Chapter 1: The Door Between Us

My mother was the woman everyone in our society loved to whisper about—the infamous supporting character of every scandal, the one whose name was always muttered behind closed doors.

In the maze-like lanes of our housing society, where every aunty and uncle seemed to know what you had for breakfast, my mother’s name was always spoken in lowered voices, lips pursed with judgement. Even the doodh-wala’s morning gossip would start with her, as if Amma were some vamp straight from a daily soap.

Three months after her death, the hero and his childhood sweetheart finally united.

Neighbours gossiped about their shaadi over cutting chai, heads huddled together in the cool evening breeze. The local aunty WhatsApp group was bursting with emojis, congratulations, and memes about true love winning, as if nothing tragic had ever happened in our building.

Everyone praised their sparkling love story—no one seemed to remember that my mother’s body was barely cold.

A few distant relatives grumbled about the shraadh barely being over, yet the city’s elite were already celebrating the new couple at The Taj’s rooftop. No one paused to think how quickly one life could be swept aside for another’s happy ending.

When the villain heard the news, he downed more than half a strip of sleeping pills, slashed his wrist, and quietly lay down in the bathtub.

Outside, the faint sound of bhajans from a neighbour’s loudspeaker drifted through the windows, mixing with the thick, heavy silence inside his flat. The monsoon breeze carried the scent of wet concrete, but in the bathroom, only the sharp smell of Dettol and iron lingered.

As his body turned cold,

I strapped on my little school bag, knocked on his door, and called out in my childish voice, “Hello, uncle, are you my papa?”

I wore my brightest pink frock—the one Amma always called lucky. My school bag felt heavier than ever. My fingers were sticky with mango candy I’d squeezed for comfort all the way here.

1

Arjun looked as if he’d seen a ghost, his face pale and body thin, as if sleep had been a stranger for days. His eyes were sunken, stubble shadowed his jaw, and his shirt looked like it had come from the bottom of the laundry pile. A faded red mauli dangled from his wrist—probably tied by his dadi years ago—standing out against his pale skin.

He fixed me with a wary stare, brows pulled together. “Whose child are you?”

His voice was tired and low, tinged with the gruffness of an uncle interrupted during his afternoon nap.

I blinked and replied, “My name is Anvi. My mother’s name is Meera. Are you Mr. Arjun?”

I tried to sound as polite as Amma taught me—always show respect to elders, she’d say.

Arjun raised an eyebrow. “I am.”

My eyes instantly filled with tears. I rushed into his arms, sobbing, “Papa, I finally found you!”

My cries spilled out before I could stop them, echoing down the empty corridor like the wails of a child whose tiffin has just fallen on the playground.

Arjun’s lips twitched. He struggled for a moment before gently peeling me away from his arms. “Sorry, I don’t know you. I don’t know your mother either.”

He pulled away as if I was some sticky mess. His hands trembled for a second before he shoved them deep into his pockets.

A patch of his shirt was already soaked with my tears.

He glanced at the wet spot, a flicker of disgust in his eyes.

He flicked at the damp patch like he was shooing away a mosquito, nose wrinkling in distaste.

I pouted, feeling very sad. “Papa, why don’t you want to accept me?”

In the silent building hallway, my question hung in the air—heavy as a monsoon cloud ready to burst.

Arjun: “...”

He closed the door. “Go home, kid. I don’t have time to play with you.”

The door thudded shut, leaving me staring at my reflection in the polished wood. Inside, the ceiling fan whirred on, indifferent.

Two minutes later, I pressed the doorbell again.

“Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.”

I pressed it with the stubbornness only small kids have, ignoring my fear of being scolded. Amma always said, “If you want something, beta, don’t give up easily.”

When Arjun opened the door again, he looked even more worn out. His wrist was bandaged in a hurry, his face even more ashen. Seeing me still there, he was clearly irritated. “What is it now?”

He seemed surprised I hadn’t disappeared. The bandage on his wrist was stained, cotton poking out at the edges. The silence was broken only by an occasional honk from the road below.

I stood on tiptoe, peering inside, twisting my fingers awkwardly. “Papa, can I come in and have something to eat? I’m really hungry.”

My stomach let out a loud rumble, as if to agree with me. I shuffled my chappals on the marble floor, hoping he’d say yes—Amma never let me leave the house hungry.

Arjun gritted his teeth. “How many times should I say, I’m not your father, beta.”

His words were sharper this time, but his eyes darted away from mine.

I looked up, all innocence. “But Mum said you are my papa.”

I tried the puppy face that always melted Amma’s heart during exam time.

He replied, “I don’t know your mum.”

“Then how did Mum have me with you?”

For a second, the corners of his mouth almost twitched, like he might smile at my silly logic, but he quickly shut his eyes and turned away.

Arjun closed his eyes and walked back inside.

He moved like a man carrying an invisible burden, his footsteps echoing off the tiles.

I was about to follow when he grabbed a packet of bread and a tetra pack of milk from the fridge, thrusting them into my arms. His tone was gloomy. “Don’t let me hear you ring the bell again.”

He shoved the food at me like it was a bribe for silence, not an act of kindness. The fridge door slammed with a bang.

With that, the door slammed shut.

A faint smell of old masala and cold air whooshed out for a second, then vanished as the door clicked closed.

I stood there, stunned.

A little pigeon flapped on the window grill across the corridor, cocking its head at me as if judging my situation.

Then I sat on the steps outside his door, looked at the bread in my hand, and slowly began to eat.

I unwrapped the packet with clumsy, cold fingers, careful not to drop a single crumb. Amma’s voice echoed in my head: “Don’t waste food, beta, God is watching.”

The bread was dry, so I took a gulp of milk.

It scratched my throat, so I sipped the milk in small, nervous gulps, wishing it was Amma’s hot bournvita instead.

A faint smell of fried onions drifted from a neighbour’s kitchen. My fingers left oily marks on the plastic packet, and I picked at the crust, wishing it was stuffed paratha instead.

The wind was strong; I shrank my neck against the chill.

The corridor was drafty, the wind carrying the aroma of someone’s dinner—maybe jeera rice. I pulled my thin shawl tighter, feeling like a tiny sparrow caught in a storm.

So cold.

My nose was running, and my toes felt numb inside my blue socks with the cartoon duck.

And I really, really needed to pee.

Embarrassment flushed my cheeks. I squirmed on the step, searching for the courage to knock again.

With no other option, I stood at the door once more.

I hoped my knocks would be gentler, less irritating than the bell. I pressed my palms together, whispering a silent prayer: "Bhagwanji, please make him open the door this time."

He wouldn’t let me ring the bell, so I knocked instead.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

The knocking echoed down the corridor, blending with the distant clang of someone washing dishes.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

I knocked so long that the aunty from the flat across the hall peeped out to see what was happening.

She wore a soft cotton saree, hair oiled and tied back neatly. Her forehead sported a bright red bindi, eyes sharp with curiosity.

Finally, Arjun, unable to bear it any longer, opened the door.

His face was colourless, like the pale paneer Amma used to bring from the bazaar.

I sneezed, eyes watery. “Papa, sorry, but I can’t hold it anymore. I need to pee.”

My voice was a whimper, my feet shuffling in panic. The aunty’s eyes widened with concern and she came closer.

The pretty aunty from across the hall stepped out, covering her mouth in surprise. “Arjun beta, is this your daughter? I’ve never seen her before.”

She sounded half-shocked, half-hopeful—like someone who loves juicy gossip but worries for a child. Her gold bangles jingled as she gestured between us.

Arjun’s face darkened.

A nerve in his jaw twitched, and he avoided aunty’s gaze. In our society, neighbours could multiply stories faster than WhatsApp forwards.

Seeing me shivering in the wind, he took a deep breath and stepped aside. “Aaja, come in.”

His tone was rough, but he quickly looked away as if afraid of softening. The aunty gave me a reassuring nod, mouthing, “Go, beta.”