Chapter 4: Escaping the Old Patterns

"Rohan, how can you be so unreliable?"

Chachi ji’s voice note blared in my ears, her anger slicing through the distance. The background buzz of her mixer was steady as she vented her frustration.

"At critical times we can't count on you at all! Hurry and buy a flight ticket back! How much can a ticket cost? Don't be so selfish!"

Her voice, usually loving, was now sharp and accusing. In Indian families, duty is not a choice—it’s a command, shouted across WhatsApp and family calls.

"What about Amit? We’re still on the way, the doctor called more than ten times, said he might need amputation!"

The fear in her voice squeezed my chest. For them, every moment was a crisis, every call a test of my loyalty.

"Rohan, you're more educated than us, you make the decision, what should we do!"

For the hundredth time, I was the family’s designated problem-solver. Their faith in my 'education' was both a blessing and a curse.

As soon as airplane mode was off, I received dozens of voice messages from my Chacha ji and Chachi ji on WhatsApp, each one a full minute long.

The notifications buzzed non-stop. My phone vibrated so much it nearly jumped off the seat. In every Indian family, WhatsApp is both lifeline and noose.

I only listened to the first few, then ignored the rest.

After hearing the same pleading, blaming voices again and again, my ears grew numb. I muted the group, needing a moment’s peace.

My cousin also sent me a voice message:

"Bhaiya, I got into a road accident, they want to amputate me, Bhaiya save me, come quickly!"

His voice was choked, desperate—no longer the confident boy who boasted about his earnings. My throat closed up, remembering how, in another life, I’d tried to be his saviour.

I didn't reply to a single message. I ate Maggi noodles on the train, then contacted my girlfriend, telling her to take leave from work and travel to Kerala for a while.

I slurped the Maggi, barely tasting it, the train’s rocking rhythm soothing me. The hawker passed by selling chai, his call echoing down the compartment. I messaged my girlfriend, fingers heavy with guilt and worry. “Baby, please just listen to me. Go to Kerala, stay safe. I’ll join you soon.”

I also transferred seventy thousand rupees to her via Google Pay.

It was my latest salary—every paisa meant to buy her some peace and safety. She replied with a string of question marks and worried emojis.

In my previous life, she was dragged into this by me and was killed by Amit on our wedding day. That was my greatest pain.

Her face, framed by jasmine flowers and a silk saree, flashed in my mind. She never wanted anything but a simple wedding, a peaceful life. My heart twisted at the memory of losing her—this time, I vowed, nothing would touch her.

"Baby, be good, go to Kerala first. I'll come find you later."

I tried to keep my tone light, but my hands shook. I could hear the next station’s announcement, the bustle of vendors outside, but inside, I was adrift in a storm of my own making.

As for Amit, I still didn't know what to do. In this life, without me mediating, he might not even be able to keep either leg.

I stared at the passing fields, wondering what fate had in store. Would the universe punish him more cruelly this time? Would the family finally realise their own share of blame?

A wise man does not stand under a collapsing wall. The grudges of two lifetimes—I’ll settle them myself.

“Jo bhi hoga, main sambhaal loonga.” My father’s words echoed in my head—“Samajhdaar wohi hai jo samay pe apni jaan bachaye.” This time, I would listen.

My girlfriend, this life, I must protect her well.

Even if it meant angering the entire family, even if I had to stand alone, I would keep her safe. No more sacrifices at the altar of family drama.

Fortunately, my girlfriend was understanding. Although surprised by my actions, she still took leave and, after finishing today's work, left as I asked.

She sent me a photo from the train—lush coconut trees, blue skies, the promise of peace. “Don’t worry, Rohan. I trust you,” she messaged. I felt a small knot in my chest loosen.

After arranging my girlfriend's matters, I noticed Amit had sent me a few more messages:

"Bhaiya, my parents want me to amputate, I hate them, I don't agree!"

His words were frantic, full of anger and confusion. I could picture him lying in the hospital bed, phone in hand, eyes blazing with rebellion.

"I already kicked the anaesthesiologist over. Want me to amputate? Dream on!"

Typical Amit—stubborn, impulsive. Even in pain, he refused to listen. Somewhere in the background, I heard the nurse scolding him in chaste Awadhi, her voice rising in exasperation.

I looked at the messages and sneered.

My face hardened. “Some things never change,” I thought. My reflection in the train window looked back at me, older and wiser, perhaps, but still carrying too much hope.

More than half an hour later, I received another message from him:

"Bhaiya, where are you, come quickly!"

His desperation was palpable. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt, but steeled myself. This time, I would let them face their own consequences.

But after this message, my phone was completely silent.

The silence was deafening. For the first time in years, no one demanded anything from me. I leaned back, closing my eyes, letting the clatter of the train lull me into uneasy sleep.

And I finally arrived in the neighbouring state.

The station was bustling, vendors shouting about chai and kachoris. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of frying onions. I took a few deep breaths, letting the chaos wash over me.

Before getting off the train, I sent them a message:

[Chacha ji, Chachi ji, how is Amit now?]

I kept my tone neutral, as if I was just another distant relative checking in.

[My phone had no signal just now.]

Another classic Indian excuse, always reliable in moments of crisis.

[Oh no, how could Amit be so badly hurt? I'm hurrying back now.]

I sent the message with a sigh, knowing full well that no one would really believe me.

I didn't even leave the railway station, bought a return ticket, and took some photos of the buildings outside the station and the platform.

Tourist-mode activated. I clicked a few hasty selfies, the bustling station crowd behind me. A quick check of the train schedule, and I was back on a train home before anyone could ask questions.