Chapter 1

“I’m the reason my father left my mother,” she said, “I was born a curse.”

“No…”

“My whole life, I’ve been a burden to my loved ones.”

“No…”

“But I’m still here, see?” she said, “I haven’t given up and even though you’re hurting now, I won’t let you give up either.”

Shubham Kapoor’s dreams were all the same. 

About halfway down Marine Drive, there were a few old steps that led down to a shelf-like projection of the beach. On this small balcony, there were two large pieces of rock that offered a spectacular view of the Arabian Sea if one didn’t mind a little discomfort while sitting. 

He stirred in his fitful slumber. 

In the dream, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t complete his sentences. Nor could he wipe away the lone tear that escaped her eye. 

He always woke with the unspoken in his mind, “You could never be a curse or a burden.”

The waves crashing against the rocks drowned his words on cue. 

“You are the most beautiful person in this world.”

Constricting pain in his left shoulder eventually forced him out of his misery and into the world of the living. 

As the sounds of the ocean faded away, his studio apartment came into focus.

He nursed his shoulder as he staggered out of bed and into the bathroom. Pulling the T-shirt overhead, he checked on the gunshot wound that had shattered his left shoulder two years ago.

In the mirror, the surgical scar from the repair was not terrible. It looked more or less as it did once the acute phase had passed.  

But the pain never seemed to fade, whether this was because of the injury itself or the proximity of the entry wound to his heart, neither Shubham nor his doctor could work out. 

Running a hand down the scar line, Shubham knew that it was the reason he couldn’t say anything, not even in his dreams, but keeping the secret was also why his pain would never go away. 

This was his destiny. He only hoped that heartbreak was more lethal than the bullet that had hit him.

When he returned, he saw that his phone was buzzing on the bedside table.

It was his brother. 

“Ram bhai, how’re you?”

“I’m fine, Shubu. Are you all set?”

Shubham glanced at the packed suitcase in the living room of his studio apartment.

Three months ago, Shubham graduated from NYU with an MBA. Ram bhai had surprised him by coming to the ceremony. He wasn’t entirely sure if the visit had been to support him or check up on him. 

The coolness of Ram bhai’s behaviour towards him in recent years hurt. It was in stark contrast to the warmth he was used to, growing up. 

But he didn’t blame his brother. In fact, he was grateful to him, it helped cement Shubham’s cause.

He had begged his brother to let him stay in New York. But Ram bhai had been adamant, he wanted Shubham to come home first. 

“It’s Pratham’s second birthday” Ram bhai had said, sternly. “You’ve never even met him.”

His nephew Pratham was born six months after Shubham had left India. He hadn’t gone back home for any holidays since.

“Come for a visit” Ram bhai had said, his tone softening. “Everyone misses you. And if you want to come back after that, I’ll make the arrangements for a job here.”

Shubham had conceded and his travel plans had been confirmed.

But in the week running up to his flight, Shubham’s anxiety had worsened. His already poor relationship with sleep had deteriorated further and he had stopped going to the University where he had been helping as a Teacher’s Assistant since his graduation. 

“Ye…yes, bhai” he stammered into the phone now. “All set.”

Any lingering hopes of backing out left him when with a small cheer, his niece Pihu, grabbed the phone from her dad and began chatting to him excitedly about her plans for his visit and her little brother’s upcoming birthday party.

 A wave of nostalgia hit him. Pihu was the perfect blend of his brother Ram and his sister-in-law, Priya. The Sood genes though, unmistakable in accent and affect, pierced his heart like shards of glass.

“Pihu, bache,” he said, stopping her gently. “I’ll go and get ready now, you don’t want me to miss the flight, do you?”

Turning on his Espresso machine, Shubham resolved to steel his nerves. There was too much at stake. If he had to go home, the best he could do was to try and cut the visit as short as possible. And while there, he would simply revert to the Shubham his family knew well and disliked. 

The charade would work. 

His heart, on the other hand, he wasn’t so sure of. 

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Sandy arranged sunflowers in a vase.

Every morning on her way to work, she stopped to buy five sunflowers from a florist who seemed to have an ever-increasing number of children, in various states of disarray, around her little cart.

Sometimes she brought the little one's sweets or any old clothes her mother could spare, on occasion slipped the lady an extra note. 

Sandy had taken up an internship with the real estate division of RK group after her architecture degree. Her brother-in-law was one of the country’s biggest business tycoons and his best friend, Adi Shekhawat, her boss, oversaw the luxury resorts branch where she worked. 

She had made her way up the corporate ladder over the past eight years, refusing to allow Ram jiju to do her any favours and preferring instead, to enjoy his admiration of her work ethic and his affections as a brother-in-law. 

“Morning Sandy” Adi sir called, poking his head around the door to her office. “Ready for the Nawabs?”

The royal family of Lucknow was selling an ancestral haveli that they no longer had the funds to upkeep. Sandy had heard of it through the grapevine and had done a preliminary recon- it would be the perfect location for the next RK luxury resort.

Both Adi sir and RK, as she called him at work, had loved her pitch and were now moving forward with the project. She had a final meeting scheduled for that afternoon. 

Sandy confirmed that she was ready and Adi sir, the teddy bear of a human being, shot her a huge grin and thumbs up. She was so happy that after years of trying, Adi sir and his wife Brinda were now expecting a baby. 

She hastened with the flower arrangement, four sunflowers facing four different directions and one in the middle, overlooking them. 

Even though her father had abandoned the family, her Ma had raised four girls by herself, not with the bitterness she was surely entitled to, but with love and laughter that was passed on, Sandy was certain, from a higher power. 

Her sisters had all married and moved out of their childhood home. Technically it was only her and Ma now but somehow the house was never empty or quiet. 

Most recently, Ma had requested that they celebrate baby Pratham’s second birthday at their home. His first had been a grand affair at RK mansion and she wished to do a little something for her grandson this time around. 

Sandy set the vase on the windowsill knowing that by evening, all five flowers would face the same direction. They were unwavering in their devotion and even on cloudy days, they craned their necks towards any sunlight filtering through the glass windows. And somehow they always filled Sandy with hope. 

RK strode in mid-morning on his way out, to wish her luck with her meeting. His gaze flickered over to the flowers momentarily. Sandy had noticed that this happened almost every time he came into her cabin and wondered if all Kapoor men liked sunflowers and secretly hoped they had never confided in each other about it.

Her meeting went well, the Nawabs were happy to sell at her price point and she spent the afternoon updating Adi sir and her team. 

When she returned home, waving hello to Smitha Aunty, who ran the beauty parlour next to their apartment, she saw that it was a house full.

All three sisters and their families were in attendance, minus Neeraj Jiju, and baby Pratham’s birthday party was the topic of discussion. 

She joined in long enough to finish the cup of tea her mother brought out for her. But shortly after, she signalled to Pihu and together they managed to sneak a few balloons out of one of the party crates and slipped into Sandy’s room without the grown-ups noticing. 

Mahima, Maitri di’s three-year-old daughter, tried to follow them in. Sandy picked her up, brought her inside and closed the door to her bedroom.

Both girls clambered onto her bed and began to jump up and dow, getting louder and more unruly as they failed to blow up a single balloon between them. 

“Maasi, you try,” Pihu said, handing her one. 

Watching her struggle, both girls lapsed into giggles while also trying to shush each other.

“We need a boy!” Pihu declared. 

Affronted, Sandy redoubled her efforts. She could not let her nieces grow up thinking that girls couldn’t do things by themselves. 

But it was hard to blow a balloon when the girls kept making her laugh. 

“Chachu will be here tomorrow,” Pihu said, “We’ll ask him!”

Sandy’s laughter stilled instantly. 

“Your Chachu is coming?” she asked quietly.

Before Pihu could answer, Priya di swung the door open. Sensing a telling-off, both girls sat down at once and pretended to be playing a quiet game.

Sandy, covering for them always, also joined in the pretence. “Colour colour, what colour do you choose?”

“Pink!” Mahima exclaimed, turning to Priya di with a look of innocence that was a dead giveaway. Pihu rolled her eyes at her novice cousin. 

The corner of Priya di’s lips twitched as she informed them that it was time to leave.

Waving them all goodbye at the door, Sandy struggled to hide a yawn.

She leaned against the door. Was he really coming home?

“Sandy beta, baalon me te laga doon?” 

Ma always knew when she was stressed or tired. Even when Sandy went out of her way to hide it. 

She accepted the offer and while she gathered the hair oil and towel, Ma turned on the TV to the channel that played old Hindi songs on a loop. 

Sitting at her mother’s knee, Sandhya was reminded of all the times growing up when she had to await her turn. Sometimes Sara di or Priya di would do her hair instead if Ma’s hands had tired by the time it was Sandy’s turn.

Sandy didn’t mind, all three sisters had loved and spoiled her. Together they had more than made up for her missing parent even though she was the reason they were missing a parent too. 

Every now and again, Ma used this opportunity, with Sandy captive in her hands, to bring up a Rishta that had come through to her. 

Sandy’s experience with the arranged marriage market had been short and brutal. Her family had accepted her refusal to participate anymore but had not given up hopes of seeing her married. 

Today, however, Ma seemed pensive, and Sandy was grateful for the spot of quiet. 

She rubbed her right forearm; two years ago, there had been an unsightly bruise across its length, from a blunt force injury when she rammed into a heavy, wooden table.

She had believed, with the devotion of her sunflowers, that someone had pushed her. But the someone had claimed that she had fallen of her own volition, from the impact of the gunshot and thereby hung a tale.