22
I sat in my secret room-the only place in the entire mansion where even Ojhal wasn't allowed without knocking.
The scent of turpentine, dry canvas, and the gentle scratch of my brush were my only companions.
In front of me stood my newest canvas-my Katha, dressed in her white embroidered lehenga from her brother's wedding.
Her eyes sparkled, her lips slightly parted in that sharp, confident smile that could both kill and cure.
She looked divine-no, she looked like mine.
I dipped the brush in just the right shade for her dupatta and continued with quiet focus. Each stroke, each detail was etched in devotion. It wasn't just a portrait. It was a prayer.
On the shelf behind me, perfectly sealed and protected, were things no one in the world knew existed.
The lake kurta-the one I wore when she hugged me the first time. I hadn't washed it. Her warmth still clung to the fabric. I preserved it like a relic.
The jersey I saw her wear at the basketball stadium? I painted her exactly as I saw her then-tired, fierce, glowing with passion. That portrait was the first time I realized I had already given my soul to her.
When she was crying in the hospital, holding onto Gyan's bloody shirt, something inside me cracked.
I never admit it to anyone-not even to myself-but I'd used every last thread of my mafia network to make sure Utsav was rescued safely.
I didn't sleep. I didn't breathe. I just needed her safe, whole, smiling again.
Now, in this painting, she was wearing that white lehenga, turning slightly, a small smile playing on her lips like she was looking at me. And maybe she was.
Then there was the black kurta I wore at the wedding-the one she held onto when we danced. That kurta now hung behind glass, safe like my most guarded secrets.
She'd fed me sweets. I, who never touched sugar-not once in decades-ate it like it was a holy offering. Because it was from her. And if it came from her... how could I say no?
But the moment that shattered me, truly unmade me, was when she called me Datta.
No one had called me that since Ma.
Not even Baba. Not Athira or Garud. It was a name I buried deep inside myself, along with the boy who once laughed, who once loved openly. But when she whispered it... it was like that boy gasped to life inside me. And it scared the hell out of me.
I couldn't let her in.
Because if she enters... she'll find the ruined parts of me. She'll see the darkness, the blood on my hands, the scars no one ever healed.
And what if she leaves?
What if I lose her the way I lost Ma?
What if I give her every piece of me, and still it isn't enough?
What if loving her is the thing that finally destroys me?
I paused, staring at her painted eyes. My brush slipped a little. I didn't correct it.
"I can't lose you," I whispered aloud, to the canvas, to the silence, to the universe that never listened to my prayers.
"I can't lose my Katha."
But maybe... just maybe... I already had.
It had been a week since Bhairava's wedding.
A week of silence.
A week without a single word from her.
I convinced myself it was good-distance, silence, separation. It was what I needed. What she needed. But the silence gnawed at me. And the absence of her voice-sharp, warm, infuriating-made everything colder.
I was in my office, papers scattered, eyes blank, mind fogged, when Ojhal entered.
"What?" I asked, sharper than intended.
He hesitated, then spoke. "The Choudhury family is here."
I frowned. "Send them in."
One by one, they walked in like they owned the air in the room.
Sahadev Choudhury came in first, with that intimidating silence he wore like a weapon.
Then Bhairava and Arya, newlyweds-he looked more at peace now, like life had finally shown him mercy.
Then came the twins, Gyan and Dyan, both with smugness that could start a war.
Utsav followed, grinning like a little devil, holding a box.
And then...
She walked in.
Katha.
Dressed in white. Graceful, poised, but tired. Her steps were steady, but I could see the storm behind her eyes. She held Sharaa close, the little snow leopard resting against her shoulder.
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
But neither of us spoke.
Sahadev cleared his throat. "We are here to formally invite you, Dattatriya Agnivanshi, to attend the wedding of our daughter Katha Choudhury to Mr. Gowtham Chadda, to be held in two weeks."
The words were spoken like bullets.
My jaw clenched. My eyes didn't even blink. I simply nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"I'll be there," I said.
My voice didn't crack. My face didn't change. But inside, something cold and sharp pierced straight through.
I turned my eyes to Katha.
She was already looking at me.
Her eyes... weren't shining.
They were tired. Sad. Confused.
Like she didn't know why she was standing there.
Like she wanted me to stop this.
But I didn't.
Because maybe this was for the best.
Maybe this was how it was supposed to end.
And yet, in that single moment-our eyes locked, breath suspended-something silent passed between us.
Something neither of us dared to say.
Something we both knew... would never go away.
I sat in front of Mahakal, knees folded, forehead pressed against the cold stone floor, my fists trembling in silent grief.
The temple was quiet, just the echo of my breath and the flicker of the sacred flame before the black Shiva lingam. I sat up slowly, eyes burning, hands joined, and whispered, "Why, Mahakal... why always me?"
My voice broke.
"You took my mother from me when I was twelve. The only person who loved me with her whole soul. And before her body even turned to ash, my father married her best friend."
My throat tightened. I looked up at the towering form of the ling, unshaken, eternal.
"I gave up, you know," I whispered. "That day... I stopped expecting anything good in my life. I let the darkness take over. I became what the world fears."
I laughed bitterly, eyes stinging. "And then she came... Katha. Her fire, her madness, her pain. She made me want things again. Feel things again. For the first time in years... I prayed."
My voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with unshed tears. "I prayed to you to let me keep her. Just her. Just once, for me."
"But no... You had other plans. You're taking her away too. You're letting her go to someone else. Am I that bad, Bhagwan?" I asked, voice hollow. "Do I not deserve a little happiness in this life?"
I stared at the ling, hoping for something-some sign, some shift, some whisper of mercy.
But the black stone remained still.
Silent.
Unmoved.
Mahakal did not answer.
He only stared back.
Like he always had.
My eyes stayed locked on Mahakal's unmoving form as I trembled with rage and pain.
"Talk to me!" I yelled, voice echoing in the temple. "Tell me what is my fault! Why always me?!"
Silence.
I dropped to my knees, fists clenched so hard my nails dug into my palms. Tears ran down my face, but I didn't bother wiping them.
"Sab kuch toh le liya tumne mujhse..." I whispered brokenly. "Meri maa, meri khushi, mere papa ka pyaar... sab kuch. Ab use kaise de du Mahakal... kisi aur ke saath kaise dekhun main usse...?"
(You've taken everything from me...My mother, my happiness, my father's love... everything. Now how do I give her away, Mahakal? How do I watch her with someone else...?)
There was no answer. Just that same cruel stillness.
My phone rang, cutting through the silence like a blade.
I ignored it.
It rang again.
And again.
Finally, with a growl, I snatched it up without even checking the name.
"What?" I snapped.
There was a pause. "Beta... it's me."
My jaw clenched. "I'm not your beta."
"Dattatriya, please. I've been trying to reach you-"
"Why?" I said with a bitter chuckle. "Need help finding another woman to replace the one you vowed to love forever?"
"Don't talk like that-"
"Like what?" I cut him off coldly. "Like the son you abandoned the day my mother's pyre was still burning? Like the boy you left behind to rot in grief while you held someone else's hand?"
He was silent. I could almost hear his guilt choking him.
"I'm not interested in your guilt, Mr. Agnivanshi," I said icily. "You died the day she died."
"Dattatriya-"
"I said don't call me that!" I roared, tears burning again. "Only she had that right. And she's gone because of you."
"I know I made mistakes-"
"Mistakes?" I laughed darkly. "Mistakes are forgetting a birthday. You destroyed a life. Mine."
There was silence again. No breath. No words.
Finally, I spoke one last time, voice low and lethal.
"Don't ever call me again. You're just a stranger with my blood. Nothing more."
And I cut the call, throwing the phone across the temple floor.
It shattered into silence.
Just like me.
I opened the door to my mansion, exhausted beyond words, soul heavier than my footsteps. I didn't even know how I was standing. I had spent hours at Mahakal's feet, begging for answers that never came, questioning pain that never left.
And now, I was home.
Except...
My eyes widened the moment I stepped inside.
There, in the middle of the living room, with two giant suitcases thrown around like confetti, stood someone I hadn't expected at all.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, shocked.
The woman turned instantly, eyes lighting up as she squealed-
"Bhaiyaaaa!"
And I stood frozen.
Adya.
Adya Agnivanshi.
My baby sister. My only light. My reason to keep going when the darkness had drowned me for years.
She was just 6 years old when Maa died. Back then, I had picked her up from the hospital with trembling hands, wrapped her in a blanket, and made her a promise: "I will never let you feel what I did, Adya. Never."
And I never did.
She grew up under my wing, never once knowing the sharp coldness I had swallowed. I sent her to the best schools, watched her become the sharpest, fiercest businesswoman in America-ruling an empire with a calm mind and a fiery heart.
But in my eyes... she was still my little girl.
"My princess..." I whispered.
And she ran straight into my arms.
I bent down slightly and wrapped her in the tightest hug, one hand cradling the back of her head.
"I missed you so much, Bhaiya," she whispered into my chest.
I closed my eyes, the ache in my heart momentarily soothed by her presence. "I missed you more, Adya."
She pulled back and looked at me with narrowed eyes. "Why didn't you tell me what's going on?"
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
She crossed her arms. "Don't act innocent, Dattatriya Agnivanshi. I know everything. The Choudhurys. Katha. Gowtham. The wedding."
My jaw clenched.
Adya saw that and cupped my face gently. "You're hurting. I can see it in your eyes."
"Leave it, Adya," I said, trying to move away, but she held on tightly.
"No," she said sternly. "I won't. You've carried pain long enough, Bhaiya. This time, let me help."
I just stared at her.
My little girl... now standing like a warrior before me.
She looked at me again and whispered, "Do you love her?"
My throat dried. I didn't answer.
"Bhaiya..." she stepped closer. "You do, don't you?"
I finally looked her in the eyes. "More than anything. But she's marrying someone else. And I... I'm too broken to hold her without cutting her."
Adya's eyes softened. "Then let's fix that broken part, Bhaiya. Together."
I finally breathed for the first time that day.
Adya was home.
And maybe, just maybe, not everything was lost yet.
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