Ira Sisodia

My footsteps echoed as I stepped out of the railway station. The wind was soft, the rain light—perfect weather.
The kind that wraps around you and makes everything feel quieter. Warmer.

The kind of weather that makes you crave a cup of coffee, a seat by the window, your AirPods in, romantic songs humming low as you watch the rain blur the world outside.

Rain has a way of healing you.

As if it washes away everything heavy—every mistake, every ache—and leaves behind only one thing.

Beginnings.

My phone buzzed.

MOM.

I declined the call.

Bitch behaviour.
I admit it.

I scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar car, when a sharp honk cut through the drizzle.

I turned to my right.

There it was.
A grey Alto K10.

I walked toward it without hesitation, tossed my luggage into the back seat, and slid into the passenger seat, fumbling with the seatbelt.

"Look who we have here," the girl in the driver's seat whistled.

I sighed, still wrestling with the belt. "Just start the damn thing, Kiara. We don't have all day."

The engine revved alive as the car rolled out of the station. I gave up on the seatbelt and let it snap back.

Annoyed, I muttered, "Get a new car, for the love of God. This thing doesn't even have a functioning seatbelt."

She smirked. "That's the fun, baby. Risk it till you make it."

Fake it till you make it.

Did I have the energy to correct her?

Absolutely not.

So I sat back and let the car—and my life—move forward without resistance.

Kiara took a sharp left turn and glanced at me. "So," she said, intrigued, "how long are you staying this time, Ira?"

I rubbed my temples. "I don't know. The day I lose my patience, I'm gone."

She laughed. "C'mon, baby. You'll lose your patience the moment you step inside that house."

I snorted. "Guess you'll have to stay on standby then."

The signal turned red. Kiara leaned closer, her grin wicked. "Just get through it quietly. Then we'll hit this new club and get laid."

I smirked. "I really need to get laid."

She murmured a satisfied gotcha and pulled away as the light turned green.

We'd always been like this.

I met Kiara when I was fifteen. We clicked instantly—no effort, no explanations. She was alone in the world, an orphan who learned early how to survive. Somehow, we stuck. Seven years later, at twenty-two, we were still standing—messy, reckless, and unfiltered.

I raised an eyebrow. "How's your boss treating you?"

She laughed under her breath. "As always. Peachy."

Did I ever tell you about the night Kiara slept with her boss's husband?

Her boss hates her now—despises her, actually. But she can't fire Kiara. Apparently, her husband got smitten and refuses to let go.

So Kiara stays.

Still working there.
Still dangerous.
Still a problem.

The car came to an abrupt stop.

I mumbled a quiet thank you, slipped out, and hauled my luggage with me toward the house. Behind me, the sound of the engine faded as Kiara drove away—just like that.

Gone.

I rubbed my temples again. A migraine throbbed behind my eyes, born from a single, exhausting thought:

How long am I going to stay this time?
And what excuse would I use when I finally left—one that didn't hurt anyone?

I crossed the threshold.

The smell of tea and biscuits wrapped around me instantly, warm and familiar. Suffocating.

A servant appeared immediately, lifted my luggage, and started dragging it upstairs. They greeted me politely.

Did I greet them back?

No.

My mother's voice followed next. She came out of the kitchen, apron still on, and before I could react, she pulled me into a hug—tight, overwhelming.

I stiffened and awkwardly patted her back, silently hoping she'd let go.

She finally pulled away, smiling brightly.
"I'm so happy to see you after six months."

I smiled back. Reflexively.

She clasped my hand and dragged me into the kitchen. The counters were crowded—snacks, sweets, chaos. My mother and the house helps moved around like this was some kind of celebration.

She went back to cooking. I sat on the kitchen island chair and gulped down a glass of water.

"How was the semester?" she asked casually.

"Great," I replied, clipped and neutral. "We'll be graduating soon."

"And the internship?"

"Great," I said again, polite to the point of distance. "I'll be working from home till I leave."

That made her pause.

"You're not leaving till the anniversary," she said firmly.

I nodded, dismissing her without argument.

The anniversary was the day after tomorrow.
And if everything went my way—which it never did—I'd leave right after.

But did anything ever go my way?

I looked around. "Where's Dad?"

She tilted her head. "He's in Hisar. He'll be coming back with Yashika's family."

I scoffed internally.
"So you're telling me he went all the way from Sonipat to Hisar just to pick up Yashika and her family?"

She nodded, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked, unable to stop myself.

But who was I kidding?

Of course he went.

After all, it was Yashika.

The good girl.
The quiet, perfect girl.
The know-it-all girl.

Their favourite.

I stood up slowly. "Yashika and her family... they're coming for the anniversary?"

My mother's face lit up instantly at the mention of her name.
"Yes! They'll arrive tonight. Then we'll all leave for the resort in Jaipur."

I laughed bitterly. "Are they that free? All of them?"

Her tone sharpened immediately.
"You're going to be on your best behaviour with them, Ira. I don't want any complaints about you."

I waved a hand dismissively and walked out of the kitchen, heading upstairs.

I don't want any complaints about you.

Huh.

What did she think I was?
A child?

I pushed open my bedroom door. I didn't bother turning on the lights. Didn't bother checking if anything had changed in the six months I'd been gone.

I walked straight to the bed, face-planted into it, and let the darkness swallow me whole.

Careless.
Carefree.
Flawed.

And already counting the hours until I could leave again.

I stirred awake to the sound of laughter drifting up from downstairs—warm, unrestrained laughter that didn't belong to me, laughter that felt intrusive in a house I had never quite felt at home in.

For a moment, disoriented, I just lay there staring at the ceiling.
Wait... are they already here?

My eyes immediately darted to the clock on the wall.

8:00 p.m.

Yeah.
They had arrived.

The Rawal family.
All of them.

A low groan slipped out of me as I rubbed my eyes, my head already beginning to ache at the thought of having to sit through forced smiles and polite conversations. But then something else registered—something off.

The lights were on.

I was certain I hadn't switched them on before falling asleep.

My gaze slowly swept across the room, unease crawling up my spine.
Who's here?

Just then, Kiara the Great emerged from my bathroom as casually as if this were her house, dressed in a crop top and baggy jeans, her hair slightly damp, confidence radiating off her like she had never left my side.

The second her eyes landed on me sitting upright on the bed, she broke into a grin.

"Jaag gayi meri Kumbhkaran?"
(My Sleeping Beauty has finally woken up?)

I didn't answer her. I simply stared, still trying to process her presence.

Unbothered, she continued, "Achha chal, ready ho ja. Muh sudhaar le apna. Neeche sab log aa gaye hain."
(Come on, get ready. Fix your face. Everyone's already downstairs.)

I dragged myself out of bed and walked into the bathroom, my body heavy with reluctance.

The mirror reflected a girl who looked tired in a way sleep could never fix—messy hair, faint shadows under my eyes, and a guarded expression I wore like armor. I gave my reflection a small, almost ironic smile before splashing cold water on my face.

Behind me, Kiara hopped onto the bathroom counter, swinging her legs slightly as she watched me, entirely too amused.

As I started my skincare, I asked, keeping my voice neutral, "Dad's here? And the Rawals?"

She nodded enthusiastically, her grin widening. "Yep. Everyone. It's been, like, two hours since they arrived. Sab baith ke baatein kar rahe hain."
(Everyone's sitting together and talking.)

My jaw tightened. "When are we leaving?"

"Abhi... thodi der mein," she replied vaguely.
(Soon... in a little while.)

I turned to look at her sharply. "And you woke me up now?"

She laughed, completely unapologetic.
"Jaan ke sone diya tujhe. Mujhe pata tha uthaungi toh mood hi kharab ho jayega."
(I let you sleep on purpose. I knew if I woke you earlier, your mood would be ruined.)

Despite myself, a smile tugged at my lips. "Aur tu kab aayi?"
(And when did you come?)

"Bas," she said casually. "Thirty minutes ago."

Suddenly, she gasped dramatically, clutching her hands to her chest as if she'd just witnessed a tragedy.

"Pata hai teri mummy kya boli? Aunty ne mujhe dekh ke bola—tum dono hamesha ek saath kyun rehti ho? Lesbian ho kya?"
(Do you know what your mom said? She looked at me and asked—why are you two always together? Are you lesbians?)

A laugh burst out of me as I walked out of the bathroom with her, the absurdity of it cutting through the tension for just a second.

I picked up my luggage, ready to head downstairs, when Kiara suddenly grabbed my wrist and turned me back, her expression shifting into something more serious.

"Achha sun," she said quietly.
(Listen.)

"Mujhe pata hai tu kaisi hai, lekin promise kar—faltu ke pange nahi legi Yashika se."
(I know how you are, but promise me you won't pick unnecessary fights with Yashika.)

I groaned, tilting my head back. "Tujhe pata hai na yeh possible nahi hai?"
(You know that's not possible, right?)

She smirked, shrugging lightly.
"Ab jaane de na bechari ko. Apne sasural mein khush hai."
(Let the poor girl be. She's happy in her in-laws' house.)

I shoved her playfully, laughing despite myself, and we began walking toward the stairs together.

But as we reached the landing, the sound of laughter from downstairs grew louder, fuller—too warm, too complete, like a world I didn't belong to.

That's when an idea struck me.

I stopped abruptly and turned toward Kiara, who looked at me, confused.

Before she could ask anything, I grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the back door.

"Are—" she began.

We slipped out of the house like thieves, luggage trailing behind us, the cool night air brushing against my skin as we hurried toward her car.

She kept whisper-yelling the entire time,
"Pagal ho gayi hai kya, chudail? Apne hi ghar se choron ki tarah bhaag rahi hai!"
(Have you gone mad, witch? You're sneaking out of your own house like a thief!)

I shushed her and leaned against the car, exhaling slowly.

"Dekh, Kiara," I said quietly, my voice heavy,
(Look, Kiara,)

"Ab pure do din mein mera dimaag in logon ki wajah se pura kachra ho jaana hai."
(In two days, my mind will be completely ruined because of these people.)

She paused, understanding dawning on her face, and then nodded slowly., "Toh tune socha pehle hi inke dimaag ka kachra kar dete hain."
(So you thought—you'd mess with their heads first.)

I laughed with her, the sound sharp and reckless.

Ten minutes later, chaos erupted.

Voices echoed through the house. Footsteps hurried. My name was called again and again.

Everyone was looking for me.

Even the Rawals.

The irony was—most of them didn't even know my face.

Yashika had married the Rawals' younger son, Arjun Rawal, six months ago. She was twenty-four—tall, beautiful, wise, kind, quiet.

Perfect in every way I had never been.

Arjun Rawal was twenty-five, polished and respected, the COO of Rawal Industries, everything a family like ours admired.

My father, Mahesh Sisodia, owned a law firm. My mother stayed at home. My father and Arjun's father, Abhimanyu Rawal, had been friends since college—friends who later became business partners.

They liked each other.
Their families aligned.
So they decided to get Yashika and Arjun married.

A perfect match.
A convenient alliance.

I didn't really attend their wedding.

I flew in from Bangalore, stayed only until the pheras ended, and left quietly—hoping, foolishly, that someone would notice my absence.

No one did.

Yashika was my cousin—my father's younger brother's daughter. When her parents died in an airplane crash, my parents adopted her.

I was six.

She was eight.

Overnight, I had to share my parents.

I tried to understand. I truly did. She needed love, stability, a family.

But I was six—only six—and my parents were so busy trying to make sure Yashika never felt like an orphan that they forgot I existed.

To save her from loneliness, they made me one. They made me an orphan.

Everything revolved around her—her school meetings, her favourite food, her clothes, her birthdays.

And I faded quietly into the background.

Invisible.
Unnoticed.

I knew Yashika was a good person.

But the child in me—the small, aching child—just wanted her parents back.

So I hated her.

I hated my parents.

I stayed away from all of them.

And when she got married, I left hoping someone would stop me.

No one did.

So yes.

I hated her.
I hated the Rawals.
And I hated the Sisodias.

Including myself.

I was broken out of my trance when people started spilling out of the house.

Our family members.

Shit.

Why do I always do this to myself?

I groaned softly as I straightened a little, still leaning against the car like it was the only thing holding me upright.

And then she walked out.

Yashika.

The moment her eyes landed on me, she yelled, “Found her!”

Hmph.
Bitch.

See? That is exactly why I hate her.

Okay, fine—it was my fault.

Still.
She’s a bitch.

My dad stepped out next. And behind him, everyone else followed—the Rawals, the Sisodias, faces I barely recognised, people who apparently had opinions about me now.

But my gaze stayed locked on him.

My father.

The man who used to be my hero.
My first love.
My first safe place.

And right now, he was walking toward me like I was a stranger he’d found loitering outside his house.

Why, Dad?

Am I not your princess anymore?
Why did you replace me?
Why couldn’t you love me?

I straightened fully, my hands slipping behind my back out of habit, out of defence.

“Dad,” I said.

He stopped right in front of me, everyone else halting behind him like an audience I never asked for.

“What nonsense is this?” he snapped.

I smiled—soft, innocent, rehearsed.

“Oh,” I said lightly, “I saw you all talking downstairs. I didn’t want to interrupt. So we used the back door.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, clearly not in the mood for any of my shit.

My smile didn’t falter.

Kiara stepped in immediately, hesitant but firm. “Uncle, we didn’t mean any harm. It was my idea. I forced her to go along.”

I kept my smile fake and said, “C’mon, Dad. It was just a harmless little prank.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

I added quickly, still smiling even though my insides were twisting, “I’m seeing you after six months, Dad. No hugs? No hi? No hello? No how are you?”

I was mocking him.

C’mon, Dad.
Hug me.
Ask me how I am.
Say hello.
Just once.

Look at me.

Please.

He snapped, “Maybe if you started acting like a grown woman, I would’ve asked about you.”

Oh.

Oh.
Oh. Oh. Oh.

So it was my fault.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak again, Kiara’s hand came up in front of me, stopping me mid-breath. I froze.

My mom appeared from behind and said sharply, “Let’s stop this, okay?”

My dad huffed and then looked at Yashika, who was standing beside him—draped in a turquoise blue suit, gold earrings brushing her neck, a gold necklace resting perfectly on her collarbone, sindoor neatly placed, nuptial chain gleaming.

And that smile.

Like he’d personally brought her the moon and placed it in her hands.

His gaze—so hard on me just seconds ago—softened instantly as he looked at her. He gently patted her head and then, without breaking eye contact with me, said loudly enough for everyone to hear,

“Meri beti Yashika se sikho ki ladkiyan is saliqe se rehti hain. Shayad tab tum sudhar jao.”
(Learn from my daughter Yashika how girls should live properly. Maybe then you’ll improve.)

Oh.

My heart ached—sharp, familiar, cruel.

My smile faltered for half a second. Tears burned my eyes, hot and humiliating, threatening to spill in front of people I didn’t even know. My ears burned too.

But I held it together.

Because really—who else was there for me?

My smile widened again as I looked at Yashika and said sweetly,
“Toh kab aau tumse tuitions lene? Tumhari carbon copy banne ke lessons lene?”
(So when should I come take tuition from you? Lessons on becoming your carbon copy?)

I laughed lightly and added,
“I mean, sorry guys, but hum sab jaante hain Yashika toh laakhon mein ek hai… ek-do lesson se main Yashika thodi na ban jaungi.”
(I mean, sorry guys, but we all know Yashika is one in a million… I won’t become her with just one or two lessons.)

Then I looked straight at my father and said,
“Dhyaan se… kahin main aapki Yashu ko apne jaisa na bana doon.”
(Be careful… what if I turn your Yashu into someone like me?)

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Immediately, Yashika’s hand slipped around his bicep. My mother’s hand came to rest on his other arm.

And just like that, he relaxed.

They looked like a family.

She was there.
She took my place.

It was my place.

She took it—and never once felt sorry.

My mom led my dad toward the car, shooting daggers at me the entire time. I simply gave her a small, innocent smile—as if saying watch me.

Then my eyes shifted to the people still standing in front of me.

The Rawals.