were cool against our legs. The night air carried the mixed scents of burnt fireworks, rose petals, and fried snacks from inside. For a moment, as I bit into that sticky spiral, orange syrup trailing down my chin, the world felt normal again—two siblings sharing a Diwali treat beneath strings of blinking fairy lights.