Chapter 29
Kabir's Perspective
When I stepped through the front door, I immediately sensed something was different. The air felt heavier, almost as though the house was holding its breath. Mom and Dad were sitting in the living room, their faces soft with nostalgia and something else—something that made my stomach tighten a little.
They looked up as I entered, their eyes lighting up with smiles that didn't quite reach their usual brightness.
"Hey, Kabir," Mom said gently, her voice carrying a warmth that didn't match the quiet tension in the room.
"Hey," I mumbled, sliding off my shoes and walking toward them. There was something about the stillness, the way they both seemed lost in thought, that made me feel like I was interrupting something.
I sat down across from them, my fingers tapping nervously on the armrest. "Everything okay?" I asked, trying to sound casual, but the concern crept into my voice.
They exchanged a look, one of those unspoken conversations parents have that make you feel like they're sharing a secret, something heavy. Dad exhaled softly, his eyes meeting mine, a sad kind of understanding passing between us.
"It's... the anniversary," he said quietly. "Seven years, today."
I knew immediately what he was talking about. Aditi's parents. I nodded, my throat tightening a little as I tried to figure out what to say.
"Uncle Sameer and Aunty Nisha," Mom added softly, her eyes far away. "Seven years since we lost them."
I leaned back, letting the weight of the words settle in. I knew about Aditi's real parents, of course. But hearing my parents talk about them—people they had loved and known so well—made it feel different. More personal. More real.
Mom smiled faintly, though her eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Sameer and Nisha weren't just friends, Kabir. They were... they were family. We grew up together, all four of us."
Dad nodded, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "Sameer and I were inseparable, like brothers. Always getting into trouble, always pulling each other into one mess or another."
"You and Raghav are the same way," Mom said, chuckling lightly. "Just like us back then."
Dad's laughter followed hers, though it was tinged with sadness. "Yeah, we had the best of times. Sameer and I, we would dream up the wildest ideas, and Nisha and your mom would be the voices of reason. Not that it ever stopped us."
Mom laughed softly, though her eyes were distant, lost in the memories. "Oh, Nisha... she always had this way of pretending she wasn't going along with Uncle Sameer's plans, but before you knew it, she'd be the one leading the charge."
Dad smiled, nodding in agreement. "She had more energy than all of us combined, especially in those early years. And even when she was expecting Aditi, she wouldn't slow down."
I listened quietly, feeling like I was hearing stories about characters in a book—people who felt close and yet so far away, shaped by a past I had never known. And then Mom's voice softened, her eyes shining as she glanced at me.
"You know," she said, her voice filled with a different kind of emotion, "Aunty Nisha was the one who delivered you."
I blinked, surprised. "What?"
"She did," Dad chimed in, his voice full of warmth. "She was a doctor, but more than that, she made a promise. She'd always told us she wanted to be there to bring our children into the world. It was her dream—no matter what."
Mom nodded, her eyes misty with the memory. "Even when she was pregnant with Aditi, Nisha insisted on keeping that promise. I remember, she was so determined. She wouldn't let anyone else near that delivery room. Uncle Sameer tried to convince her to take it easy, but she wouldn't hear it. She said, 'I'm going to be the first one to hold Kabir, just like I promised.'"
A soft laugh escaped my mom's lips as she recalled that day. "And she was. She was the first one to hold you, Kabir. I'll never forget the look on her face when she did. She was so happy, even though she was tired, even though she had her own baby growing inside her. She made sure you were in her arms first."
A lump formed in my throat as I tried to process what I was hearing. I had always known Aditi's parents had been close to mine, but this—this was something else. Aunty Nisha had been there for my first breath, for my very first moment in the world, even when she was carrying Aditi. The connection felt deeper now, more intricate, like our families were bound together in a way I'd never fully understood before.
"Nisha always had that sense of responsibility," Dad added quietly. "She took care of everyone around her. That was who she was. Uncle Sameer used to joke that she had the energy of ten people because no matter what was going on in her life, she was always there for us. For everyone."
"She was the strongest person I knew," Mom said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "Even when things got tough, she never gave up on her dreams or her promises."
For a long moment, we sat in silence, the memories filling the space between us. I tried to picture Aunty Nisha in that delivery room, cradling me in her arms. The image was surreal, but it also felt right, like this was a story I was meant to know but had only just discovered.
"It must've been hard for them," I said quietly, almost to myself. "Losing them like that... for Aditi."
Mom's face softened, and she nodded, her hand resting gently on mine. "It was. It's been hard for everyone who knew them. But for Aditi... I can't imagine."
Dad leaned back, his expression filled with a quiet sadness. "They were incredible people, Kabir. They would've loved to see you grow up, to see you and Aditi become friends. Uncle Sameer used to talk about it all the time—how he wanted to teach you both cricket, how he'd take you to matches together."
I smiled at that, even though it felt bittersweet. "He sounds like he was a great guy."
"They both were," Mom said softly, her eyes glistening with tears she wasn't letting fall. "Uncle Sameer and Aunty Nisha were the kind of people you only meet once in a lifetime. They were there for us through everything. And they loved Aditi so much."
Dad sighed deeply, his voice full of fondness. "Sameer and I, we used to talk about our kids all the time. He was convinced you'd be the star cricketer, and Aditi would be this brilliant mind—just like Nisha."
Mom chuckled through her tears. "And Nisha, she'd roll her eyes at Uncle Sameer's grand plans, but she was proud. She loved Aditi with every ounce of her being."
As the conversation wound down, I could feel the weight of everything that had been shared. My parents had carried these memories with them for years, and I realized now that these weren't just stories—they were pieces of their hearts, pieces of their lives that had shaped who they were and, in some ways, who I was, too.
After a long pause, I finally stood up, my heart heavy but filled with a new understanding. "I think I'll go lie down for a bit," I said softly.
Mom nodded, her eyes still misty. "Alright, sweetheart. We'll be here if you need us."
I made my way to my room, my mind swirling with everything I'd learned. Lying down on my bed, I stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Uncle Sameer, Aunty Nisha, about how much they had meant to my parents—and to me, even though I'd never really known them.
And in that moment, I understood something I hadn't before. Aditi and I were connected in more ways than I'd ever realized. Our families were bound by history, by promises, by love, and by loss. And somehow, that made everything feel a little more meaningful, a little more real.
As I closed my eyes, I could almost picture Aunty Nisha holding me for the first time, even while Aditi grew inside her. It felt like a bridge between us—a moment of connection that had been there all along, waiting for me to understand.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation with Mom and Dad in my head. Their words still echoed—about Aditi's parents, their old friends, and all the memories tied to them. The weight of it all felt too heavy to shake off.
After a while, I forced myself to get up, deciding that maybe focusing on schoolwork would help clear my head. I pulled out my textbooks, determined to push through my assignments. As I reached into my bag to pull out some notes, a small stack of papers slipped out and fell into my lap.
Aditi's notes.
I stared at them for a second, a rush of embarrassment washing over me. I'd borrowed these days ago, and even though I'd seen her twice since then, I'd completely forgotten to return them.
"Seriously?" I muttered to myself, slapping my forehead.
I thought about messaging her, but it felt wrong somehow. This wasn't something I could just handle over a text. Besides, after everything I'd learned from my parents, I felt this strange pull to see her.
Grabbing the notes, I headed out the door, making my way to her house.
By the time I reached Aditi's place, the evening light had dimmed, casting soft orange and pink hues across the sky. I hesitated for a moment, standing at her door, trying to collect my thoughts. My mind raced with what I'd learned—about her real parents and their close connection to mine. How could I talk to her now, knowing this?
I rang the doorbell, and a moment later, Aditi opened the door. She seemed surprised to see me but quickly stepped aside to let me in.
"Kabir," she said softly, a hint of curiosity in her voice. "You didn't tell me you were coming over."
"Yeah," I mumbled, stepping into the hallway. "I, uh, realized I still had your notes. I meant to return them sooner."
She smiled a little, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "You could've just messaged."
"I know," I replied, handing her the stack of papers. "But I thought I'd drop them off in person."
The house was quieter than usual. I noticed the absence of her usual family chaos—no little voices calling out, no sounds of her chacha or chachi bustling around. It felt strangely still.
"Where's Uncle and Aunty?" I asked, trying to fill the silence.
"They're out," Aditi replied, walking toward the kitchen. Her voice was casual, but there was an odd distance to it. "They'll be back later."
I followed her into the kitchen, where the warm scent of chocolate immediately filled the air. It was rich and sweet, wrapping around me like a blanket. I glanced around and noticed a tray of brownies on the counter.
"You're baking?" I asked, surprised. "I didn't know you did that."
"I don't," she said quietly, not meeting my eyes. "Not really. Brownies are the only thing my mom taught me."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with a meaning I couldn't fully grasp yet. She turned away from me, her movements quiet and precise as she worked in the kitchen, cutting into the fresh batch of brownies.
"My real mom," she clarified after a pause, her voice softer now. "She never had much time for anything like this. She was always working long shifts at the hospital."
I nodded, unsure of what to say. It was hard to imagine the woman I now knew as her mother wasn't her biological mom, but her chachi. I could sense that there was more to the story, something that had been weighing on her.
"My mom—well, my chachi—was her sister," Aditi continued, as though reading my thoughts. "After the accident, she and my chacha took me in. She's been like a second mom to me my whole life. I think... I think that's why it was easier for them to take me in. She already loved me, you know?"
I could see the vulnerability in her words, the way she was opening up about something deeply personal. It wasn't just about the brownies or even her real mom—it was about the bond she shared with both women. Her voice was steady, but I could hear the sadness threaded through each word.
"My dad, though," she said, her voice growing softer, "he always made sure I didn't feel her absence too much. When she was on those long hospital shifts—sometimes 36, even 72 hours—he'd handle everything. The cooking, the cleaning, taking care of me. He didn't complain, not once. He even bought a Sanjeev Kapoor cookbook," she added, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. "He wanted to learn recipes that would reduce her stress when she was home."
I blinked, surprised at the detail. "Sanjeev Kapoor?" I echoed. "The famous chef?"
Aditi nodded, and for the first time since I'd arrived, she looked up at me, her expression soft but filled with a distant kind of nostalgia. "Yeah. It's still with me, actually. Dad kept it on the kitchen counter all the time, but now I keep it in my almirah. It's like... a piece of him, you know? He wasn't the best cook at first, but he tried so hard. He wanted her to come home to something warm, something that showed he cared."
I couldn't help but smile at the image. "He sounds amazing."
"He was," she whispered. "I miss him every day."
There was a pause, and in that moment, the weight of her loss hit me in a way I hadn't fully understood before. Her dad had been more than just a parent—he'd been her entire world, filling the void left by her mom's demanding career. And now, both of them were gone.
She sliced a piece of brownie and walked over to me, holding it up to my lips. "Here," she said quietly. "You've earned it."
For a moment, I hesitated. It felt deeply personal, letting her feed me like this, but the way she looked at me—her eyes filled with something so raw, so unspoken—I couldn't refuse. I opened my mouth, and she gently placed the warm, chocolatey piece inside.
The brownie melted on my tongue, its sweetness barely registering as I focused on the warmth of her hand, still close to my face. I felt the weight of everything she'd shared, and somehow, that made the simple act of eating a brownie feel like something more—something important.
"Congratulations," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I never got the chance to tell you after the tournament. You deserved that win."
Her fingers brushed against my skin as she pulled her hand away, lingering near my lips for just a second longer than necessary. The warmth of her touch left me frozen, unable to speak for a moment.
"Thanks," I managed to say, my voice coming out quieter than I intended.
She smiled faintly, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Instead, her gaze shifted, landing on the faint bruise near my temple. Her expression changed, her brow furrowing in concern as she reached out to touch the bruise gently.
"What happened?" she asked softly, her fingers brushing against the edge of the mark.
I winced, not from the pain, but from the unexpected closeness. Her thumb lingered just below the bruise, near the corner of my lips, and I felt my breath catch.
"It's nothing," I mumbled. "Just a hit during the match. I'll be fine."
She didn't seem convinced. Her thumb traced a slow, soft line just below the bruise, her touch so light it sent a shiver down my spine. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling out of control.
"Are you sure?" she asked again, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Really. It's fine."
Her hand stayed there for a moment longer, her thumb resting just below the bruise, so close I could feel her warmth. But then, as if realizing how close we had gotten, she pulled away, her cheeks slightly flushed.
"You don't have to worry," I said softly, trying to reassure her.
But Aditi didn't respond. Instead, she looked away, her gaze distant once more, lost in the weight of everything she wasn't saying.
In the silence that followed, I could feel the depth of her loss, her memories, and the unspoken grief she carried with her every day. And though I wanted to say something to comfort her, I knew that right now, it wasn't about finding the right words. It was about being there, in the moment, and letting her know she wasn't alone.
"Aditi," I started to say, but she shook her head gently.
"You don't have to say anything," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Just... take care of yourself."
I nodded, understanding more than I could express. And for now, that was enough.