Chapter 4: Unraveling Threads

The hum of AR Designs pulsed around Khushi like a distant storm. Designers chatted, printers beeped, and phones buzzed—but for her, everything was muffled.

Her fingers traced the old photograph tucked inside her sketchbook for what felt like the hundredth time. Each swipe over the edges was almost meditative, like she was trying to pull a buried truth out of the paper itself.

A girl in red.

A boy beside her, solemn, with knowing eyes.

A fire. A red thread.

And that boy...

That boy had a name now.

Arnav Singh Raizada.

Her breath caught again. This wasn’t just some symbolic moment from a forgotten childhood. It was real. Tangible. And the emotions it stirred—fear, confusion, and an aching pull in her chest—were growing stronger by the day.

She pressed the photo to her chest, trying to steady her heart.

There had been a temple, a promise, a ceremony.

But also—

Shouting.

Her father’s name being hurled in accusation.

Doors slamming.

A car ride she couldn’t remember the end of.

Until now.

---

FLASHBACK – 13 Years Ago, Sheesh Mahal

Thunder cracked outside Sheesh Mahal, lightning illuminating the intricate walls of the grand haveli. Inside, the storm had already begun.

“You think we stole from the factory?”

Shashi Gupta’s voice trembled, a mix of disbelief and rising rage.

“There was no one else who had access!”

Arnav’s uncle snarled, slamming a thick ledger onto the antique table. “Someone leaked the accounts. Someone sabotaged our contracts!”

Little Khushi, just six years old, hid behind a marble pillar, holding her favorite cloth doll close. Her large brown eyes searched for her father through the commotion.

Upstairs, young Arnav, barely ten, stood frozen as his mother pulled him away from the railing.

“I don’t believe it,” he whispered fiercely. “Khushi’s Bauji would never—he used to bring me sweet paan from the market…”

His mother’s voice was tight, laced with sadness. “Sometimes, Arnav… even the kindest people betray you. You’ll learn that.”

“I won’t believe it!” he snapped, wrenching his arm away.

Downstairs, Buaji was shouting now. “Shashi Babua is no thief! You have no proof—only accusations!”

Garima, silent and devastated, held Khushi close. The child could feel her mother’s heart pounding like a trapped bird.

Khushi whispered, “Why is Bauji crying?”

Garima brushed her cheek and forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Because sometimes the world doesn’t listen to good people.”

Then came the final blow.

“Get out of this house,” Arnav’s uncle growled. “Before I call the police!”

Shashi opened his mouth to speak, but Garima tugged him gently. They walked out, heads held high, through the heavy gates of Sheesh Mahal.

In the backseat of the car, Khushi watched the mansion disappear behind her—like a fairytale gone wrong. Her father held her hand. Her mother tried to hum a lullaby.

The car never reached its destination.

---

Present Day – Buaji’s House

The photograph trembled in Khushi’s hands as she sat in the middle of Buaji’s small living room. The late afternoon sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns over the floor—patterns she barely noticed. Her chest felt heavy, as though the very air around her was thick with ghosts.

She had stared at the photo so long that the boy’s face had begun to haunt her waking thoughts.

And now, a name clung to the fragments of her fading dreams.

Arnav Singh Raizada.

Just as she stood to confront the truth, the front door opened.

“Khushi bitiya, look how fresh these tamatar (tomatoes) are today!” Buaji’s cheerful voice echoed as she walked in, balancing a cloth bag of vegetables. The moment she saw Khushi’s face, the smile faded.

Khushi stood frozen, the photo clenched in her hand. “Buaji,” she said tightly, her voice low and trembling, “we need to talk. Now.”

Buaji blinked. “Kya hua, bitiya?”

(What happened,dear girl)

Khushi took a shaky breath and held up the picture. “This boy. This wedding. Why didn’t you ever tell me the truth?”

The bag fell with a thud. Onions and green chilies spilled across the floor like forgotten secrets.

“Where… where did you get that?” Buaji’s voice was barely a whisper.

“In the trunk in the storeroom,” Khushi replied, her eyes glinting with a mix of pain and fire. “You told me my memories were gone. You said I was too little to remember after the accident. But I do remember. Bits and pieces. Shouting. Bauji’s name. The feeling of being ripped away from something—and someone.”

At that moment, Payal stepped in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her eyes flickered from the photo to Buaji’s face. “Khushi… what’s happening?”

Khushi turned to her sister, voice cracking. “Jiji… did we live at Sheesh Mahal?”

Payal froze, the towel slipping from her fingers. “You remembered?”

Khushi’s voice trembled. “Not all of it. Just enough to know something terrible happened. Something everyone kept from me.”

Buaji moved slowly to the sofa, as though her bones had aged years in a minute. “Your Bauji (Dad) worked in their factory. He was a trusted man—honest, hardworking. But when the Raizada family lost some contracts and money went missing… they needed someone to blame.”

“They accused him?” Khushi asked, eyes burning.

Buaji nodded. “They said he tampered with accounts. Your Bauji tried to explain, but no one listened. They humiliated him. Threw us out in front of servants and strangers.”

Payal added softly, “You were only six. Holding onto Amma’s hand, watching everything in silence.”

Khushi’s hands balled into fists. “And then?”

Buaji swallowed. “That night, your parents took you and left. Said they’d find shelter somewhere else. But the car never reached anywhere. It crashed near the old river bend.”

“I remember water…” Khushi whispered. “The sky was red. Someone was shouting…”

“You were found hours later, alone,” Buaji said, her voice breaking. “Covered in blood but untouched. The doctors said it was trauma. You didn’t speak for two months.”

Payal reached for Khushi’s hand. “You would wake up screaming. About shouting. Fire. A red thread.”

Khushi looked at the photo again—herself in bridal red, a little girl smiling, and beside her… that same boy. The one from her dreams. From her drawings.

“The wedding,” she whispered. “It wasn’t just pretend, was it?”

Buaji hesitated. “It was symbolic. Some old tradition. A priest at the temple said it would bless both families. No one took it seriously… but you two did. You followed him around the haveli like his shadow. He called you ‘pagal ladki,’ but never pushed you away.”

Khushi’s knees gave out, and she sat slowly. “So he knew. He remembered all along.”

“I thought maybe he forgot,” Buaji whispered. “Or buried it, like we tried to do for you.”

Payal’s voice was barely audible. “Or maybe he remembered… and chose silence.”

The silence that followed was thick with things unsaid.

Khushi stared at the photo again. The boy’s eyes were solemn, almost protective. Her throat tightened.

“He became Arnav Singh Raizada,” she whispered. “And I became a stranger.”

Buaji reached out slowly. “We never wanted to hide it out of cruelty. We just… wanted to protect you.”

Khushi didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, with aching certainty, she said,

> “I wasn’t just a girl who lost her parents.

I was a girl someone once promised to never leave behind.”

---

Shantivan –

The evening wind whispered through the corridors of Shantivan, stirring the sheer curtains and carrying with it a quiet unease. The poolside shimmered under the moonlight, its calm surface reflecting shadows of the past.

Arnav Singh Raizada stood still at the edge of the water, shoulders tense, eyes vacant. In his hand was a leather-bound journal—weathered, frayed at the edges—a remnant of a time he had tried so hard to forget. Pressed between its pages: an old photo and a thin, faded thread of red.

Behind him, Nani approached slowly, her gaze soft but unwavering.

“You still keep that old thread?” she asked gently.

He didn’t turn. “It’s the only thing I didn’t throw away.”

Nani stepped closer, watching her grandson—so powerful in the boardroom, yet so shattered in moments like this. “She’s beginning to remember, isn’t she?”

He finally turned, his eyes shadowed. “Yes.”

“She deserves the truth, Chote.”

He looked down at the thread again, his voice low. “I was a coward. When she vanished after the crash, I buried everything. I convinced myself the ceremony didn’t matter. That it was just… childhood play.”

Nani’s eyes glistened. “But it wasn’t, was it?”

His fingers tightened around the journal. “No. It wasn’t.”

She stepped beside him, watching the water ripple beneath the moonlight. “Then why stay silent now?”

Arnav’s jaw clenched. “Because I didn’t stop them, Nani. I stood there. When Uncle screamed at her father, when the accusations flew, when they were thrown out—I just… watched. I let it happen.”

“You were a child,” Nani said firmly. “And you were afraid.”

“I still am,” he admitted. “Because she’s here. And she doesn’t remember the worst of it. She remembers the red thread… the temple… maybe even my face. But not the screaming. Not the pain. Not the way we let her be taken.”

Nani exhaled slowly. “She will remember. And when she does, she’ll either hate you… or finally understand what binds you both.”

Arnav’s eyes flicked to the thread in his palm. “Sometimes I wonder if that thread was ever just symbolic. Or if we tied something we were never meant to untangle.”

A silence settled between them—thick, aching, fragile.

Finally, Nani placed a hand on his shoulder. “The truth, Chote, may hurt. But it’s better than letting her feel abandoned twice.”

He didn’t speak. But as Nani walked away, the journal remained open in his hand. The red thread lay against the old photograph—two children, a priest, a banyan tree—and a promise neither time nor silence had truly erased.

---

Later That Night

The house was still. Only the soft ticking of the wall clock marked time, but for Khushi, sleep remained a stranger.

She lay awake in bed, motionless, the photograph tucked beneath her pillow like a secret too fragile to keep out in the open. Her eyes traced the cracks in the ceiling, but her mind was elsewhere—wandering through broken corridors of memory.

A corridor bathed in flickering lamplight.

The storm outside pounding like a war drum.

The doll clutched tightly in her small hands.

The shouting.

Her father’s voice breaking.

A red thread tied between her wrist and his.

And a boy—his eyes wild with confusion, his hand slipping from hers as someone pulled him away.

She remembered the echo of gates slamming shut.

The cold night.

The car.

Tires skidding on wet roads.

The crack of thunder.

The sharp, sudden silence.

Her breath caught.

Had she really forgotten all of this? Or had she buried it so deep it took the return of that one photograph to begin to loosen the earth?

She turned on her side, pressing her cheek into the pillow, the worn edges of the photo just beneath. Her fingers curled, as if trying to hold onto something that time had already taken.

And then, into the darkness, she whispered the question that had taken root in her chest and bloomed like ache:

> “If we were tied once…

Why did you never come back for me?”

A tear slipped down her temple, unnoticed.

Outside, the wind stirred softly—like a memory leaning in to listen.

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