Chapter 1: The Birthday Wish

The Mumbai monsoon thundered on that morning, painting the air with the earthy scent of mitti and strong chai. My only son, Kabir, turned eighteen—a moment every Indian mother imagines with both pride and dread. Dadi made sure we woke before sunrise, bathed, and lit a diya at the Tulsi plant, her whispered prayers for Kabir’s future drifting into the wet breeze. The living room overflowed with gift bags, the sharp whistle of the pressure cooker blending with Dadaji's complaints about the guest list. Outside, rickshaws honked and a fruitwala’s call drifted through the window, as familiar as my own heartbeat.

He closed his eyes and wished that his grandparents would live as long as the Himalayas.

For a second, the room hushed—such a wish, so Indian in its grand, poetic exaggeration. Dadaji beamed and squeezed Kabir’s shoulder. “Arrey beta, may your words become true.” Dadi dabbed her eyes and reached for the mithai box, her hands trembling.

Then, for Dad to have a career that kept rising, smooth as ghee.

Rohit straightened his collar, chest puffed out as if the gods themselves had blessed him. “Good boy. Family first, always.” Kabir’s gaze flickered to me, unreadable. For a heartbeat, I hoped maybe—just maybe—this year would be different.

When my turn came, I met his eyes, hope swelling in my chest.

I felt the weight of every birthday, every late-night fever, every little sacrifice—pressing down, hot and heavy. I folded my hands, the pallu of my sari slipping as I tried to catch his attention. All eyes turned, waiting for a filmi twist.

He knew what I always wanted most—good health.

He’d heard me whisper it at night, asking for strength to see my son’s dreams come true, to watch his children play, to grow old watching our family thrive. I smiled, waiting for a sign of gratitude.

Instead, he rolled his eyes at me.

His face scrunched as if he’d bitten a raw amla. “Really, Kabir?” my mother-in-law muttered, but he didn’t care. A heavy, humid silence settled, broken only by the ceiling fan’s drone.

"I hope you get divorced soon and stay far away from us."

The words slapped me harder than a monsoon wind. The laughter vanished. Only the hiss of the pressure cooker, the ticking clock, and Dadi’s sharp inhale filled the room. Kabir jutted his chin, smug, as if he’d delivered a clever punchline.

I sat frozen.

My hands, sticky with cake cream, trembled. My lips parted, but nothing came. My heart twisted, raw and bleeding. In the showcase glass, I caught my reflection—wide-eyed, mouth open, the mother I’d been for eighteen years dissolving in a moment.

Rohit laughed sharply. "Who told you to be so strict? Serves you right."

His laughter was cruel, slicing through me. “Accha, now you know, na?” He looked to his parents for approval, and they nodded, lips tight. I wanted to answer, but the words stuck in my throat, bitter as neem.

Later, Kabir moved abroad, taking the whole family—except for me.

He left me behind like last week’s newspaper. The flat grew emptier every day—no slippers in the corridor, no cricket commentary echoing from the living room. My WhatsApp messages showed blue ticks but never replies. My heart became a cupboard stuffed with unsent letters.

When I begged him at the airport, he shook off my hand.

Amidst the rush of trolleys and the scent of instant coffee, I grabbed his wrist, desperate. He jerked free, eyes cold, passersby staring. I looked away, clutching my dupatta till my knuckles whitened.

"I’ve already found a gentle companion for Dad. Don’t come and spoil things."

His words burned deeper than any slap. Gentle companion! Rohit, beside him, adjusted his sunglasses, smirking like a TV serial villain who’d just won.

I died alone in a cramped 2BHK flat.

The ceiling fan squeaked above me. Old Hindi songs played on my radio—the ones Baba used to love. I talked to myself just to hear a voice. The kitchen and bedroom were barely divided by a wall. No one came, not even at Diwali, when neighbours exchanged soan papdi. My phone stayed silent, dust gathering on its screen.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on Kabir’s birthday.

The world spun, and suddenly I was in that living room again—sunlight slipping through dusty curtains, the scent of vanilla cake and agarbatti mingling in the air. My hands were young, bangles clinking as I checked the clock. A second chance, granted by fate or perhaps a forgotten kuldevi.

As I left the room, the laughter faded behind me, but for the first time, I felt the city’s chaos welcome me home.