chapter 5: Threads Between Us

Morning – Buaji’s Home

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden stripes on the floor. Khushi sat at the dining table with a cup of chai in hand, untouched and cold. Payal leaned against the kitchen doorframe, while Buaji stirred dal on the stove, trying to act as if things were normal.

But everything was far from normal.

“I need to know more,” Khushi finally said, breaking the silence. Her voice was low but firm. “And this time, I want all of it.”

Buaji turned slowly, her ladle paused mid-air. “We told you what we knew, bitiya.”

“No,” Khushi said, pulling out the photograph again and placing it on the table like evidence. “You told me what you thought I could handle.”

Payal moved closer. “Khushi, we didn’t want to hurt you again.”

“I saw something else in my dreams last night,” Khushi said. Her fingers trembled slightly as they touched the edge of the photo. “It wasn’t Arnav’s uncle who threw the papers. It was someone else. A man with a limp.”

Buaji’s eyes widened, color draining from her face.

“A cane. I remember the tapping,” Khushi said slowly, the image sharpening in her mind. “And his voice… he wasn’t shouting, but he looked angry. Cold.”

Payal stepped forward. “Khushi… are you saying there was someone else involved?”

Khushi nodded. “It was Mama ji, wasn’t it? Arnav’s mother’s brother?”

Buaji’s hands began to tremble as she sank into a chair. “Yes,” she whispered. “Mama ji managed accounts along with your Bauji. He had a limp from an old injury. He… he was in that room the night your father was accused.”

Khushi’s heart pounded. “Did anyone question him? After everything that happened?”

“No,” Buaji admitted. “Because he left. Two days after we were thrown out, Mama ji left for Dubai. Said it was for health reasons. Then… he never came back. Died of a heart attack a few years later.”

Khushi stood up suddenly, pacing the small kitchen. “What if he was the one behind it all? What if he let Bauji take the blame?”

“We thought that too,” Buaji said, voice thick with old grief. “But we had no power. No voice. And you… you had just stopped speaking. I didn’t want to lose you too.”

Payal reached out. “Khushi, even if he was involved, there’s nothing we can do now.”

“Yes, there is,” Khushi said sharply. “I can confront the one person who was there. The one who’s still alive and who saw everything.”

Payal’s breath caught. “Arnav?”

Khushi nodded. “He remembers. He has to.”

Buaji wiped her eyes with her pallu. “But he’s not the same boy anymore. He’s powerful now. Closed off. Ruthless.”

Khushi’s eyes flashed. “Then it’s time someone reminded him who he used to be.”

---

Later That Day – Buaji’s Home (Storeroom)

Khushi tiptoed into the dim, dust-laden storeroom. The air smelled of old paper, wood, and time itself. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like thin curtains, and sunlight streamed in through the slatted windows in fractured lines.

She knelt beside an old teak trunk, its metal latches rusted with age. With effort, she pried it open.

Inside were bundles of papers wrapped in fabric, some tied with red thread, others with faded blue ribbon. One bundle caught her eye—letters yellowed with time, and tucked between them, a torn page from an account ledger. It had three bold initials scribbled in the corner: “RM.”

Khushi brushed off the dust and squinted at the faded ink.

"These entries... they don’t match the duty roster Buaji once showed me. These dates... Bauji wasn’t even working on those days."

She heard a soft gasp behind her. Buaji stood at the doorway, clutching the wooden frame.

“That belonged to your Bauji,” she said, her voice quivering. “He kept those records even when no one would listen. He said one day, someone might.”

Khushi stood, the ledger page trembling in her hand. “These numbers... they prove he was tracking discrepancies. And these initials—RM. Ratan Mama?”

Buaji nodded hesitantly. “Yes. Ratan Mama. He was good with accounts, but after the sabotage... he vanished from all questioning. He just... went silent.”

Khushi’s jaw clenched. “Because he had something to hide.”

She scanned the page again. "Look at these shell company names. Repeated transfers. Hidden withdrawals. If this is what I think it is, then someone framed my father to protect themselves."

Her heart pounded. “I have to take this to someone. Someone who’ll know what to do with it.”

“Be careful, Khushi,” Buaji warned. “You’re playing with fire.”

“No,” Khushi said softly, eyes steady. “I’m setting it alight to burn away the lies.”

---

AR Designs – Hidden Archive Room

In a locked archive below AR Designs, Aman sat alone. Files were stacked like towers around him, his laptop glowing faintly beside an open box labeled “Factory: 1999–2012.”

He tapped on his headset. “Khushi just sent me a photo of a ledger page. The initials RM... It matches the account authorizations we found months ago but couldn’t trace.”

On the other end, Lavanya listened intently. “So what does it mean?”

Aman flipped open a folder marked ‘Confidential’. “It means Mama ji—Ratan Mama—owned three shell companies that funneled funds from the factory for nearly two years. He staged fake losses, redirected shipments, and bled the company dry. Then… her Bauji caught on.”

Lavanya exhaled slowly. “And then the sabotage happened.”

Aman nodded. “He knew they were going to shut the factory down. So he needed a scapegoat. Shashi Gupta was perfect—honest, trusting, and too proud to fight back.”

He held up a document—the final audit report from Kishore Mehta. “Unsigned. But marked with urgency. And in the storage unit Mama ji rented in his final years, I found this.”

He pulled open a box and revealed a set of forged account books—identical to the factory’s original ledgers, but with every damning line edited to frame Shashi.

Aman whispered into the silence, “The truth isn’t just near. It’s been rotting behind closed doors, waiting for someone to lift the lid.”

He pressed the print button. “Time to show Arnav everything.”

---

Evening – Arnav’s Office, AR Designs

The glass walls of Arnav’s office reflected the golden hue of the setting sun. He stood with his back to the door, staring out at the city skyline.

Aman entered briskly. “You need to see this.”

Without waiting for a reply, he laid out the documents on the desk—old ledger scans, email trails, and the audit report.

Arnav frowned, eyes scanning the pages. “These are from the old Lucknow factory...”

“Your Mama ji was behind it,” Aman said flatly. “Three shell companies. Stolen funds. And when your Khushi’s father caught on, they framed him.”

Arnav’s jaw tightened. “That’s a serious accusation.”

“It’s not just an accusation anymore.” Aman pointed to the ledger initials. “Look familiar?”

A flicker of realization crossed Arnav’s face. “RM. Ratan Mama.”

“And he made sure Shashi Gupta took the fall. It was all orchestrated. I found forged documents in a storage locker under Mama ji’s name. It’s all here.”

A beat of silence passed. Arnav closed the file, his hands shaking.

“Khushi has a copy of this too,” Aman said quietly. “And she’s on her way here.”

Before Arnav could respond, the door burst open.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

The voice struck him like thunder.

Khushi stood there, breath heaving, eyes red-rimmed but blazing.

“Khushi—”

“You knew! You remembered everything. The thread. The fire. The fight. You remembered and you said nothing.”

“I didn’t—”

She walked in, placing the torn ledger page on his desk like a gauntlet thrown. “My father was innocent. And you let the world think he was guilty.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Liar!” Her voice cracked. “You did know. You just chose silence. You watched me suffer, let your family bury the truth. Why?”

Arnav took a step forward. “I was a child too. I saw my world burn that night. I thought... if I ignored it, it would disappear.”

“But it didn’t.” Her voice broke. “It shattered mine. My family was broken. My childhood ended. And all this time, the boy who held my hand... turned into the man who signed my pain into silence.”

“I didn’t sign anything.” He lowered his voice. “I stopped asking because I was scared of the answers. And when you vanished after the accident... I thought I’d lost the right.”

“You lost the right the moment you stayed silent while your uncle destroyed my father.”

“I’m not staying silent anymore,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“You don’t have that luxury anymore.” She leaned in. “You will help me uncover every lie. Every document. Every man who stayed quiet.”

Their eyes locked—a storm raging between betrayal and buried love.

“I won’t walk away this time,” Arnav said quietly.

Khushi laughed bitterly, blinking back tears. “You already did. And now you think words can fix what your silence broke?”

Arnav stepped around the desk slowly, his movements controlled, like each step was a negotiation with the guilt tightening in his chest. “Khushi, I didn’t know the whole truth. I was a scared, angry boy. My mother—she broke down that night. And Ratan Mama... he handled everything. I never questioned him.”

“That’s the problem,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You didn’t question. You had the power to ask. To remember. I didn’t even get that choice. I was dragged from the fire and thrown into silence.”

He stared at her, helpless. “I thought you were dead.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Khushi faltered for a moment, her expression cracking. “Then you should’ve searched harder.”

Arnav closed the distance between them. “I did. For months. The reports said the Gupta family fled the city. I tried to reach out but... everything came up empty. Then I buried it. Like a coward. Like everyone else.”

She swallowed hard, fists clenched. “We didn’t flee. We were erased.”

Arnav’s voice dropped. “By him?”

Khushi nodded. “By your beloved Mama ji. He paid the press. Paid the factory guards. And when Bauji tried to speak, no one listened.”

He looked down at the ledger page still lying between them. “This... this is real?”

She nodded sharply. “Verified by Aman. Shell companies. Fabricated losses. And you know what hurts the most? My Bauji trusted Ratan Mama. He called him ‘bhai saab.’ Thought he was helping.”

Arnav’s face darkened, a cold fury blooming beneath his guilt. “I’ll bring everything out. I’ll reopen the investigation. I’ll clear Shashi Gupta’s name.”

Khushi took a step back. “You don’t get to do this for redemption. This isn’t about you. This is about a man who lost everything and never got to defend himself.”

“I know,” Arnav said. “But I can’t sit back anymore. Let me help. Let me stand beside you this time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Beside me?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice raw. “Not above you. Not ahead of you. Beside you. As someone who once held your hand... and should never have let go.”

She looked away for a long moment, her shoulders trembling.

“You were the only one who made me feel safe,” she whispered. “Even in that chaos. You tied that thread on my wrist and said it would protect me.”

“I remember,” he said quietly. “You tied mine too.”

Her eyes met his. “It burned in the fire.”

Arnav took a deep breath, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out something wrapped in a faded handkerchief. Slowly, carefully, he unwrapped it—revealing a half-burnt red thread, brittle with age.

Khushi gasped.

“I found it the night after the fire,” Arnav said. “Hidden in my shirt pocket. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, silently.

“I thought it was all I had left of you,” he added. “But you’re here. And this time, I won’t fail you.”

A long silence passed.

Finally, Khushi reached out, picked up the ledger page again, and laid it back on the desk.

“This is where we start,” she said, voice steady now. “Not with promises. Not with guilt. With the truth.”

Arnav nodded.

They stood side by side—haunted by the past, united by the truth, and finally, finally, ready to face the fire they had once survived alone.

---

Next Morning – Legal Consultation

Office of Mehra & Kapoor, Advocates & Legal Consultants

The law office was sleek, clinical—walls lined with old case files and a faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. Arnav sat beside Khushi across from Advocate Nisha Mehra, a sharp-eyed woman in her late 40s, known for her tenacity and silence-breaking petitions.

Nisha reviewed the documents in silence—her eyes narrowing as she reached the forged ledgers and audit discrepancies.

Finally, she looked up. “These are damning. If this gets filed with the right financial investigation wing, it could reopen the sabotage case... and posthumously clear Shashi Gupta’s name.”

Khushi’s voice was firm. “That’s what I want.”

“And this man—Ratan Malhotra, your maternal uncle?” Nisha tapped the initials. “He was the executor of your mother’s estate too, Mr. Raizada?”

Arnav nodded, a tight knot in his throat. “Yes. I never thought to check the paperwork. He handled everything after she passed.”

Nisha leaned back, her fingers steepled. “Then we may have more than financial fraud. If he manipulated company records and personal estates, this could cross into criminal conspiracy.”

Khushi’s hands trembled slightly. “Can you prove it in court?”

“We can,” Nisha replied. “But we’ll need everything—original ledgers, personal correspondences, rental agreements to the storage unit, and if possible—”

Arnav interrupted, “Mama ji left behind boxes in our ancestral storage room. I haven’t touched them since his death.”

“Start there,” Nisha said. “And bring me everything. Including the past you’re afraid to face.”

---

Afternoon – Malhotra Estate Storage,

Dust swirled in the shafts of afternoon light piercing through high, grimy windows. The Malhotra estate’s storage wing had been locked for years, a forgotten relic from another era.

Arnav unlocked the rusted latch. The door creaked open.

Stacks of metal trunks, old files, and yellowing papers lined the room. Cobwebs laced every corner.

Khushi stepped in, her eyes sharp despite the shadows. “Which ones belonged to him?”

Arnav pointed to the far wall. “Everything labeled RM. He insisted on using initials, even on personal boxes.”

They moved quickly but carefully, breaking open trunk after trunk. At the bottom of one, beneath tax returns and balance sheets, Khushi found a black envelope sealed with wax.

She opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside: a handwritten will, dated two months before the fire.

Arnav read aloud, his voice cracking:

> “In the event of my sudden death, I leave behind my confession. I forged accounts under Shashi Gupta’s name, redirected factory funds into companies listed under proxies, and blackmailed Kishore Mehta into falsifying the audit. I did it because I was promised the directorship—promised power. I know I will not live long. My illness will eat through me faster than guilt ever could. Let the truth find light if I am gone.”

— Ratan Malhotra

Khushi stood frozen, the air punched from her lungs.

“It’s all here,” she whispered. “He knew he was dying. And still, he let my family rot under the blame.”

Arnav’s hands trembled as he closed the letter. “We take this to Nisha. Today.”

She looked at him, eyes glossy with unshed tears but filled with purpose. “And we clear my father’s name. For good.”

---

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