Chapter 2: Stranger in My Own Story

2

Before I could run to the bathroom, Arjun stopped me. “Wait a moment.”

He hurried ahead, blocking the bathroom door with his arm, eyes darting with worry. The air was thick with unspoken tension.

He closed the door behind him. I heard the water running in the bathtub.

The water gushed for a while, mixed with muffled sounds of him shifting things around inside. My heart thumped, not understanding why Papa looked so serious.

“All right, you can go in now.”

He opened the door just a crack, his face set and unreadable, then turned away so I wouldn’t see inside. The faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air.

After I finished, I saw faint bloodstains on the edge of the tub, and a knife lay on the floor.

My hands trembled as I clutched my skirt, my heart racing. The sight was scarier than any ghost story my friends told at school.

When I came out, I asked in a worried voice, “Papa, are you hurt?”

I tried to peek at his wrist, my voice barely a whisper, my little hands wringing my frock.

Arjun pressed his lips together. “No.”

He quickly looked away, face suddenly unreadable. But the fresh bandage on his wrist told another story.

“That’s good.” I let out a sigh of relief, my spirit lifting a little.

I wiped my brow, comforted that he was at least standing in front of me. Amma always said, “Don’t worry, Anvi, things will be fine.”

“Papa, your house is so big!”

My eyes widened at the high ceilings, fancy sofa with embroidered cushions, and shiny Godrej almirah in the corner. Everything smelled faintly of incense and old books.

“It’s as big and pretty as Uncle Vikram’s house.”

I remembered Uncle Vikram’s house had a swing in the balcony and a fridge full of sweets, but Arjun’s place felt quiet, almost lonely.

“Mum said you’re even more amazing than Uncle Vikram. She didn’t lie to me.”

I recited Amma’s words with all the pride a six-year-old could have, hoping he’d smile.

Arjun asked, “You have another papa?”

His tone was half-joking, half-accusing, like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurt.

I nodded. “Mum was with Uncle Vikram, but he wasn’t good to her. After Mum got sick and passed away, Uncle Vikram married another aunty.”

I said it with the plain innocence only kids have, but my fingers clutched my bag tighter.

“Your mum passed away?”

His voice turned soft, almost hesitant, as if talking about the dead was sacred.

“Mm.” Mentioning Mum, I wiped my eyes sadly.

Tears prickled my eyes. Amma’s warm lap felt so close and yet impossibly far.

Arjun frowned. “What’s your Uncle Vikram’s full name?”

He pulled a notepad from the side table, pen ready, as if my answer was the last clue in a detective story.

“Vikram Malhotra.”

He paused. “And your mum?”

“Meera.”

My throat tightened as I said her name, hoping he’d remember too.

“Do you have a photo?”

Oh, right.

My small hands fumbled in my backpack, fishing out Amma’s photo. I pressed it flat, smoothing the edges carefully.

I took out Mum’s only photo and handed it to him.

The picture was old and faded, but Amma’s eyes sparkled, full of life. I watched Arjun’s face closely as he took it.

Arjun stared at the photo, his gaze suddenly sharp.

A muscle twitched in his jaw—set like Dadaji during a family argument. His thumb traced the edge of the picture unconsciously, like touching a wound he’d hidden away.

His expression grew complicated, as if caught in memories. Though he tried to stay stoic, his hand holding the photo trembled.

For a moment, the room felt heavy, the air thick with unsaid things. His eyes glistened, something like regret flickering there.

After a while, he forced a mocking smile. “Your mum is Meera Sharma?”

His voice trembled between disbelief and bitterness, as though speaking her name was both sweet and poisonous.

Mum once told me her real name was Meera. Meera Sharma was the name she got after coming to this world. Only Papa and I knew that.

But now it seems Papa still doesn’t know.

I could only nod. “Yeah.”

The word hung between us, as fragile as a diya flame in a power cut.

Arjun squatted down, searching my face for any trace of himself.

He studied my features with the intensity of a man searching for answers in a holy book. His breath came out shaky.

“You... how old are you?” His voice was hoarse.

It sounded almost afraid, as if bracing for heartbreak.

I answered softly, “Six.”

I held up six fingers, just in case.

The hope in his eyes died instantly. He stood up, voice bitter: “It wasn’t enough for her to trick me herself, now she wants you to trick me too?”

He laughed bitterly, sounding more like a sob. I shrank back, clutching the photo to my chest.