Arya's P O.V.
As I step into my room, the soft afternoon light filters through the curtains, casting a warm golden hue over the scattered books that adorn the table. Meghna sits on the chair, her eyes glued to the pages of a textbook, her fingers occasionally turning a page with a purposeful grace. Seated beside her on her bed, I watch her for a moment, absorbing the quiet intensity with which she studies.
"You hitting the books too?" I quip, injecting a playful tone into my voice.
A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she glances at me. "Sometimes," she replies with a nod, her gaze already drawn back to her reading material.
"I'd ask when's the last time you cracked these open, but I'm pretty sure it predates the last meteor shower," I jest, a playful glint in my eyes.
A soft chuckle escapes her lips, and then her attention is once again consumed by the academic sprawl in front of her.
"Di, with Independence Day coming up, our class is planning a drama," I venture, breaking the comfortable silence.
She glances up, her eyes meeting mine, curiosity twinkling within them. "Oh really? What's the plan?"
"Raj wants something different this time—more modern, with a message," I explain.
A thoughtful hum escapes her lips as she processes my words. "Modern, huh?" She leans back, her fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the textbook. "Well, considering how much everyone enjoyed the historical drama last time, a modern twist could be refreshing."
I nod, leaning in slightly as I continue the conversation. "Exactly. We're all brainstorming ideas, and I thought I'd ask you too. Got any suggestions?"
She turns her gaze fully towards me, her expression contemplative. "Hmm, let me think. What did you guys perform last time?"
"The classic tale of Queen Laxmibai," I reply, watching her closely.
She lets out a small laugh. "Oh, the usual patriotic fare. How about something that not only resonates with history but also brings in a contemporary edge?"
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued by her perspective. "Like what?"
She leans in, her voice slightly lower as if conspiring. "What about Neerja's story? You know, the brave young woman who protected passengers during a plane hijacking. Her journey could offer a fresh perspective on patriotism."
I consider her suggestion, letting the idea settle in my mind. "That's an interesting angle."
Her gaze turns introspective as she adds, "Or maybe Sehmat's narrative? The sacrifices she made during wartime, all while maintaining her identity and beliefs. It could beautifully reflect empowerment."
I find myself nodding in agreement. "Those are strong options, Di. I'll make sure to share them with Raj."
A pleased smile graces her lips, and I reach for my phone, ready to text Raj ideas...but My idea.
Well, let me tell you, it's like I'm on a secret mission to retrieve Ahan's phone number from Fort Knox—oops, I mean, from Meghna's fortress of a phone. This girl, my sister, has developed some kind of sixth sense for anyone trying to get their hands on her precious device. It's like she's got a hotline to the phone protection agency.
I've been brainstorming excuses all day, trying to come up with something that will make her hand over the phone without raising her suspicions. But let me tell you, Meghna is a seasoned detective when it comes to sniffing out shenanigans. And trust me, I'm no match for her interrogative skills. If I said I needed her phone to save the world, she'd probably suggest I contact the Avengers instead.
During dinner, it's like I'm in a high-stakes heist movie. There's her phone, casually resting next to her plate as if it's not the holy grail I'm after. And me? I'm sitting there, racking my brain for a way to divert her attention and snag that phone.
Throughout the day, it's painfully evident that something has shifted within Meghna. The spark of mischief in her eyes has dimmed, replaced by a heaviness that I've never seen before. She's distant, lost in her thoughts, and even her playful interactions with Dad have waned. It's as if a veil of sorrow hangs over her, and I can't help but wonder what could have caused such a dramatic change in her demeanor.
Could it be the fallout from her relationship with Ahan? Did something significant transpire between them? Whatever it is, it's clear that it's affecting her deeply, enough to alter her behavior and outlook on life.
Tonight, the dining table has transformed into a battlefield of unsaid emotions. As Mom asks Dad if he wants another serving of roti, Meghana's gaze remains fixed on her plate. Her fingers idly play with her spoon in the sea of rice. The air feels heavier, suffocating with the unspoken. It's like I can practically see the weight of whatever's bothering her pressing down on her shoulders. It's not just maturity that's creeping into her eyes; there's an abyss of sadness.
Amid the chewing sounds that echo in the silence, I reach for my earphones. I can't stand the suffocating quiet any longer. But Mom's eyes bore into mine, annoyance evident in her gaze. "You should take a break from that phone once in a while. Life's not just in there."
I mutter a soft "Mummy," under my breath but let my ears get invaded by the chewing choir.
"Put it down," Mom's voice is firmer now, and reluctantly, I comply. The only soundtrack now is the rhythm of chewing. These people need to take a course in interesting conversation.
Then Dad decides to break the monotony, dropping a bomb right on the dining table. "I've talked to Meghana's uncle. He's looking into a few potential matches. He said he has two or three boys in mind. He'll be coming this weekend with all the details."
Mom's excitement rises to the surface like a bubble ready to burst. She's all smiles, her eyes gleaming as if this were some kind of lottery win. Dad's grin is infectious, but Meghana remains quiet, swirling her spoon through the dal in her bowl.
It's like a movie scene set on pause, and I can't take it any longer. "Why the rush? She's still in university," I break through their chatter.
Mom's voice oozes reassurance, "Don't worry, it's not like we're forcing her to marry tomorrow. Marriages take time, you know. We have to find a suitable match for her, then check their family background. And after that, there's the horoscope matching, and if that's not right, back to square one. Even after all that, finding the perfect auspicious time takes ages."
My frustration is reaching its peak. "What if Di wants to work and have a career?" I challenge.The conversation halts, as if time itself has come to a standstill. All eyes turn towards Meghana as if expecting her to answer, but she remains silent, her spoon still in her hand, caught in a mid-air limbo.
"We won't stop her from working, of course. If she wants to, she can work after marriage," Dad's voice rings with well-meaning intentions.
"And if she wishes to continue her studies after marriage, and her in-laws agree," Mom adds as if they're reciting a rehearsed script.
My patience has reached its limits. This is my sister we're talking about. Her dreams, her aspirations—why should they be confined to the checkboxes of societal norms? "So, you're telling me, you're okay with others dictating what your daughter does? If they decide she should just be a glorified maid in her own life, you're ready to sign off on that? Who cares if she has her dreams, her identity? After all, she's just a girl, destined to live by others' rules," my voice is laced with anger, and I'm not holding back.
Confusion clouds their expressions, and finally, Dad tries to understand, "What do you mean? What are we supposed to do? Should Meghana never get married?"
I remove my earphones, letting them dangle like a badge of defiance. "You're missing the point," I retort, my voice laced with an edge of frustration. "I'm not saying Meghana shouldn't get married. I'm saying she should have a say in her own life. Just because she's a girl doesn't mean her dreams and aspirations should be cast aside for someone else's version of her future. I mean, why should Meghana's life be decided by someone else's preferences? Why can't we let her make that choice herself? She deserves a partner who respects her studies, her dreams, her preferences, and someone she genuinely likes."
My words are serious, a reflection of my conviction. I mean every word of it. In a heartbeat, Meghana turns to me, her gaze locking onto mine. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, as if my words are a lifeline she's been waiting for. I offer her a reassuring smile, nod in affirmation, and discreetly reach under the table to clasp her hand. But before our silent connection can fully blossom, it's abruptly shattered by laughter.
My attention shifts towards the source of the sound, and I see Mom and Dad sharing a hearty laugh. Mom's voice cuts through the air, "And how exactly will she find this ideal guy? Boys don't just fall from the sky. Relatives are the best matchmakers because they know Meghana's nature well, so they can find a boy who's just like her."
My patience is stretched to its limits. How can they claim to know her so well? I bet they don't even remember her favorite color. Frustration bubbles within me, and I retort, "Just like a relative found Dad for you, someone who respects you and your choices..."
"Enough, Arya!" Meghana's sudden outburst startles me. I pivot towards her, and she shakes her head, her eyes a silent plea for me to halt. She withdraws her hand from mine, stands up, and retreats to her room.
"I guess she's just being shy," Mom remarks, her tone laced with amusement.
"You two are simply impossible. Relatives may be far away, but even you guys don't truly comprehend your own daughter," my muttered response is the precursor to my departure after Meghana.
Dad's voice follows us, "She's growing more insolent day by day."
Once we're in the room, I waste no time questioning Meghana. "Why did you stop me?"She's lying face down on the bed, and I stand near the edge. "I wasn't saying anything wrong. They can't just decide your life for you. They barely even know you. But honestly, it seems like even our parents don't know us as well as they think they do," My sentence ends with a wry chuckle.
Meghana's reply is tinged with resignation. "Forget it, Arya. Our parents don't have ill intentions. They're our parents, after all."
I quickly take a seat beside her, "But it's not always true that what they believe is best for us actually is. Why not just tell them where your happiness lies? Why not tell Dad that you've already found the right person?"
She raises her head slightly, her brown eyes meeting mine, and her voice is a whispered refusal as she shakes her head, "It's not that simple."
"And it's not that complicated either," I murmur, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
"I don't want to talk about it," she withdraws her hand, shifting to face the other side.
"Di, this is a decision that shapes your life. Not just yours, but also the life of the person you might marry. If you give in without a fight, you're not just compromising your happiness but potentially affecting four lives—yours, Ahan's, and those of the individuals you both might be paired with in the future. Just think about it," my sigh accompanies these words. I rise from the bed, leaving Meghana lost in her thoughts as I exit the room, the weight of our conversation lingering in the air.
I make my way up to the terrace, my sanctuary of serenity. Whenever life gets to be too much, this is where I find my refuge. I tilt my head back, eyes tracing the constellations scattered across the inky canvas above. But tonight, the moon seems to be on leave, leaving the sky devoid of its familiar glow. A moonless night, they call it. Back when I was a kid, those nights used to terrify me. My mom spun tales about them being the playground of ghosts and spirits. But with age comes wisdom, and I've come to understand that it's all just folklore, myths that hold no sway.
Time sweeps us forward, and our beliefs evolve with it. Clinging to absolutes will only root us in the past. The key is to move in sync with the times, not ahead or lagging behind, but walking alongside them. What was gospel in our parents' era might not hold true today. The very definition of right and wrong is a subjective dance. What's a moral truth to me might be a mere illusion to you, and vice versa.
Damn, these thoughts are like a hidden gem. A perfect snippet for my Instagram story. I should save this for later sharing. I head over to the corner chair, the city below mirroring life's hustle and bustle with honking vehicles and racing footsteps. I settle down, legs casually propped up, elbow resting on the armrest. This is my throne of relaxation. I fish out my phone from my pocket, ready to connect with the virtual world.
When I open WhatsApp, Raj's message jumps into view.
"This can't be your idea. You can't churn out so much wisdom in one day. 🧐"
"What do you mean? It's totally mine. I've got brains bigger than all of you combined," I retort. His response comes swift:
"Yeah, in your dreams."
"Jealous much? By the way, is this plan a go? Are we putting it into action?"
"If no one coughs up a better one, absolutely."
"Great. On another note, did you spill the beans to Dev? 😏"
He reads the message but goes quiet for a bit. Then, the typing indicator shows up for Raj...
He finally types, "About what?"
"About... 🤔"
"What?"
"This thing... 😘😍💖💕😘"
"Hey... what are you saying? 😤"
"Don't you get it? 😏"
"Forget it. Give me updates about yourself. Have you talked to him?"
"Who?"
"Your man. 😏"
"Who's my man? 🙄"
"The one you've been mooning over forever, the dude you used to follow like a detective after school, Mr. Sid Roy."
"Nonsense! I'm turning into a pumpkin now. Goodnight. 😂"
"Sleep tight. 😂"
Am I really that transparent? Well, Raj has been onto me about my feelings for Sid from the get-go. Last year, during the festival, I landed the lead role for the first time, and the nerves were running rampant. Despite my history of performing on stage, being in the spotlight like this was uncharted territory.
Decked out in Queen Laxmibai's attire, I hung around the makeup room, sneaking glances outside at the audience. The sea of faces, always there, but seemingly multiplied that year, gave me the jitters. Beads of sweat did a marathon down my forehead, and my heart sprinted like a racehorse.
"Everything alright?" A touch on my shoulder spun me around, revealing Ankita, who portrayed Jhalkari Bai. She questioned, "You seem nervous."
"Me? Nervous? The Queen of Jhansi doesn't do nervous," I quipped, brandishing my sword.
"Good," she grinned, adding, "You're up next. March out there and break a leg."
I gulped down the jitters and sprinted onto the stage. It was the scene where the queen storms to the East India Company office atop her horse. I hopped onto the prop horse, only for the darn thing to go rogue, tipping me out of equilibrium. I was perilously close to plummeting offstage when, out of thin air, a pair of brawny arms snaked around my waist. My gaze zeroed in on a dashing guy standing below the stage, yanking me out of the fall. I leaned into him, my knees perched on the stage, my fingers coiled around his neck, and our faces close enough to share breaths. It was like something out of a cheesy romance movie.
As fate would have it, this gallant dude was Sid Roy. That incident was the spark that ignited my feelings for him. Yet, when I got back on stage, he seemed to vanish into thin air for the remainder of the performance. I never got another shot at being that near to him.
With a sigh, I opt for some YouTube scrolling. Eventually, I decide to call it a night and head downstairs. The living room's immersed in darkness, confirming everyone's off to dreamland. I flick on my phone's flashlight and navigate towards my room. The door's ajar, but the lights are out. I cast the flashlight's beam towards Meghana's bed, but it's unoccupied. She's probably in the bathroom. I tread towards my bed when an odd sound echoes—a sort of gasp. I pivot on my heel, yet the space is vacant. Even with the flashlight combing the room, there's no trace of movement. I venture a step forward, and that eerie noise revisits me, resembling a stifled sob. It's like creepy vibes thrive in the darkness. I turn again, but the noise persists. It seems to beckon me, guiding my steps, and its source? The bathroom.
Nearing the bathroom door, the sound gains clarity. It's unmistakably the sound of weeping. It's as if all the positivity I soaked up on the terrace evaporates into thin air. Should I intervene or grant her some solitary tears?
Soundlessly, I move towards the stool stationed between our beds, the water jug sitting atop. A sip of water later, the jug's back in place, the flashlight inadvertently catching something reflective, dazzling my eyes. I shift the light to inspect the object—a phone. Lo and behold, it's Meghana's phone! I switch it on, greeted by a password prompt. But lucky for me, I'm Miss Encyclopedia.
With her contact list up, I wrestle my memory for his name. Aha, got it—"Sir!" I jot down the number on my phone and saved it under XYZ, just to be discreet. No need to type the full name and risk discovery. Phone back on the stool, I exit the room, my destination: the terrace. Nestling into my corner, I brace myself for an inward-facing moment, where the world's rapid pace won't dictate my thoughts.
Gathering courage, I dial Mr. XYZ, a.k.a. Ahan Khan.
"Hello," the voice responds from the other end, a weariness lacing its tone.