Chapter 4: Birthdays and Battles

The only good thing about being a baby is that you can be wilful.

No one expects you to explain yourself when you’re tiny. If you’re upset, you just cry—no need for excuses.

If I don’t see Aryan and Meera for a few hours, I cry.

I time my tears perfectly, so the staff panic and call them, no matter where they are.

The nanny skillfully checked the clock, confirmed it was school lunch break, and called them.

She knew the routine—Anya crying means ‘call the twins’.

The call was quickly answered. “How’s Anya today?”

Meera didi’s voice always sounded gentle on the phone, even if she was pretending to scold Aryan in the background.

Hearing Meera’s voice, I babbled and reached for the phone.

My little hands flailed. Even though I could barely sit up, I wanted the phone, just to hear her voice closer.

“Ah ah.”

Even my babbling sounded like ‘didi’ if you listened carefully.

“Call me didi.”

She always corrected me, a hint of a smile in her voice.

“Goose goose!”

Of course, what came out was nonsense, but she laughed anyway. ‘Goose goose’ became our inside joke.

A light laugh came from the other end, and soon the phone was taken by Aryan.

He pretended to be annoyed, but his voice was softer than usual.

He instructed the nanny and butler to take me for my second polio vaccine and first DTP shot.

Aryan bhaiya remembered every date, every appointment—better than any adult. The staff called him ‘male mum’ behind his back.

He also asked how many millilitres of milk I drank each time, whether my bowel movements were normal, and reminded her to give me regular massages.

He was thorough, listing everything as if he’d memorised a paediatrician’s manual.

During this time, he’s basically become a professional male mum.

Even the ayah was impressed—said she’d never seen a boy take so much care of a baby before.

Every time he comes home, he feeds me and changes my diaper.

There’s a certain awkwardness, but he never complains. He even hums old Hindi tunes to distract me.

Meera plays with my rattle and guides me to practise speaking.

Meera didi sits with me on the play mat, making up silly rhymes and pointing at the pictures in my board books.

The two have a clear division of labour. Although they often argue over who gets to hold me, the once-empty bungalow is growing livelier by the day.

You can feel it in the air—less echo, more laughter. Even the staff move about with lighter steps.

Today, they didn’t come home on time after school.

I waited by the window, pressing my nose against the glass till it fogged up.

The butler coaxed me gently: “Bhaiya and didi are going to the old house for their birthday today. They’ll be back a little late.”

He sat on the edge of my bed, patting my head. His voice was always so calm, like a lullaby.

In the original plot, Mr. Mehra and Mrs. Mehra were supposed to come back and celebrate their birthday for once.

For one day, the siblings had hoped for something different. Maybe a homemade cake, or at least a hug from their parents.

The siblings complained, but deep down, they faintly looked forward to it.

Even Aryan pretended not to care, but I saw him check his phone, waiting for a call.

They waited for their parents for a long time. When they called, they found their parents had already forgotten all about it.

The disappointment was so thick, it hung in the air like humidity before a storm.

No apology, no guilt—just a casual PayTM transfer. A shrill WhatsApp ping broke the silence—money arrived, but not a single emoji or 'Happy Birthday' message. Just like that, the moment was gone.

Were they short of money?

Hardly. This family could fill swimming pools with cash. But what they needed, no app could deliver.

What they lacked was the love and care they never received growing up.

You can’t order hugs or time with your parents on Amazon, can you?

So, to keep the little warmth the leads gave them, they were willing to fly into the flame like moths.

People chase love wherever they can find it, even if it burns them in the end.

Sure enough, when they came back, one was gloomy, the other lonely.

I saw it right away—their shoulders drooped, their smiles gone.

They didn’t even come to the nursery to see me, just went straight to their rooms.

That’s when I knew I had to do something. If family can’t fix it, maybe a little sister could.

I sighed.

Sometimes, being the youngest means you get to be the troublemaker.

And unleashed my ultimate move—

I drew in the deepest breath I could, and screamed as if my heart was breaking.

“Waa—”

The walls vibrated. The servants rushed in, tripping over each other in panic.

Soon, there was the sound of a door slamming. Aryan, face dark, came to my bedside to check my diaper.

He marched in, barely saying a word, going through the motions of checking on me.

“You didn’t poop. Why are you crying?”

His words were gruff, but his hands were careful. He checked my nappy, then looked at me, puzzled.

I said nothing, just kept crying. Even when he picked me up, he couldn’t comfort me.

I let my tears fall, even as he patted my back, muttering, ‘Bas, bas, don’t cry.’

Aryan was helpless and could only go call Meera out.

For the first time, he surrendered—maybe he realised some battles you can’t fight alone.

Her eyes were a little red. She was already in a bad mood, and seeing me like this made her even angrier.

She stormed in, hands on hips, but the redness around her eyes betrayed her.

She roughly set me in the cradle.

With a huff, she plopped me down, crossing her arms.

“Go to sleep.”

But her voice cracked. Even when she’s mad, Meera can’t help but care.

I started to fiddle with the wind chime above my head, struggling to make sounds as I did.

I reached for the colourful chimes—my chubby fingers barely grasping the strings.

“Happy, happy, happy......”

I babbled, trying to mimic ‘Happy Birthday’, my voice wobbling with each chime, the faint smell of agarbatti from the prayer room drifting in. Each syllable a little off, but full of meaning.

The baby’s babbling and the crisp sound of the wind chime—

The tinkling sound mixed with my broken song, turning the nursery into a concert hall.

It really sounded like a birthday song.

For a moment, it was as if the whole world stopped to listen.

They were stunned.

Even Aryan’s mask slipped, and Meera’s eyes widened.

After a while, Aryan raised his hand to cover his face and laughed out loud.

His laughter rang out, deep and genuine. Meera’s eyes filled with surprise—and something softer.

Meera was also infected—she turned her face away, pretending to search for something in her bag, hiding the sting in her eyes, but the curve of her lips grew more and more obvious.

I finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Mission accomplished. All the drama was worth it.

Just as I was about to sleep, I saw Aryan turn on his phone camera.

The soft glow of his screen filled the room as he started recording.

“Do it again, so you don’t complain on Instagram when you grow up that we never recorded you.”

Typical Aryan—already worrying about future drama. Even when he jokes, you know he means well.

Me: >>>

I rolled my eyes, but deep down, I was happy. Someday, maybe, we’d look back at this and laugh together.

If you want to show off to your friends, just say so.

Everyone needs memories—especially the ones we make for ourselves.

---

Soon, Aryan and Meera were in their second year of high school.

Time flies in this house. One day you’re crawling, the next, your siblings are prepping for boards and college entrance exams.

Perfectly avoiding the plot point in the original where they crossed paths with the male and female leads.

Thanks to a little divine intervention (and a lot of vigilance from me), the big drama hadn’t started yet. For once, life was peaceful.

Just as I let my guard down—

That’s always when trouble finds you, isn’t it?

Aryan went missing.

Panic swept through the house. The servants whispered near the shoe rack, wondering if this was some rich kid’s prank or real trouble. The gardener peeked through the gates, even the driver looked worried.

The butler sent people to search for a day and night.

Phone calls, WhatsApp messages, police stations—everyone scrambled, but Aryan was nowhere to be found.

The next day, he finally returned, covered in bruises and scrapes.

When he finally walked in, the relief was so thick you could feel it in the air. His shirt was torn, knees bloodied, but his chin was held high.

Trailing behind him was a girl in a white kurta, looking just as battered.

She walked in, holding her bag tightly, eyes darting around the marble foyer. Her bangles clinked nervously.

She had a pure, innocent face, but when she glanced at the understated luxury of the bungalow, a glint of calculation flashed in her eyes. Her dupatta was spotless, but her eyes flickered to the family photos on the wall—calculating, as if counting how many zeros their bank account might have.

Something about her felt off—a little too eager, a little too hungry for something more than just shelter.

Not good—the family fortune is in danger.

In our stories, a new face like hers usually spells trouble.

After the family doctor treated their wounds,

The living room smelled of Dettol and worry. The doctor fussed, Meera hovered nearby, and I peeked in from the nursery.

Aryan explained that, on a whim, he went trekking and accidentally ran into the female lead, Naina.

His voice was flat, but you could hear the exhaustion. He left out the details, as if he didn’t want to relive them.

The two of them accidentally fell down a steep slope, their phones broke, but thankfully they weren’t seriously hurt.

It sounded innocent enough, but something in Naina’s eyes said there was more to the story.

Me: “......”

My sixth sense tingled. No such thing as coincidence in this world.

There’s no way this has nothing to do with Naina.

I’d read enough novels to know when a heroine is faking it. Her ‘innocent’ act was too perfect.

When Naina came out and saw Aryan playing with me,

She watched us with interest, as if she’d stumbled onto a treasure she hadn’t expected.

She put on a surprised face. “Is this your sister? She’s so cute!”

Her tone was sugary-sweet, the kind that usually makes grown-ups melt. Not me.

Aryan is always in a good mood when others praise me.

For all his grumpiness, he can’t resist when someone calls his little sister cute. His chest puffed up a little, pride shining in his eyes.

He looked at Naina, happy. “Do you want to hold her?”

For once, he let his guard down. Maybe that’s what makes him so vulnerable.

“Sure!”

Naina stepped forward, hands outstretched, smile wide. I stiffened, ready to act.

Don’t you dare come near me.

Before she could touch me, I sucked in a breath and let out a wail so loud, even the watchman outside must have heard.

As she suddenly reached out, I wailed louder than ever, so heart-wrenching.

My face crumpled, and I screamed as if my world was ending. Aryan froze, Meera rushed in, and Naina stepped back, startled. That’s right—this time, I’d protect my family, no matter what.

Naina’s smile faltered for just a second, and in that moment, I knew—this battle for my family had only just begun.