Chapter 2: The Malhotra House and Growing Apart

My mother remarried into a prominent family in Delhi’s social circle. Their romance was passionate and intense, and in the end, she walked down the aisle with everyone’s blessings.

At her wedding, everyone from our old neighbourhood showed up, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the Malhotras’ grand living room, marvelling at the chandelier and eyeing the motichoor ladoos with more hunger than decorum. Naturally, I moved into the new house as well.

She got married when I was only three, still a little child with hardly any memories of my old life.

I remember clutching a small stuffed bear, more confused than excited, as I stepped into the Malhotra mansion. The marble floors sent a chill through my feet, and somewhere in the distance, a temple bell chimed—reminding me I was far from home. The air always carried the faint scent of jasmine from the garden. I grew up in the Malhotra family. My stepfather loved my mother, and because of that, he treated me as his own daughter.

He never let me feel like I was an outsider. At every festival—whether it was Holi, with its rainbow smears on cheeks, or Diwali, with the bright diyas flickering in the courtyard—he made sure I got the first plate of sweets. I truly regarded him as my father, and his son as my brother.

When we were young, my brother was very good to me. But as we grew older, we gradually drifted apart.

I still remember the days we’d chase each other through the house, making forts out of bedsheets and fighting over the TV remote during Sunday morning cartoons. But as school, friends, and hormones crept in, the space between us grew wider, and the old giggles faded into awkward silences. It made me sad.

Sometimes I’d pass him in the hallway, and he’d just nod, barely meeting my eyes, as if we were strangers at a shaadi. Later, I realised that even biological siblings often grow distant as they grow up.

Sometimes, I’d hear neighbours complaining about their own children, “Beta, ab toh woh apne hi kaam mein busy rehte hain.” It stung, but at least I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. Sometimes, I’d feel a pang of loss about it, but that’s just life—things never go exactly the way you want them to.

I started finding solace in the little things: watching the rain from my window, scribbling in my diary, and occasionally stealing glances at my brother across the dinner table, wondering what he was thinking. It took a lot for me to accept that I’d gone from being his precious little sister to just a distant relative. And then, something completely unexpected happened.