Chapter 1: The Birthday Wish

For seven years, I was the secret in the shadows of India’s brightest star—a playback singer whose songs made the whole country swoon, except for me.

Even now, as I type these words, I can almost smell the sharp incense from the evening aarti drifting through the cracked window—how odd that some memories remain sharper than reality itself.

On my birthday, he led the chorus in singing the wrong name:

"Ananya, happy birthday."

The room buzzed with warmth—the laughter swirling in the humid Mumbai air, the tang of pineapple cake lingering, and the faint whir of the ceiling fan overhead. But Kabir’s gaze never found mine; his eyes hovered somewhere beyond my shoulder. Ananya wasn’t me. She was his college sweetheart, the first ghost in every song he sang.

Rahul, his brother, smirked as he leaned in close, his voice dripping with mischief:

"Now that Ananya’s back, aren’t you tired of fooling around with a disabled stand-in?"

Kabir reached over and pinched my ear, the way boys do in South Bombay hostels, his tone light and careless:

"Arrey, yaar, let the bachi enjoy for now. Marriage ka drama, we’ll see later."

He didn’t realise my ears had just been healed.

1.

My smile froze, brittle as old glass, as Kabir continued:

"This birthday, just count it as the one I owed Ananya. Now it’s settled."

My cheeks burned, and the air thickened, suddenly stifling. The fairy lights on the walls flickered with the Mumbai power surge, and someone let out a whoop, desperate to chase away the tension. The scent of agarbatti mingled with the sweet tang of pineapple cake, and the ceiling fan above barely stirred the sweat clinging to my neck.

Kabir’s friends—the old South Bombay lot—jostled and snickered, their laughter edged with privilege. One of them locked eyes with me, his grin too sharp:

"Aren’t you afraid she’ll find out?"

Kabir tilted his head, oozing that Bollywood-hero cool:

"Afraid of what? Afraid she’ll cling to me and refuse to let go?"

The laughter that followed was jagged, the kind that leaves bruises.

"Seriously, a deaf girl followed Kabir Bhaiya for seven years. That’s something."

"If she didn’t look a bit like Ananya, would she even have had a chance?"

Through the jeers, Kabir bent down and plonked a birthday hat onto my head.

His face was close—familiar and yet so distant, high-class and untouchable, the kind of face splashed across Bandra Junction billboards, never meant for cramped flats where I’d lit diyas for him every Diwali.

Someone piped up, "But she’s been with you for seven years and she’s pretty. If she runs away… can you really let her go?"

Kabir’s hand trembled, the hat sitting crookedly on my hair. The music from someone’s phone fizzled out. Even Mumbai’s usual chaos hushed for a beat.

He flashed a cold, crooked smile:

"Lock her up. Who said she could run?"

A silence settled over the room, heavy and real.

No one laughed. The Mehra family’s power was no joke—stories whispered about how a single word from them could end a career or silence a cop. Fear prickled in the air.

For what?

Kabir straightened the hat, his brows soft, eyes gentle, but his words cut like a blade.

"I waited for Ananya for seven years, just waiting for her to turn back."

"I wish I could keep her in my heart every day. How could I bear to say a harsh word to her?"

"Keeping a stand-in around at least gives me somewhere to vent my frustration, doesn’t it?"

The laughter came again—at his supposed loyalty, at my supposed foolishness. My chest squeezed tight; the taste of cardamom chai turned bitter on my tongue. Dhol beats thudded from the next building’s party, but none of that festival warmth reached me.

My nails dug crescents into my palm, my body trembling with pain and shame. I fiddled with the edge of my dupatta, twisting it between my fingers to keep from falling apart.

Kabir slung his arm around my shoulders, thrusting his phone in front of me:

[Be good, make a wish. Everyone’s wishing you a happy birthday :D]

His message, with its teasing smirk and empty emoji, was just another performance. I pressed my palms over my ears, the way Ma taught me during thunder, and wished the earth would swallow me up as I blew out the candles.

The sweet, waxy scent mixed with the sting of humiliation.

Everyone cheered again:

"Wishing Ananya a happy birthday!"

I didn’t catch who added, "Wishing Kabir Bhaiya a successful proposal!"

Someone whistled from the corner, another clapped like it was the climax of some Star Plus serial. Kabir sneered: "Didn’t you eat? Why are you all shouting so softly?"

The next second, my phone vibrated with the familiar 'ting' of a WhatsApp notification—the chat wallpaper, a faded photo from last year’s Ganpati visarjan, flashed on the screen.

[Little fool, what wish did you make?]

[Don’t wish for the album to sell big again, your brother’s already as popular as can be.]

I swallowed my tears, one by one. Smudged kohl clung beneath my eyes as I forced a smile, struggling to remember the version of myself from before all this.