Chapter 1: Kachra to Khandaan

The brother and sister who took me home are cannon fodder in the novel. But right now, the only thing I can smell is last night’s dal from the kitchen downstairs, mixing with the morning’s filter coffee drifting up through the marble floors.

In our desi stories, it’s always the side characters who silently bear the weight, isn’t it? These two—my new bhaiya and didi—carry shadows behind their perfect faces, woven in a way that’s so typical of high-society Mumbai families. From the outside, they look like they have it all, but inside, they’re just as fragile as anyone else.

The brother is gloomy and distant, drawn to the sunny, warm-hearted heroine.

Aryan bhaiya has a quiet, intense air—sometimes you’ll find him on the balcony, head resting on his knuckles, the city’s honking and the distant train whistles drowning out his silence. But when the heroine enters, full of laughter and sunshine, even his moodiness falters a little, though he pretends otherwise.

The sister is sensitive and starved for love, willing to give everything for the male lead.

Meera didi is all soft eyes and hesitant smiles, like a diya flickering in the monsoon breeze—hoping someone will cup their hands around her and keep her burning. She’s desperate to find someone who will put her first, her fingers always fiddling with the silver ring Amma left behind, even if it means giving away pieces of herself to a boy who doesn’t deserve them.

They thought they had found salvation.

For a moment, the two of them believed that love had finally come knocking. Little did they know, in this city, even love can be as slippery as the first rain on Mumbai’s old tiles.

Little did they know, the male and female leads only saw them as stepping stones.

All that affection was a game—like those politics you see in TV soaps, where everyone is just waiting for their own cue.

To keep my wealthy life, I decided to steal the roles of the main characters.

So what if destiny had other plans? If this is the world I’ve landed in, main toh apna scene banaungi! I’ll take centre stage, and make sure my story doesn’t end in the dustbin.

When my brother was feeling down again, I kissed his cheek.

Whenever Aryan bhaiya’s face turned cloudy, I’d scuttle over on my chubby legs and press a noisy kiss to his cheek, just to see if he’d crack a smile.

“Hmm, soft and sweet. Bhaiya, you’re like a little cream cake.”

In our house, such silly praise works wonders. Aryan, who barely ever laughs, sometimes actually softens a bit when I call him ‘cream cake’. For a moment, he’s not the aloof prince, but just my bhaiya.

No matter how cold a man is, he’ll smile at such praise.

Even the iciest hearts can’t resist the cheekiness of a little sister. If only the world outside understood that!

When my sister cried alone at midnight, I wailed along with her.

Some nights, I’d hear muffled sobs from Meera didi’s room. Instead of hiding away, I’d start howling too, making such a fuss that the whole house echoed with our crying.

“The pretty star is going to drown in water—what should we do?”

I’d crawl onto her lap and try to reach her face, babbling about ‘pretty star’ sinking. Sometimes you have to be silly to make someone forget their own sadness.

She broke into a smile through her tears, hugging me tightly, unable to help herself.

It’s true what they say—tears dry up quicker when someone is there to hold you. Meera didi would squeeze me so hard, like I was a teddy bear come to life.

Later, the male and female leads, who could never get anyone to make plans with them, grew anxious and came looking for us—

In their world, Aryan and Meera had always jumped to help. Now, the so-called ‘heroes’ would call and call, but find nobody willing to answer. That’s what happens when you take good people for granted.

Only to find the brother and sister staying up all night to help me finish my kindergarten craft homework.

If you peeped into our bungalow at night, you’d see Aryan and Meera hunched over coloured paper, arguing about whether the star should have five points or six, their hands sticky with glue, all for my silly school project. Who needs outsiders, when you’ve got a family like this?