Chapter 5: Losing Ground

The next morning, as I got up, Meera arrived, dragging her VIP suitcase. So, not just a tutor—she was moving in. I nodded at her, instructing the housekeeper to prepare a guest room. Then turned to the kitchen to make karela juice for Aarav.

The wheels of her suitcase squeaked over the marble, and the housekeeper eyed the unfamiliar luggage with open curiosity. I busied myself with the bitter gourd, slicing it with a practiced hand, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach.

She tilted her head, smiling at me. “Didi Ananya, Priya said I should stay in the guest room next to Aarav.”

The use of ‘Didi’ pricked at me, an attempt at endearment that only made the gulf between us feel wider.

My knuckles whitened around the bitter gourd. My throat felt as if it were full of broken glass. “Okay.”

I forced myself to sound neutral, swallowing the bitterness—both literal and figurative—as I continued chopping. The bitter smell of karela filled the air, sharp and almost medicinal. The pressure cooker hissed in the background, a steady, comforting rhythm against the chaos in my mind.

The juicer buzzed harshly. Karela fibres tangled around the blades, like a stubborn green knot.

The machine sputtered and whined, the green pulp clinging stubbornly, refusing to break apart. I jabbed at the switch, hoping the noise would drown out my thoughts.

“Oh, by the way, Priya said Aarav’s bedroom needs redecorating.” She traced her finger along the counter, leaving a sticky trail in the vegetable juice. “She said the room next to the children’s room gets the best sunlight—perfect for me.”

Her words sounded casual, but I could feel her gaze on me, weighing my reaction. My stomach twisted—she wanted the room with the mural I’d painted myself, the one where Aarav finally learned to say ‘sun’.

That room was filled with Aarav’s sensory training equipment. And the tactile blanket I stitched by hand.

Every stitch was a prayer for Aarav’s happiness, every toy and card a labour of love. Now, they’d be swept away to make room for someone else’s vision of care.

[Why bother with the guest room? In three days, the drunk lead will tear the heroine’s silk nightgown.]

[Arre yaar, kitni bechari hai Ananya. Sab kuch kiya, phir bhi...]

The lines were as relentless as WhatsApp forwards—sensational, relentless, and impossible to ignore. A WhatsApp notification pinged on my phone, echoing in my ears, making the comments feel even more intrusive and real.

I suddenly turned off the juicer and looked at Meera. The kitchen fell silent. Meera took half a step back. After a moment, I said, “Meera ji, do as you please. I’ll go check on Aarav.” Then turned and went upstairs.

I didn’t wait for her reply, letting the sound of my own footsteps on the stairs anchor me to the present. The kitchen’s quiet was only broken by the ticking of the old wall clock.