Chapter 2: Dustbin Destiny

The moment I lost consciousness saving a drowning child, I wished that in my next life, I’d wake up to the scent of expensive sandalwood on my mother, hear the hearty laughter of an old-money father, and feel the broad, comforting hand of my Dadaji, a retired colonel, caressing me.

When I plunged into that river, all I could think was—maybe the next time I open my eyes, I’ll be surrounded by the kind of luxury you only read about in Manorama stories. Where Ma’s perfume is sandalwood, not Pond’s talc, and Dad’s voice echoes through a sprawling bungalow, not a tiny 2BHK. My Dadaji would stroke my hair and call me his ‘sherni’.

But when I opened my eyes, I was lying peacefully in a dustbin.

Kya kismat hai! Instead of a king-size bed, I landed up among Mumbai’s garbage, the scent of sandalwood replaced by onion peels and plastic. What a joke.

Heh. Didn’t they say good people get good rewards? Why did I get such a disastrous start?

All those moral science lessons, all that ‘as you sow, so shall you reap’ nonsense—gone out the window. Here I was, proof that sometimes, fate is just plain mean.

The lid was closed.

Above me, a battered blue dustbin lid. The world outside was shut off, and I was stuck with the smell of leftovers and old newsprint.

I was nearly suffocated by the stench of all kinds of kachra mixed together.

It’s a miracle I didn’t faint again. Roti crumbs, half a vada, maybe even a broken toy mixed in. The kind of smell you can never forget, even after a hundred baths.

Staring at my little hands—plump and segmented like baby potatoes—I was silent for a long time.

I held up my own tiny fists, chubby as aloo wedges Amma fries on rainy days. They trembled a little, but I was too stunned to even cry at first.

There was nothing I could do.

Whoever left me here, at least they picked a spot near the main road. Maybe that’s a small mercy.

To survive, I could only—cry.

I took a deep breath and unleashed my best wail—one I’d perfected from watching babies in Bollywood movies. If I was going to be found, might as well make it dramatic, na?

I don’t know how long I wailed, but eventually, someone noticed something unusual in this rundown gali.

Somewhere nearby, a stray dog barked, but my cries didn’t stop. I kept going till my throat ached and my cheeks were sticky with tears. In the end, it worked—someone finally noticed.

The sound of leather shoes scraping the ground grew closer.

Sharp, smart footsteps—not the chappal-dragging of regular people. I could smell expensive aftershave mixed with the city’s dust.

Who can understand the sense of salvation you feel the moment you see light again?

When the dustbin lid was thrown open, I squinted up into bright sunlight, dizzy with hope. It was like a scene from a Salman Khan movie—dramatic entry and all.

I stared wide-eyed at a middle-aged man in a neat suit and white gloves.

A butler! Was it my dear Uncle Joseph come to fetch me?

He looked straight out of a Raj-era English movie. For a moment, I half-expected him to say, ‘Miss, your carriage awaits.’

I just knew it—I must be the real heiress, switched at birth by a wicked ayah.

Isn’t that how all the TV serials start? Lost heiress, cruel ayah, and a fortune waiting somewhere in Malabar Hill. Maybe my destiny was about to turn.

I eagerly reached out to him.

I didn’t even wipe my tears, just stretched my arms out—ready for my fairy-tale rescue.

Quick, take me back to my thousand-square-foot bungalow with a swimming pool, so I can enjoy life. Don’t let my mummy and daddy worry.

In my head, I was already planning which toys I’d order and which swimming costume I’d wear first.

A few minutes later, I was in a black luxury car.

That car was so posh—even the air inside smelt of leather and rose petals. Not a speck of dust anywhere, not even in the footwell.

I stared, eyes wide, at two high schoolers from a posh Mumbai academy in the back seat.

They looked like they’d stepped straight out of a Vogue magazine—one in a crisp uniform with a fancy crest, the other adjusting her silver anklet, face half-hidden by designer sunglasses.

The butler said awkwardly, “Young Sir, Young Miss, there’s a basti not far from here and several vocational colleges. This child is probably an abandoned baby. Should we take her to the police station first?”

You could tell he was used to dealing with drama—his voice was calm, but even he seemed unsure what to do.

Me: “......”

Yeh toh gaya kaam se. My dreams of instant fortune were slipping away.

Disastrous.

Just my luck. One minute you’re dreaming of Rajmahal, next minute you’re a police case.

The two—so stunning they hardly looked real—nodded coldly.

You’d think people with such beautiful faces would have soft hearts. But these two were like ice sculptures—barely reacting.

The butler smiled in relief. “Then I’ll trouble Young Sir and Young Miss to look after her for now.”

He probably thought, ‘Let the rich kids handle this one. I’m not getting paid enough for this headache.’

I was stuffed into the young sir’s arms. He held me stiffly, at a loss.

He held me like you’d hold a parcel marked ‘fragile’. His arms were strong, but his body tensed up like he’d never held a baby before.

I’m a sucker for good looks.

Maybe it was the shock, maybe it was instinct, but I couldn’t help staring. His eyelashes were so thick, they’d put even heroines to shame.

Seeing a face more perfect than any Bollywood star’s up close, I couldn’t help but reach out to touch it.

Just a gentle pat—like the way babies do when they’re curious. He flinched, but I just grinned.

Seeing the young miss’s mocking expression, his face darkened instantly.

She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed, and he scowled, like he’d just lost a bet.

He shoved me into her arms. “So troublesome. You hold her.”

He said it as if I was a stray puppy, but even then, he was careful not to hurt me. The driver kept glancing in the rearview mirror, muttering a silent prayer that the leather seats wouldn’t get drool stains.

The young miss instantly became just as stiff.

She wasn’t any better. She clutched me with straight arms, eyes darting around the car like she hoped I’d disappear if she blinked hard enough.

Looking at the two of them—such similar, breathtaking faces—I couldn’t help but giggle.

They were like two halves of the same coin—different, but so alike. I let out a giggle, the kind that makes grown-ups melt.

She was unconsciously infected by my laughter. The corners of her lips had just lifted when she caught the young sir’s sidelong gaze.

For a moment, she almost smiled, but stopped herself, glancing at her brother as if waiting for his approval.

She immediately pouted. “She smells like kachra. It stinks.”

Kids will be kids—even rich ones. She wrinkled her nose dramatically, almost convincing me I was made of garbage.

She set me on the middle seat.

For a second, she looked almost sorry, but pride won out. She placed me gently, as if not to bruise my feelings or her own hands.

The car was spacious, more than enough for the three of us.

It felt like a whole playground, compared to the dustbin. I pressed my palms to the cold leather, just to see if it was real.

But at the thought of the miserable life awaiting me at an orphanage, I wailed with all my might.

I was not taking any chances—better to create a scene now, than land up in some government home. My cry echoed, bouncing off the tinted windows.

The young sir, annoyed by the noise, picked me up.

His patience snapped, but even then, his hands were gentle. He tucked me against his chest, trying to shush me like a pro.

Seeing his face, I was delighted and broke into a smile through my tears.

Just one look at him up close, and I forgot why I was crying. That’s the magic of good looks, I suppose.

He set me down—I cried again.

As soon as he put me back, I turned on the waterworks again, dramatic as any filmi heroine.

The young miss picked me up—I laughed again.

With Meera didi, it was the same. As soon as she picked me up, I giggled, wiggling like a happy kitten.

She put me down—I cried again.

And down I went, the sobs back on full volume. Even the driver’s ears must have been ringing.

Suddenly, the two became intrigued.

They looked at each other, silent for a moment, then started taking turns, as if I was a new puzzle they wanted to solve.

Like a relay, they picked me up and put me down, again and again.

Up, down, up, down—if there was a medal for being dramatic, I’d have won it right then.

“Hahaha—”

My laugh bubbled up, filling the whole car, making even the butler smile in the front seat.

“Waa—”

And then the tears, sharp and loud, demanding attention.

“Hahaha—”

“Waa—”

After dozens of rounds, the butler’s gentle voice interrupted us.

“We’ve arrived at the police station.”

The magic spell broke. I knew what was coming and got ready for my biggest performance yet.

I instantly wailed so loudly it seemed I’d shake the roof off the car.

It was a scream fit for a horror movie. Passers-by on the street even stopped to stare at the car, worried something terrible had happened inside.

The young sir and young miss exchanged glances.

Something unspoken passed between them—a mixture of annoyance, curiosity, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of affection.

A few seconds later, they spoke in unison: “Let’s keep her.”

And just like that, my fate changed. Sometimes, drama is the best weapon a little girl can have.