Chapter 25 Childhood Not Included
Within a few days, the rains finally gave Mumbai a break. The skies were no longer weeping, but the city still carried the scent of wet earth and nostalgia. It was afternoon when Ivikaa's phone buzzed a message from Adwait.
"You said you want to see what you're buying. Come."
Half an hour later, she stepped out of the Agnivanshi Palace, half expecting his bike.
Instead, she found him leaning against a black SUV, in a soft linen shirt, sleeves rolled, one hand resting on the roof, the other tapping the bonet with quiet rhythm, the faint sunlight catching the edge of his jawline.
He drove?
She hadn't expected that. It somehow made him look more grounded, more... accessible. And yet, there was a strange intensity in seeing him behind that windshield like a lion choosing to walk instead of run.
She made her way down and slid into the passenger seat.
"You drive?" she asked, still mildly stunned, buckling in.
Adwait gave her a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth curling. "Sometimes I adapt to normal human behavior."
"Hmm. First photo, now driving. I'm impressed. What's next, social media?"
He chuckled, pulling the SUV out of the palace driveway.
They didn't talk much during the drive they didn't need to.
The silence between them had begun to settle like fine dust, not heavy or awkward, just familiar.
There was something unusually still about him today.
Not cold-just composed. As if he had folded a part of himself inward.
The route took less than ten minutes. She noticed they were still within walking distance from the Agnivanshi Palace, tucked into a quieter lane lined with Gulmohar trees now dripping with orange petals.
He turned into an old gravel path and stopped in front of a large wooden gate. It looked like something out of a different century.
A single weathered board rested against the pillar:
"?????? ????" - Rajput House.
Ivikaa stilled.
The sea facing mansion beyond the gate rose four stories high, pale stone now slightly faded, but unmistakably regal.
A sprawling garden stretched ahead, half swallowed by wild creepers and dried leaves that scattered like forgotten memories.
The tall wooden doors, though aged, stood upright like guards of a fading dynasty.
Adwait stepped out and opened the gate. She followed him slowly.
"This is where you lived?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "For three years."
She lingered at the gate, reading the name below Rajput name again. Ridhima Suraj Rajput. The name tugged at something in her memory.
"Wait... Ridhima Rajput wasn't she an actress?" Ivikaa asked, brow raised, a flicker of recognition lighting in her eyes. She remembered glossy magazine covers when she stayed in India.
Adwait simply nodded.
She had seen how his face twisted when Divya Agnivanshi was mentioned. But here, for Ridhima, there was no emotion. Just... restraint. A mask. It puzzled her.
"So... your birth mother and your adoptive mother were both actors?" she asked.
He opened the heavy front door without looking at her. "Divya Agnivanshi and Ridhima Rajput were actors," he replied, voice clipped. "Best friends once."
There it was. A flicker of something bitterness? Hurt? But before she could pin it down, he flashed that familiar dimpled smile. Curtain drawn.
They stepped into a vast hall. The chandelier above still glittered in the afternoon light, its crystals barely dulled by time.
The royal blue sofas sat like sentinels in the center, regal even in dust. Further in, an expansive dining space flowed into an open kitchen with copper fittings and a marbled island.
Further ahead, an enormous dining area connected to an open style kitchen with marbled counters and antique brass fixtures.
Ivikaa wandered toward it. "Aren't you coming?" she called out.
Adwait lingered at the edge of the room. "No. Not my place."
She turned, puzzled. "I thought kitchens were your happy place. Isn't food your love language?"
He offered no answer. Just watched her with distant eyes. That silence again like he was keeping himself from falling back into something.
They moved toward the staircase. The walls were a shrine to Ridhima Rajput's life film posters, award ceremonies, behind the scenes photos. In some, she stood next to Suraj Rajput. In most, she held a cigarette like a prop. Iva absorbed it all-like a museum of someone's faded stardom.
Ivikaa took it all in, her gaze lingering, but not judging.
Then came a different set.
Upstairs, they opened room after room. Each space carried echoes of lives once lived plush furniture, fading curtains, dust and beauty tangled together. She mentally noted renovation possibilities. With the right touch, the mansion could be a palace once again.
Then they entered the master bedroom.
A large portrait of Ridhima loomed over the grand bed, her face serene, eyes timeless. The opposite wall was filled with photos but these were different.
Agnivanshis.
Ivikaa paused in front of one wall that felt more personal. Here were pictures of Ridhima with the Agnivanshis. In one, she stood with Divya Agnivanshi, both laughing in matching saris at what looked like a film premiere. In another, she posed beside Abhay Agnivanshi at an award ceremony.
One section had multiple frames with her parents Meera and Samrat Agnivanshi. Samrat stood tall, smiling, and there it was a faint birthmark on the right side of his forehead.
Another frame had Raghav and Devaki Agnivanshi. Then baby Raha. And several more of a very young Rudra, beaming between Ridhima and Suraj.
But it was one photo that stopped Ivikaa.
Ridhima Rajput, smiling warmly, standing beside a man who looked startlingly familiar.
Ivikaa turned to Adwait. He had already moved closer, eyes locked on the frame.
"Rajveer Agnivanshi," he whispered. His fingers brushed the glass lightly, tenderly.
Ivikaa stared. The man Rajveer aka Veer had the same rightforehead birthmark. The same dimpled smile. The resemblance was striking. The same jawline. But Rajveer's eyes were brown, not grey.
The same soul-threaded silence Adwait wore.
"Birthmark?" she whispered.
"Agnivanshi legacy. Sort of," Adwait murmured, still looking at Rajveer's picture.
"He looks like you."
Adwait's eyes softened. "I look like him," he said, his voice barely a breath. It was the first time she heard him say something with longing not sarcasm, not wit just feeling.
Then the mask returned.
"I mean... it's Agnivanshi genes. We all share features," he added quickly, stepping back.
He pointed at another nearby picture of Samrat Agnivanshi. There, faintly visible under the light, was the same small mark on the right side of his forehead.
She looked around, letting the silence speak. The mansion had stories layered in dust, held in frames and the cracks in the walls. The grandeur was untouched but the warmth was missing.
Not a single one had Adwait.
No childhood scribble. No hidden polaroid. No stolen moment.
Just absence.
She paused mid-step. "You're not in any of these," she said softly.
Adwait didn't answer immediately. His eyes stayed fixed ahead.
"That's because I wasn't part of the frame," he said, voice flat. "I came after the pictures stopped."
Ivikaa turned slowly to look at him. "She never took a photo with you?"
"She tried once. I didn't let her." A pause. "Didn't want to ruin the frame."
The words hit like a whisper with the weight of a scream.
"Adwait..."
He waved it off with that smile she had learned to mistrust the one that always came just before he buried something deep inside.
"I was the epilogue. They never make posters for that."
That line lingered in the air.
And for the first time, she realized that this place wasn't just a property to him it was a tomb of a life he was never allowed to fully belong to.
He led her forward again.
He had lived here. But he had never belonged here.
She looked around once more the nostalgia of the hallways still clinging to her. And then she turned to him.
"Where is your room? I want to see it," she asked softly.
Adwait didn't answer right away. But after a moment's pause, he simply turned and walked down the corridor. She followed.
The room he led her into was small not cramped, but unremarkable. Neutral walls, basic furniture, no photos, no posters, nothing childlike or personal. It looked more like a spare guest room.
Ivikaa blinked in confusion. "Was this your room? Or did you just remove your things?"
Adwait stepped in, then paused near the door before walking toward the window. His fingers found the handle and pushed it open. "This was my room... sometimes," he said with a forced smile.
He stepped out into the balcony. The wind tousled his hair as he ran his hand gently along the old iron railing. Every inch of it was worn, rusted in places yet he caressed it like it was sacred.
She followed him outside.
"Seems like your favourite spot," she said quietly, watching the strange tenderness with which he touched the old metal.
He nodded, still looking at the garden behind the house wild and a little overgrown, but full of mango and jackfruit trees, a little fountain in the centre, and a broken swing tilted to one side.
She looked back at the room. It was nowhere close to the master bedroom in scale or detail.
"Not very big," she mentally noted. But then she clapped her hands once, trying to lighten the mood.
"Okay then. I'll make this my room."
Adwait turned to her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
"You've already decided to buy this place?" he asked, almost as if the thought genuinely hadn't occurred to him until now.
She smirked and shrugged. "I said I want to see what I'm buying. And now that I've seen it..." She stepped up beside him, looking out. "...I want it."
He looked at her, her profile glowing faintly in the soft daylight, her eyes wide as they took in the garden. She rested her palms on the railing like he did. Their elbows nearly touched.
She whispered, "Beautiful."
They stood like that for a long second. Silent. Breathing the same air. Past and present folding together in that moment.
Adwait finally broke it. "Chale?" he asked, his voice low.
[Let's go?]
But when he turned to her, he saw that she wasn't ready yet. She was still taking in the view, her lips parted slightly, completely lost in the world beyond the balcony.
And something about that about her seeing beauty in what was once his quiet refuge did something to him.
"Garden was beautiful," she said softly, eyes still lingering on the empty patch of land that now held nothing but overgrown grass.
"Yeah... there was a swing back then," Adwait murmured, his voice carrying something between nostalgia and loss. "Renovation is required."
"Hmm. Will modify a bit," she said, her words light, but her chest was heavy. She followed him out of the room, footsteps echoing faintly on the marble.
As they reached the staircase, his voice broke the silence.
"Ek room hai jo mujhe chahiye."
["There's one room that I want."]
She turned to him, puzzled. "Room?"
"Yeah," he said, avoiding her eyes. "There's a room in the basement. It's locked. But I don't want to sell it."
"Why? Basement room?" She frowned. It felt out of place. A secret too casually placed.
He paused, the air around them thick with unsaid things. "Kuch yaadein hain jo main apne liye rakhna chahta hoon."
Before she could reply, he began walking again. She followed, something tugging at her chest. And then, without thinking, she reached out and caught his wrist.
The red thread slipped.
And what it revealed underneath hit her like a slap to the soul.
The flute tattoo-subtle, haunting-twisted and turned across burn scars. Scars that didn't belong on someone who never smoked. Someone who never flinched from fire. Someone whose silence she had always mistaken for strength.
Martin's words came flooding back - "No smoking near Adwait sir."
He never smoked. He never harmed himself. Then...
Her gaze lifted just behind him, the photo wall. Ridhima Rajput, draped in a silk saree. Cigarette in delicate fingers. Graceful, reckless, radiant.
Her chest tightened. Her world began to rearrange itself, a little painfully.
He began tying the thread back around his wrist, like he'd done it a thousand times. Like he had always needed to hide.
Not this time.
She caught his wrist again. Gentle, deliberate. Her fingers trembling slightly.
"Adwait... how did you get this?" Her voice was nearly a whisper.
Silence.
"Did you... self harm?"
He shook his head.
"Then who did this?" she asked again, her tone now stern. There was no softness now only fire rising in her throat.
Still, silence.
Why won't he say it? Why won't he trust me with even this much pain?
"You don't smoke, Adwait. And you didn't harm yourself," she said slowly, like each word had to be pulled from inside her. "Someone else did this to you. So tell me who?"
He looked down, his jaw clenched. Not a word.
Not even a lie. Just emptiness.
She released his wrist and took a small step back. Her voice cracked.
"So you won't even tell me that?" she said, her laugh bitter, sad. "Not even that much?"
Her thoughts raced, her heart loud in her ears.
All these weeks... the threads, the silence, the riddles, the pain in your eyes and still, you keep the doors locked. Still, you don't trust me. Still, I'm on the outside.
She blinked back the sting behind her eyes and forced a smile that barely held.
"I get it now." A breath. "I'm not worthy of that truth. Not even the scarred one."
His head remained bowed.
"Thanks, Adwait," she said quietly. "For showing me my place. And... this mansion." A pause. A breath, deep and shaking. "But I don't need it anymore."
She turned and walked away, the sound of her footsteps growing fainter behind her but her silence screamed louder than any goodbye ever could.
Adwait took a deep breath and stepped outside, the old iron door creaking shut behind him like the past refusing to stay buried.
With every step, memories clung to him ghosts of laughter, of silence, of screams that echoed behind locked doors.
His feet carried the weight of three years, but his heart carried the weight of being eight.
She was standing by the main gate, arms folded, spine stiff, jaw set. Waiting - but not looking back. Her silence was louder than any accusation.
He walked up behind her, hesitated, then slowly brought his hand forward his scarred wrist inches from her face.
She turned, startled. Her gaze fell on the raw, inked truth: the tattoo, the burns, the red thread now uncoiled and dangling loose.
Her eyes locked with his, sharp and glassy.
"What do you want to do, huh?" she snapped, voice cracking, full of emotion too big to contain.
"You don't even call me by my name. Only a few times, and always... always when I was in pain." A pause. Her breath hitched. "Every time I was broken, you said Ivikaa. Like a balm. And then silence again."
Her chest heaved now, and so did her words.
"You said you wouldn't be able to give me your whole self.
And I- I accepted that. I said Adhura hi sahi, Adwait toh hai na.
" She laughed bitterly, tears pooling in her lashes.
"But you? You couldn't even accept me back.
Not fully. Not even enough to let me speak about your pain.
" She looked down, her voice softening but hurting even more.
"You take away my pain. You protect me. You make me feel secure in a way no one ever has.
" A tear slipped down. "But what about me?
What could I do for you? Nothing. Nothing at all. "
[Even if incomplete, at least Adwait is there.]
Her voice trembled. "Adhura Adwait chalta hai... par anjaan Adwait ko kaise maan loon?"
["An incomplete Adwait is acceptable... but how do I trust an unfamiliar Adwait?"]
That was when he pulled her into his arms a quiet, desperate gesture. The kind where words would never suffice. She resisted for a moment, but then leaned into him, and her lips pressed against the scars on his wrist. A kiss of apology, of love, of mourning.
Adwait's voice came low and cracked.
"Woh room mein kuch yaadein hai... jo maine Suraj Uncle ke saath bitayi thi. Us kamre mein waqt qaid hai. Waqt jo maine khud ke sath bitaya hai... aur ek aanth saal ke bacche ka bachpan."
["There are some memories in that room... ones I shared with Suraj Uncle. Time is trapped in that room. Time I spent with myself... and a child's childhood of eight years."]
Her throat tightened. "So you want that basement room because of memories," she whispered.
He nodded, and then added with a bitter smile, "Kuch yaadein... nishaan bhi toh chhod jaati hain."
[He nodded, then added with a bitter smile, "Some memories... they leave marks too."]
She looked at his wrist again, gently brushing her fingers over the scars as if her touch could erase them.
"Kiski nishaani hai yeh?"
["Whose marks are these?"]
His voice was quiet, almost too quiet to hear.
"Naakaam. Nalayak beta hone ki."
["Of being a failure. Of being a useless son."]
Ivikaa froze.
"Your adoptive father did this?"
He shook his head slowly.
A beat.
Then, like lightning between them "Ridhima Rajput," she whispered.
Adwait didn't say yes. Didn't nod. Didn't flinch. Just smiled. That same broken smile of someone who had made peace with their pain long ago but never healed from it.
Ivikaa's knees nearly gave way.
She- she was the one who gave him this pain? The same Ridhima whose elegance she had admired from the portrait? Whose house this was? Whose blood ran through this legacy?
Tears streamed down her face now, heavy and unstoppable.
She wrapped her arms around him fiercely - like she could shield that little boy he once was. Hold him so tight that maybe, just maybe, time would shatter backwards and undo it all.
He let her. He held her back.
And in that long, quiet embrace he let her carry some of his past. Just enough for her to stay, but not so much that it crushed her.
A palace with no prince, just pain wearing a linen shirt and a half-smile. How... Agnivanshi of him.
? ? ?