Chapter 5: The Battle for Kabir

He dragged me into a room, shut the door, pinned me against the wall, and grabbed my neck. My heart thudded like when the electricity suddenly goes off at night.

He squeezed until my eyes rolled back. I tried to knee him, but before I could, he let go. I clutched my throat, gasping, my voice raspy.

I grabbed a bottle of water, gulped it, then poured the rest over Arjun. His eyes turned red, fists clenched, but he didn’t strike.

I struck first. “Arjun, have you lost your mind? I saved your son! Without me, he’d still be locked up. He’s seven, locked in a dark room—did you ever think he might be scared? Forced to eat what he hates, smile for no one. At his age, he wants nothing. But you indulge yourself, do whatever you want. It was his first time on a carousel, first time at the aquarium, first time in a hot water pool. What have you done as a father? You just let others blame and punish him. You make him feel unloved and easily bullied. I’ve taken such good care of your son—you should give me a bonus, not strangle me!”

Arjun’s voice was icy. “That’s how I grew up. Those are the Arora family rules.”

So the madness is hereditary. Evil passed down, until someone ends it. Kabir’s leap into the sea is the only real ending to these sins.

I sneered. “So just because you got wet, you want to tear up Kabi’s umbrella? If you believe in your family so much, why didn’t your parents come to your wedding?”

Arjun’s face was thunderous. He slammed the door and left.

I realized I knew nothing about Arjun’s parents. I checked my phone for contacts, searching for answers. There was Ritu, the friend who introduced me to Mumbai high society and, step by step, to Arjun.

I pinged her, asking about Arjun’s parents. She replied instantly: “Arrey, Mrs. Arora finally remembers..."

Even through WhatsApp, I could sense her excitement, like every friend hungry for juicy South Mumbai gossip. My phone buzzed, the evening azaan drifting in, while the clatter of utensils came from the kitchen. I waited for Ritu’s reply, the phone warm in my palm, as the evening azaan drifted in. Somewhere in this house, old secrets were waking up.