Chapter 1: Basti Ki Ladai, Dil Ka Dard

The basti where my fiancée, Neha, lives is about to be demolished.

Just the word 'basti' brings to mind those narrow gullies packed with the smell of frying samosas, bachche in school uniforms zigzagging between rickety cycles, the distant clang of a temple bell, and the never-ending honking from the main road. Neha’s world—so different from mine—was on the brink of a total upheaval. That day, the whole colony was alive with rumours, chaiwallahs serving endless cutting chai as aunties gossiped in hushed voices about 'ab kya hoga' between noisy sips.

She’s about to go from being a simple, struggling ladki to a newly-minted hidden heiress.

Even the thought of her in that avatar made me smile. The image of Neha—who always fought for extra chutney with her vada pav and wore the same faded salwar for years—suddenly stepping into a world where she’d have her own address in a pukka apartment was like a proper Bollywood twist. My heart genuinely cheered for her, as if her win was my own.

I’m truly happy for her.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone can understand the pride I feel watching her finally get the happiness she deserves. In a country where sapne are often left adhoore, even a small victory feels like Diwali. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction when she heard the news for real.

But she’s become so guarded:

“Why are you so khush? What does this have to do with you? This is my premarital property. And you know Kabir is chasing me, na? His family will get at least paanch flats from the demolition. If you can’t arrange ten-lakh ka shagun, toh shaadi ka sapna mat dekh.”

Her words cut like a knife, heavy with suspicion—as if she thought I’d try to grab her new-found happiness. The way she narrowed her eyes, it felt like I was just another person wanting a share of her luck. That word, 'shagun', weighed heavy—so loaded in our culture, it can make or break rishtas. My face went pale. Ten lakhs? Even so-called rich families think twice about that. And Kabir, with his khandaan’s endless list of flats, felt like red chilli in my eyes.

I was left speechless. The basti being redeveloped is my dad’s project.

It was a twist worthy of any Star Plus serial—my own family’s business, my father’s big project, at the centre of this storm. For a moment, it felt like fate was mocking me. Was this destiny or just a cruel joke? I was torn between pride, confusion, and a strange sense of betrayal. Whose side was I supposed to take?

My dad’s words echoed:

“Beta, don’t let the girl feel choti. When we break her family’s house, treat it as her shagun.”

Dad spoke with that final authority only a true desi patriarch can muster. Practical, calm, but always with an eye on emotions. For him, love and zimmedaari always went together—shagun wasn’t just money, it was izzat and suraksha too. I could almost hear the rustle of his newspaper as he gave his decision. In our family, such things were never up for discussion. But for the first time, I felt empty, as if nothing I did would ever be enough.

I pressed myself against the peeling wall, heart pounding, realising I might be the outsider now.