Chapter 3: On Stage and Underwater

3.

The next day.

On the reality show, Ananya lost the game and had to accept a punishment.

She wore a white off-shoulder gown with sequined borders, the kind stylists in Andheri charge a fortune for, sprawled on the studio floor, her almond eyes glistening red. The drama was tailor-made for TRP—a beautiful girl, a little helpless, a little tragic.

A chubby male celebrity was doing push-ups above her, sweat dripping onto the polished studio tiles.

Off to the side, Kabir lounged against the railing, spinning the silver ring on his middle finger. The glare of studio lights bounced off the polished floor, and the producer’s assistant darted by with a clipboard, barking into a headset.

When the male celeb collapsed, Kabir snapped. He muttered under his breath, then kicked the man away. The audience gasped, some girls squealed, but no one dared challenge their idol.

Kabir’s face was thunderous as he took the punishment instead, letting Ananya sit astride his back, sending the crowd into a frenzy. I could already imagine the Twitter gifs that would flood in by evening.

Ananya clung to Kabir’s veined neck, her hands trembling.

Someone beside me whispered:

"Strange, what kind of superstar is Kabir, doing this reality show."

"Even stranger, Kabir Bhaiya never lets anyone close, but now he’s letting someone ride him…"

I forced a brittle smile. Once, I’d have joined the gossip, sharing samosas in the green room. Now, everything tasted like dust.

Because she is Ananya—Kabir’s first, the old flame my nani warned me about: purana pyar kabhi nahi bujhta.

……

The next game: pick a random audience member and guess the song.

When Kabir saw me, he paused, adjusting his earpiece, frowning. His gaze flicked from Ananya to me, but then he bent to help Ananya with hers.

The music played. Kabir sang flawlessly—his stage presence sharp, his voice soaring, the kind that makes the world forget its pain. The spotlight glimmered on his face, the crowd’s screams swelling.

When the host asked me, I said, calm as water:

"Sorry, I can’t tell."

The crowd erupted.

This was Kabir’s latest hit, blasting from every autorickshaw in Mumbai.

Fans jeered:

"Does this person have ear problems? Can’t even recognise such a famous song!"

"Get off! Get off!"

Only Kabir was silent.

He slid his hand into his pocket, eyes slanting up in a warning as sharp as a knife.

He was furious—not just that I’d forgotten my place as his ‘underground girlfriend,’ but that I dared appear in front of the real one.

Then a glow stick came flying, cracking against my brow, warm blood trickling down.

Kabir’s brows knotted. He strode over, the energy in the studio shifting. The LED lights blurred, the chant of "Ananya! Ananya!" thundering above me.

But Ananya grabbed his shirt.

She didn’t speak, just bit her lip, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Kabir froze; he always listened to her silence—her silence, more powerful than all my words.

He forgot me, curled in pain under the glow sticks.

He soothed her: "Don’t be afraid, I’m here."

……

After the circus, Ananya won the game and I had to take the punishment—pushed into the pool.

By the pool.

Ananya, her back to the camera, tossed me a triumphant smile:

"Seven years wasn’t enough. His true love is still me. I heard Kabir called you by my name for seven years?"

Her voice was honeyed poison, dripping into my bones.

I met her eyes, pulled out my phone, and typed:

[The thing is done. Give me back my stuff.]

[The song you just sang—I wrote it in school. I don’t mind tearing away all pretense.]

Ananya’s face darkened. She sneered, her jaw set tight, hands clenching her designer dupatta.

Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the water with her.

The shock of cold water hit my chest, chlorine stinging my eyes. The studio’s LED lights melted into a rainbow blur above, and the crowd’s chant faded to a muffled hum. My limbs flailed, panic rising—maybe I really would drown.

Kabir’s voice cut through the chaos:

"Get out of the way! Arrey, why is the pool so deep?"

Ananya wailed:

"Kabir, save Ananya first!"

A strong hand tore my grip from Ananya’s arm.

Kabir shouted:

"Ananya! Let go! Are you trying to drown Ananya?"

The cold seeped into my bones, my heart numbing with each beat.

This time, he got the name right. It was clear—he’d chosen her, always her. The taste of chlorine burned my throat as I gasped for air.

……

Suddenly, I remembered Kabir’s first performance.

I was hauling banners and placards, my arms aching, fingers sticky with glue and glitter. I collapsed in a shadowy corner, sweat trickling down my back as laughter echoed from the stage.

Kabir, under the spotlight, was untouchable—everyone’s hero.

Offstage, fans waved glow sticks, their excitement a wall I could never breach.

I couldn’t hear the music or the cheers. In my silent world, only Kabir’s figure glowed—a light in my dark youth, still burning in my memory.

Suddenly, the crowd turned chaotic.

I was shoved down, unable to rise, my knees scraping concrete, my palms stinging.

Someone tossed aside the mic, leapt from the stage, and fought through the crowd to hold me.

Blood from his forehead dripped onto my lips.

Kabir…

Did you rescue me only because you feared breaking your stand-in?

Then why did you keep stroking my hair, telling me not to be afraid?

Why, at seventeen…