Age 40 (Anya) / Age 50 (Dilip)
Part 1: The Childhood Wish
Dilip sat in his SRA building apartment at 3 AM, unable to sleep, staring at his phone where Anya's last message glowed in the darkness.
Still awake?
He was always awake now. Their conversations had become continuous—morning texts bleeding into afternoon calls bleeding into late-night chats that stretched until dawn. He'd canceled meetings, ignored deadlines, let Mumbai Pulse run on autopilot while his entire focus narrowed to this one connection.
It felt karmic. Destined. Like something that had been waiting his entire life to finally arrive.
One evening, they were messaging back and forth when he found himself typing something he hadn't thought about in decades.
Want to hear something ridiculous from my childhood?
Always.
When I was around ten, people used to ask me who I'd marry when I grew up.
And?
I'd tell them: the daughter of the richest man in India. Tata. Or Birla. Or Mafatlal. Those were the big names back in the 80s. My father had mentioned them once and I just… held onto it.
What did people say?
They laughed. Called me a dreamer. Asked how I'd make money if I was marrying into wealth. I'd say I wouldn't need to—I was marrying the richest man's daughter.
Confident.
Delusional, more like. There was this cousin who used to live with us—Ammu, we called her. She'd come from our village to help with the household. My mother was… not functional most days. Ammu would cook for the family, manage things. She was basically unpaid help, but family, so it was acceptable. She used to laugh at me about that Tata-Birla thing. Said I was touched in the head.
Were you?
Probably. But here I am at fifty, chatting with Vikash Chandra's daughter. Maybe ten-year-old me knew something forty years before I did.
There was a long pause before her response came.
Destiny or delusion. Sometimes they look the same until you're living inside one.
Which one is this?
Ask me in ten years.
He smiled at his phone, feeling that strange pull of possibility mixed with impossibility that characterized everything about her.
Part 2: The Order
In early December, Vikash found Anya in the study one evening, working on her laptop.
"I need to talk to you about something."
She looked up, immediately attentive. When her father used that tone, it meant something important.
"Your messages with that man. The ones you write on Instagram."
"Dilip."
"They leave traces. Records. If circumstances ever changed—if things became difficult—those messages exist. Anyone could access them. Use them."
Anya understood immediately. "You want me to stop writing to him."
"I want you to communicate differently. You already do sometimes—through what you feel, what you can send without needing words." He sat across from her. "Make that your primary method. Let him type if he needs to. But you respond through the connection you share. That way nothing exists except in his mind."
"Yes, Papa."
No resistance. No questions. Just immediate acceptance.
"Good. And Anya—to make it stronger, you'll need certain things from him."
"I know. Hair, something he's worn, nails if possible." She paused. "And my dried menstrual blood. To add to his food."
He nodded once. "I'll make arrangements for everything else."
Within days, everything was in place. The small restaurant where Dilip ate lunch. The barber who saved hair clippings. The discarded clothes collected before garbage day. And the small vial Anya prepared herself—her own blood, dried and powdered, to be added in microscopic amounts to his meals.
Anya made the voodoo doll in her room at Malabar Hill—patient work using her grandmother's techniques, following the grimoire's instructions precisely. The hair woven into the scalp. The clothing fabric wrapped around the torso. And finally, the blood mixed into the binding paste that sealed everything together.
When the binding ritual was complete, the connection snapped into absolute clarity.
She could feel him everywhere now. His location in the city. His emotional state. His thoughts when she focused carefully. Could send images and feelings when he was in that receptive space between waking and sleep.
She stopped replying to his Instagram messages entirely after that.
Part 3: The Eight Thousand Words
A week after she stopped responding in writing, their communication had shifted entirely to telepathy. But one evening in mid-December, something made Dilip want to capture everything in words one more time.
So he sat down at his kitchen table at 8 AM with his MacBook and started typing.
He began with the fashion book launch in 2013. How he'd gone hoping to see Aditi Sengupta, only to find himself staring at a stranger near the samosa table. How she'd stood there looking lost despite being surrounded by Mumbai's elite.
I couldn't look away. You were the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, but that wasn't what held me. It was the loneliness. In a room full of people, you looked completely alone. And I recognized that.
He wrote about searching for her afterward, about finding Manav's tweet. About Googling her at 2 AM and finding almost nothing. About her Twitter profile picture being that graffiti of a Koli fisherwoman instead of her face.
He wrote about the Devdutt Pattanaik event. How she'd appeared beside him at exactly 4:58 PM with that mischievous smile. How she'd shaken her leg during the talk—aware of exactly what she was doing.
He wrote about the art exhibition where Vikash Chandra had walked toward him. About that brief eye contact, the strange warmth.
He wrote about the coffee date at Gloria Jean's on July 4th, 2013. How the café had been impossibly full. How she'd done most of the talking. How her eyes had been wet when she left. How everyone departed within five minutes after her.
That's when I understood: your father had filled that place with people. I wasn't just having coffee with you—I was being watched, evaluated.
He wrote about the love letter he'd read to her over the phone at 1 AM. About her text at 1:47 AM: I'm not too young. I'm 30.
He wrote about the ten years of emails that followed.
I wrote to you for ten years, Anya. About films, about Mumbai changing, about my struggles, about loneliness. You never responded. Not once. But I kept writing because those emails made me feel less alone.
He wrote about specific emails. The one about "In the Mood for Love." About watching Irani cafés disappear. About Mumbai Pulse's struggles. About his children who'd drifted away. About failing as a father.
He wrote about the email after Bombaywala—the anger that had made him stop writing for fourteen months.
He wrote about @angel040713. About those numbers—040713. July 4th, 2013. About understanding that was her way of saying: you can write again.
He wrote about understanding she'd been reading all along.
You knew me, Anya. All those years, you knew me. I was writing into what I thought was silence, but you were there all along. Listening.
He wrote about the impossibility of their situation.
I know I'm not the kind of man your father would choose. I'm older, struggling, ordinary. I live in a rathole SRA building in Bandra. I run a failing website. I have nothing to offer except myself.
He wrote about loving her anyway.
I love you. I don't know when it happened exactly. Maybe at the fashion book launch. Maybe during that coffee date. Maybe over ten years of writing into silence. But somewhere along the way, I fell completely.
He wrote until his back ached and his eyes burned. Through morning, through afternoon, through evening. The words poured out—not carefully constructed, not edited, just raw feeling translated into language. Every moment captured, every emotion documented, every truth spoken.
It was exhilarating. That's what he felt—pure exhilaration. After ten years of writing into silence, after months of telepathic communication that left no record, he was finally putting everything into permanent form. Making it real. Making it exist outside his own mind.
His fingers flew across the keyboard. His heart raced. He forgot to eat, forgot to check his phone, forgot everything except the need to get it all down—this entire impossible love story from beginning to this moment.
When he finally looked up, it was 9 PM. The document showed 8,000 words. His hands were shaking slightly. His chest felt tight with emotion.
A love letter. Complete and raw and honest. The entire journey captured in one document.
He felt lighter than he had in years. Exhausted but exhilarated. Like he'd just run a marathon or climbed a mountain. Like he'd accomplished something essential.
He sent it: I wrote something. It's long. Read it when you have time.
Then collapsed on his bed, still riding that wave of exhilaration, too wired to sleep immediately despite his exhaustion.
Part 4: The Night They Talked
At some point deep in the night, his right eye began to flicker—a strange, rapid twitching. Not painful, just insistent.
He woke at 2 AM with the flickering still going, more intense now. Almost rhythmic. Excited.
And he knew—somehow, intuitively—that she was reading it.
What hit him through the connection wasn't her thoughts or her words. It was her ENERGY. Pure, undiluted excitement radiating across the city. The exhilaration he'd felt writing it was being matched—no, amplified—by her experience reading it.
He could feel her moving through his words. Feel the spikes of emotion as she reached certain passages. Feel her heart racing as she absorbed ten years of his life compressed into 8,000 words. Feel the way his devotion—his absolute, unwavering devotion—was landing in her consciousness like physical touch.
The right eye flickering intensified with each page. Not from strain, but from the sheer force of her response traveling back through their connection. She was FEELING him. Feeling the exhilaration he'd experienced writing every word. Feeling appreciated in ways she'd never been appreciated before.
Not for her beauty. Not for her gifts. Not for her family name.
But for simply existing. For being herself. For having been present—even silently—through ten years of his loneliness.
When it finally stopped at 6:30 AM, he lay there in the dark, both of them exhausted and exhilarated simultaneously.
Then—impossibly—he heard her voice. Can you hear me?
His breath caught. Anya?
Yes.
How are you doing this?
Her response came softly: When two people are in sync, they can communicate without any medium.
This is intimacy, she continued. Real intimacy.
And she was right. What struck him most was that through their connection, he could feel not just Anya but the architecture around her. Her mother's presence somewhere in the house—warm, watchful. Her father's presence too—harder, sharper, more distant but unmistakably there.
He'd never experienced intimacy like this.
Talk to me, she said. Not a command, just invitation.
So he did. For hours. Silent in his rathole apartment, lying in bed in darkness, thinking clearly while her voice came back in his mind.
He thought about his children. About his daughter who used to chat with him daily. About wondering if she ever thought about him anymore.
"I understand that loss," she said in his head. "Watching connection dissolve and not knowing how to stop it."
He thought about the consulting contract for Mumbai Pulse—how it had appeared at exactly the right moment.
Images came back: puzzle pieces moving, but no explanation. Just acknowledgment that he wasn't imagining things.
But gradually, as the night deepened, the communication shifted. Her words became less frequent. Instead, images started coming. Feelings. Visual impressions.
He thought about emptiness. About eating dinner alone every night.
She sent an image: a table set for one. Then the same table with two chairs. Then just empty space.
He thought about silence. About no one waiting for him.
She sent back: a door opening to darkness. Then a light in a window that no one was watching for. Then her own face, alone in a crowded room.
The visual communication became predominant as dawn approached. More efficient, more intimate.
They understood each other completely.
When morning light finally filtered through his window, they'd been at it all night—starting with conversation, ending with pure visual communion that transcended words entirely.
"Thank you," he thought clearly. "For reading it. For this. For seeing me."
What came back wasn't words but a feeling: you're the only person who sees me too. Really sees me.
Part 5: Vikash and Maya
That morning, Maya found Vikash in their bedroom, getting dressed for the day.
She came up behind him, helped adjust his collar—a small domestic gesture.
"You were up early," she said softly.
"So was Anya. All night, actually." He turned to face his wife. "That man Dilip wrote her 8,000 words. She stayed up reading every one of them."
Maya's hand stilled, concern flickering across her face. "That's intense."
"It is." He took her hand. "And Maya, I can see it affecting her. Small things—the way she responds to certain questions. A kind of resistance that wasn't there before."
Maya was quiet for a moment, then led him to sit on the edge of their bed.
"What worries you most?" she asked, her voice gentle.
"The balance is shifting. He's creating genuine intimacy with her—the kind that makes people feel like they have choices." He looked at his wife. "We worked so hard to get here, Maya."
Maya squeezed his hand, understanding immediately. "I know. I've seen it too. The way she lights up when she talks about him."
"I don't want to hurt her."
"I know you don't." Maya's voice carried genuine understanding. "But sometimes protecting someone means making sure they don't make choices that would…" She trailed off.
"Exactly." He relaxed slightly. "I need to give her some perspective. Help her see that one person can't meet every need."
Maya thought for a moment. "That girl from your Colaba office. Nandita. Remember her?"
"Vaguely. The one we hired after Rohan."
"Yes. She and Anya became very close. There was that Bangalore trip three years ago—the conference. They shared a hotel room." Maya's voice was careful. "Nandita seduced her. Anya was thirty-seven and vulnerable after Rohan. Nandita was twenty-one and bold. They had an affair."
Vikash looked at his wife. "I didn't know that."
"You were managing other things. I handled it quietly." Maya touched his face gently. "Anya fell in love with her. It was real—more real than most things in her life. But then Nandita got married. Arranged marriage to a Delhi boy. Practical choice."
"And now?"
"Now Nandita's still married but they've stayed in touch. Occasional messages." Maya paused. "If we paid her to reconnect with Anya… it might remind Anya that her feelings for Dilip don't mean he's the only option. That she has needs he can't meet."
"You think she'd do it?"
"For the right compensation, yes. She's pragmatic. And I think she still cares about Anya." Maya's voice was thoughtful. "These things work better when there's genuine feeling underneath the transaction."
"Do it."
After he left for his office, Maya picked up her phone and called Nandita directly.
"Nandita, Maya Chandra here. I have a proposition for you. Regarding Anya."
Part 6: Nandita Returns
The message arrived on Anya's phone two days later.
Anya! Been thinking about you. Miss you. Want to meet up?
Nandita. Her ex-lover. The woman she'd fallen for three years ago.
Anya stared at the message, feeling that familiar flutter—part excitement, part longing, part old pain.
It had happened after the Rohan breakup. Anya had been broken, spending days at her father's Colaba office just to escape the mansion. Vikash and Maya had hired Nandita—twenty-one, fresh from Delhi, ostensibly as an assistant but really to cheer Anya up. To be company. To keep her functional.
They'd become friends. Then more than friends.
The Bangalore trip had been the turning point. A conference, overnight stay, shared hotel room. Anya had been thirty-seven and vulnerable. Nandita had been twenty-one and bold.
That night, Nandita had kissed her first. Had undressed her slowly. Had made love to her with the confidence of someone half her age who knew exactly what she wanted.
Anya had fallen completely. For weeks after, they'd been inseparable—stolen moments at the office, afternoons at Nandita's small Colaba apartment, the intoxicating thrill of something that felt real.
Until Nandita had announced her engagement. An arranged marriage to a Delhi boy. Family pressure. The practical choice.
"I care about you," Nandita had said. "But this is my life. My future. You understand, don't you?"
Anya had understood. Had watched Nandita marry and move away and tried to forget.
But they'd stayed in touch. Occasional messages. The thread never quite breaking.
Now this.
Yes. When?
Tomorrow? Gateway of India? Cotton candy like old times?
4 PM?
Perfect. Can't wait. ❤️
She kept Dilip updated via message: Meeting an old friend tomorrow. Will be out for a while.
His response was warm: Have a good time.
Part 7: The Reunion (Revised)
Gateway of India in late afternoon was chaotic and beautiful.
Nandita was waiting near the cotton candy vendor. Twenty-four now, still beautiful, wearing jeans and a simple tank top. Still married—the ring visible on her left hand.
Anya felt suddenly aware of everything—the three years since Bangalore, the fact that Nandita had chosen marriage over her, the old wound that had never quite healed.
They hugged—Nandita's embrace familiar, intimate in ways that hadn't faded.
"You look good," Nandita said. "Tired but good."
"Thanks, I think."
They got cotton candy and walked along the promenade.
"So," Nandita said carefully. "I heard you're dealing with something. Family pressure about marriage?"
Anya went still. "Who told you that?"
"Your mother mentioned it when she called. Just casually." Nandita's tone was light. "Said you might need a friend right now. That you've been stressed."
"She called you?"
"Just to catch up. You know how she is—always thoughtful, always checking in on people." Nandita smiled. "I'm glad she did. I've been wanting to reach out but wasn't sure if you'd want to hear from me. After everything."
The explanation felt reasonable. Natural. Maya was like that—thoughtful, connected, remembering people.
"Does your husband know you're here?"
"He's traveling for work. And honestly, he doesn't need to know every coffee I have with an old friend." Nandita touched her arm gently. "I've missed you, Anya. The marriage didn't change that."
"But you chose him over me."
"I chose stability over chaos. I chose what my family wanted." Nandita's voice carried old pain. "That doesn't mean I didn't love you. It means I was twenty-one and scared."
The honesty felt real. The old feelings still there, complicated by time and choices and the ring on Nandita's finger.
Over the following days, they met again. The conversations carried the weight of their history—Bangalore, the affair, the way Nandita had chosen marriage, the three years since.
Anya believed it was organic. That Nandita had genuinely missed her. That her mother's call had been innocent—just Maya being thoughtful, reconnecting old friends.
She had no reason to think otherwise. Her parents loved her. They wanted her happy. They were trying to help.
One evening, after dinner at a restaurant Anya had paid for, Nandita said softly: "Want to come back to my place? He's traveling for work. We have privacy."
Anya looked at this woman—her ex-lover, now married, here because she still cared.
"Come with me instead," Anya said quietly. "To the mansion."
Part 8: The Mansion
They went to the Malabar Hill mansion—the sprawling house directly opposite Priyadarshini Park. Vikash was at his office, Maya in her den.
Anya led Nandita to a guest room on the third floor—elegantly furnished, private, with thick walls and a locked door.
In the soft lamplight, they stood facing each other. Three years since Bangalore, but the familiarity was still there.
"I missed this," Nandita said. "Missed you."
"Did you?"
"Every day." Nandita touched her face. "The marriage is practical. Stable. But it's not this."
They kissed—familiar, desperate, carrying three years of separation.
Anya undressed Nandita slowly, remembering. The younger woman's body had changed slightly—twenty-four now instead of twenty-one, a different kind of confidence.
When Anya started to undress, Nandita's hands helped—remembering where to touch, what Anya liked, the rhythm they'd developed in Bangalore.
They moved to the bed. This time Anya took the lead—the older woman, the one who'd learned more in three years.
She kissed down Nandita's body, relearning familiar territory. When her mouth found Nandita's center, the younger woman gasped exactly the way she had in Bangalore.
Anya worked her with skill refined by time. When Nandita came, it was with Anya's name on her lips.
After, Nandita reciprocated. Her technique had improved—marriage had taught her things, or maybe just time and practice. She knew what Anya needed, remembered what worked.
When Anya climaxed, it was with the bittersweet recognition of loving someone who'd chosen someone else.
They lay tangled together afterward, Nandita's wedding ring cold against Anya's skin.
"I wish I'd chosen differently," Nandita whispered. "Three years ago. I wish I'd been brave enough to choose you."
"But you weren't."
"No. I wasn't." Nandita kissed her shoulder. "I'm sorry for that. For all of it."
"You're still married."
"I know. And I'll stay married. That's the practical choice." She looked at Anya. "But these two weeks—your mother paid for two weeks—they're ours. Can that be enough?"
Over the following days, they fell back into old patterns. Meeting at the mansion, making love in guest rooms, pretending the outside world didn't exist.
But the ring was always there. The reminder that Nandita had chosen stability over love, that this was temporary, that when the two weeks ended she'd return to her husband and Anya would be alone again.
Part 9: The Dubai Trap (Complete Revised Section)
The Dubai offer arrived via email in mid-December, coinciding exactly with Nandita's second week back in Anya's life.
Major consulting opportunity - Dubai media conference. Fifteen days. Meetings with potential investors for Mumbai Pulse expansion. Generous fee plus expenses. Your presence requested.
Dilip messaged Anya: I have to go to Dubai. Fifteen days. This could change everything for the website. Real investors, real funding.
His excitement was palpable even through text.
Anya felt a spark of hope. Her father was helping Dilip. Supporting his future son-in-law. Maybe this could work after all.
The next morning, Dilip flew to Dubai.
His messages to Anya were excited at first: First meeting went well! They seem genuinely interested in Mumbai Pulse's expansion. Talking about funding rounds, growth strategies. This could really happen.
Anya shared his excitement. Told herself her father was doing the right thing. That Vikash could accept Dilip if Dilip became successful enough.
But by the third day: Something feels off. They keep rescheduling. The investors seem distracted. Not sure what's going on.
By the fifth day: I think this is fake. The meetings are vague. No real numbers. No concrete offers. Just talk. I don't think anything is actually going to happen here.
Then, on the sixth day, a longer message:
Anya, I need to tell you something. I've been thinking about this trip—really thinking. Your father arranged this. These "investors" all have connections to his businesses. The meetings feel staged. And I finally understand why.
If I actually became successful—if Mumbai Pulse grew into something real with proper funding—my stature would rise. I wouldn't be the struggling journalist living in a rathole anymore. I'd have leverage. Independence. Power.
And that would elevate you too. You'd be married to someone with actual influence, not just someone grateful for scraps. Someone who could potentially challenge your father.
He can't allow that. He kills challengers at birth. This whole trip—it's not about helping me. It's about showing you he tried, showing me the door exists, and then making sure it stays locked. The setup is designed to fail. I'm meant to come back exactly where I started—dependent, controllable, powerless.
I think I finally understand what I'm dealing with. What you've been dealing with your whole life.
Anya read the message three times, feeling cold spread through her chest.
She'd believed her father was helping. Had allowed herself hope. Had thought maybe Vikash could accept this marriage if Dilip proved himself worthy.
But Dilip had seen through it. Understood the game better than she had.
She reached for their telepathic connection that night.
Images came from him: chess pieces being moved, then swept off the board before they could advance. A door that looked open but was actually painted on a wall. A cage with a key hanging just out of reach.
You knew, she sent back. You figured it out.
I'm not stupid, Anya. Just poor. There's a difference.
What are you going to do?
Finish the trip. Play along. Come back and pretend I'm grateful for the opportunity, even though we both know it was designed to show me my place.
She felt his resignation mixed with bitter understanding.
I'm sorry, she sent.
For what? You didn't design this. You're as trapped as I am. Maybe more.
The connection weakened after that. Not from distance, but from the weight of understanding that had settled between them.
And in his absence, her mind wandered.
First to Nandita—still in Mumbai, still available for another week, still wearing that wedding ring that represented the practical choice.
They spent afternoons in the mansion's guest rooms, making love while Dilip was thousands of miles away learning exactly how powerless he would always be.
"I could leave him," Nandita whispered one afternoon, tangled in sheets. "My husband. I could leave him for you."
"Could you?"
"If you asked me to. If you chose me instead of whatever your father has planned."
But Anya knew she wouldn't ask. Knew this was temporary comfort.
And beneath that, her mind wandered to Rohan.
Rohan with his 11 million subscribers. Rohan who understood her world. Rohan who'd promised to marry her. Rohan who made her heart sing.
By the tenth day of Dilip's Dubai disaster, lying alone in her bedroom, Anya felt the truth crystallizing:
She couldn't marry Dilip. Not because she didn't care about him, but because her father had ensured he would always be powerless. Always failing. Always dependent. And Dilip understood that now. Had seen through the performance.
And by the tenth day, lying in his Dubai hotel room at 2 AM, Dilip felt her presence return suddenly—but wrong. Guilty. Distant.
He reached for the connection.
Images came back: her with someone. Another person. Intimacy.
He thought clearly: Anya?
What came back was acknowledgment. Yes, you know now.
You're with someone.
Yes.
Who?
Blankness.
Why? Why while I'm here learning exactly how fucked I am?
Images came: comfort, escape.
Is it a woman?
Pause. Then: yes.
Nandita.
Shock came back through the connection. How do you know her name?
Because I've been thinking. Really thinking. Your mother called her, didn't she? Right after I left for Dubai. Reconnected you two. Made it seem natural, organic.
She just wanted to help—
Help? Anya, think about it. Nandita disappeared three years ago when she got married. You haven't been together since Bangalore. And suddenly, right when I leave town, right when your father is testing me with this fake Dubai bullshit, she reappears? Your mother arranges it?
You don't know that—
I know exactly that. This is what your parents do. They arrange everything. They control everything. They can't let you have anything real that they didn't design.
Images came back from her: confusion, resistance, the need to believe her parents loved her.
Anya, listen to me. This is a pattern. How do you think your sister ended up hating you? How did you and Priya go from close to not speaking for years?
That was different. That was Marco—
That was your parents manipulating the situation. Putting you in proximity to Marco, letting tensions build, making Priya suspicious. They needed you two apart. They needed Priya in New York and you in Mumbai. Isolated. Easier to control.
No. My parents wouldn't—
Your parents absolutely would. And now they're doing it again. They sent me to Dubai on a fake opportunity—I'm supposed to fail so you see I'm not worth it. And they brought Nandita back—paid her probably, though she'd never tell you that—to remind you there are other options. To create distance between us. To make you doubt.
You don't know she was paid—
Anya, she's married. Happily married for three years. And she suddenly wants to leave her husband for you? Right now? Right when it's most convenient for your parents' plan? Come on.
The images coming back from her were more confused now. Fighting against understanding. Wanting to believe in her parents' goodness.
They love me. They want me happy—
They want you controlled. There's a difference. Your father needs you dependent, manageable, using your gifts for his business. Your mother needs you distracted so she can have her freedom. They're a team, Anya. They work together. And right now they're working together to destroy what we have.
Stop—
I'm not going to stop. Because you need to hear this. Your whole life, they've arranged everything. Every relationship you've had, they've either approved and manipulated, or disapproved and destroyed. Jean-Luc in New York—disappeared, visa problems. That screenwriter—suddenly problems with his career. The comedian—gigs dried up. Rohan the first time—they drove him away until he became successful enough to be acceptable. And now me—they're showing you I'll never be successful enough. Never be anything except what they allow me to be.
She wanted to argue. Wanted to defend them. But the pattern was there, undeniable once he'd laid it out.
And Nandita is just the latest move. They brought her back to confuse you. To make you think you have choices when really you're just choosing between options they've provided. It's the same cage, Anya. Just with different decorations.
I don't believe you—
Yes you do. You're just scared to admit it. Because if I'm right, it means everything in your life has been controlled. It means your parents' love comes with strings. It means you've never been free.
The connection carried her distress now. Her resistance crumbling under the weight of truth.
How did they make me and Priya fight?
Probably put you in impossible situations. Made Priya jealous. Whispered concerns. Let natural tensions build and then fanned the flames. I don't know the exact mechanism, but I know it worked. You two don't speak anymore. She's in New York. You're in Mumbai. Exactly where they need you.
Oh god.
And now they're doing it to us. The Dubai trip to show you I'm a failure. Nandita to make you doubt what we have. All arranged. All controlled.
Stop. Please stop.
I can't stop, Anya. Because if I don't make you see this now, you'll marry someone they choose. Live the life they design. Use your gifts the way they want. And you'll never know what you could have been if you'd been free.
She felt herself breaking. Not from his cruelty, but from finally seeing clearly.
What do I do?
I don't know. But you have to stop believing they're on your side. They're on their own side. Always. Your father protects his power. Your mother protects her freedom. And you're just a piece they move around the board.
Even my mother?
The truth of it hit her like a physical blow.
I feel sick.
You should. I feel sick too. Because I'm starting to realize I never had a chance. This whole thing—you and me—it was probably allowed to develop just far enough to see if I was controllable. And when I figured out the game, when I became too aware, that's when they had to end it.
So what happens now?
Now I come back from Dubai. Pretend to be grateful. Play the role they've assigned me. And you… you have to decide if you're going to keep playing your role, or if you're finally going to try to break free.
I don't know how to break free.
Neither do I. But at least now you know you're in a cage.
They stayed connected like that for a long time—both wounded, both seeing clearly for the first time, both understanding that seeing clearly didn't necessarily mean escape was possible.
I'm sorry, she finally sent. For being with Nandita. For doubting you. For being so blind.
Don't apologize. You were raised by masters of manipulation. Of course you believed them. Of course you trusted them. That's what children do.
I'm forty years old.
And they've been controlling you for forty years. That doesn't disappear just because you finally see it.
The connection weakened then, both of them exhausted.
But something had shifted. Dilip had opened her eyes. Had shown her the pattern. Had made her see that her parents' love came with invisible strings that had been there all along.
And once you see the strings, you can never unsee them.
Even if you don't know how to cut them.
Even if cutting them might destroy you.
Even if the cage is all you've ever known.
Part 10: Nandita's Exit
Over the following weeks, as Dilip remained in Dubai discovering the full extent of his powerlessness, Nandita became more serious.
They were at the Gateway one afternoon when Nandita said: "Come away with me. Leave all this. We could go to Goa, start over."
"That's a nice thought."
"I'm serious, Anya. I could leave him. We could actually be together."
"Could you really?"
"Why do you always do that? Turn everything into a question?" But Nandita's voice was sad rather than frustrated. "I know you care about me. I can feel it. But you'll never choose me over your family, will you?"
Anya was quiet.
"It's okay. I get it. I'm twenty-four. I don't have what you need." Nandita managed a smile. "But it was nice while it lasted."
"I know. That's what makes it worse." Nandita stood. "Take care of yourself, Anya. Actually take care of yourself. Not just do what your family wants."
She left without drama, just a gentle goodbye between two people who'd briefly found comfort in each other.
Again.
Part 11: The Conspiracy
After Nandita left—the job complete, the two weeks paid for—Anya sat alone in her bedroom one evening.
Her mother knocked softly before entering.
"How are you feeling?" Maya asked, sitting beside her on the bed.
"Confused. Hurt. Used."
"I know, darling. And I'm sorry it had to happen that way." Maya took her hand. "But your father… he needed you to see that Dilip isn't the only option."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Maya said, very quietly: "Have you thought about Rohan?"
Anya's heart jumped. "Rohan?"
"Rohan Bhatt. You loved him once. And he's done remarkably well—his channel, his connections, his success." Maya's voice was careful, conspiratorial. "Have you thought about whether that might work?"
"Every day," Anya admitted. "I think about him every day. I watch his channel. I see who he's become."
"Then maybe you should see him." Maya leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Your father doesn't know I'm suggesting this. He wants you with Dilip—someone controllable, struggling, dependent."
Anya looked at her mother sharply.
Maya smiled slightly. "But darling, I'm your mother. I want you to be happy. And I know Rohan made you happy once." She paused. "What if we arranged for you to see him? Quietly. Without your father knowing. Just to talk. To see if what you had is still there."
"You'd do that?"
"For you? Yes." Maya's voice was warm, genuine. "This stays between us. Mother and daughter. Our secret."
Anya felt something spark in her chest—not just hope, but the thrill of conspiracy. Of having her mother as ally rather than enforcer.
"Your father will be at his office tomorrow afternoon. Two o'clock would be perfect." Maya squeezed her hand. "I'll make sure we have complete privacy."
"What if Papa finds out?"
"He won't. Not unless you tell him." Maya smiled. "This is our game, Anya. Just ours."
The warmth between them felt real. The conspiracy felt like bonding—mother and daughter plotting together, sharing secrets, creating something that belonged only to them.
"Thank you, Maa."
"Don't thank me yet. Let's see what happens first." Maya kissed her forehead. "Now, should I call him?
Or do you want to?"
"You call him. He'll listen to you."
Part 12: The Call
That evening, Maya called Rohan from her private phone.
"Rohan, how are you?"
There was surprise in his voice. "Mrs. Chandra, I'm well. How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about Anya. She'd like to see you. Tomorrow afternoon, two o'clock. At our home— Would you be available?"
A pause. Then: "Yes. Absolutely."
"Good." Her voice carried warmth. "You know, I've been watching your channel. That series with the cabinet minister last month—very impressive. You've really built something."
"Thank you, Mrs. Chandra. That means a lot."
"You've matured, Rohan. The work shows it. And between us—" her voice lowered conspiratorially, "—I think you'd be good for Anya. Better than what Vikash has planned."
"I hope so."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow. Two o'clock. And Rohan—this conversation stays between us."
"Of course."
She hung up, satisfied.
Part 13: The Afternoon
Thursday afternoon, Vikash left for his office at noon. Maya made herself scarce by 1:45.
Rohan arrived at exactly 2 PM. Jeans and a nice shirt. Flowers in hand.
Anya met him at the door, heart pounding with that song filling her head: Soldier, soldier, dil ki baatein bol kar…
"Anya."
"Rohan."
He'd changed. Thirty now, more confident. Success looked good on him.
"You look exactly as I remembered," he said.
"You look different. Successful."
"I had good teachers. You believed in me before anyone else did."
She led him upstairs to her bedroom—the intimacy of that choice deliberate.
They sat on her bed, talking. About his channel—11 million subscribers now, cabinet ministers on his show, real influence. About her abandoned films. About the five years that had passed.
"Can we try again?" he asked finally.
As they talked, Anya began working.
She extended her empathic gifts carefully. Found warmth there, attraction that had never fully died.
She amplified those feelings. Made him remember the good parts. Made him forget the fights, the controlling behavior.
His eyes softened. His body language opened.
They kissed—tentative at first, then deeper as the magic intensified.
The kiss grew urgent. They fell back onto her bed.
They made love in the afternoon light. The magic wove through every touch.
When they finished, lying tangled together, Rohan touched her face gently.
"I'd forgotten how right this feels."
"I'd forgotten too."
"I don't want to lose this again." His voice was fervent. "I've built something now. Something real."
She looked at him—thirty, successful, under enough magical influence that he believed everything felt organic.
"Promise me," she said suddenly. "Promise you'll marry me. That this isn't just nostalgia."
"Anya, we just—"
"Promise me. Because I can't do this halfway."
He studied her face, still under the magic's influence.
"I promise. When the timing's right—yes. I'll marry you."
"You won't change your mind?"
"I won't change my mind."
They stayed together until almost 5 PM.
Then Rohan said: "Want to take a walk? Just around the block?"
Part 14: Priyadarshini Park
They dressed and crossed the road from the Malabar Hill mansion to Priyadarshini Park directly opposite.
The Arabian Sea stretched dark beyond the walkway. Evening was settling in.
They walked along the path, and Rohan began talking about his life, his career, his ambitions.
"I want to be a billionaire," he said without embarrassment. "Like your father. That level of influence, that level of power. Where politicians take your calls, where you shape policy."
Anya listened, understanding this drive.
"The channel is just the beginning. I'm looking at production houses, media companies. Building an empire." He glanced at her. "That's what I'm working toward."
"I know."
"And the connections help. Last week I had dinner with Karan Johar—he wants me to host something for Star Plus. Zoya Akhtar's team reached out." He was animated, excited. "This is the world I'm building into. Your world."
She felt the difference acutely. Rohan understood Mumbai's elite circles. Could navigate the world she'd grown up in. Could gossip about Bollywood with insider knowledge.
Dilip was a country fellow by comparison. Earnest, sincere, but completely outside these circles.
"Your father's different," Rohan said thoughtfully. "He's not Bollywood. He's real power. The kind that actually matters." He looked at her. "I study him. How he moves, how he speaks. That's what I want to learn."
"You've thought about this a lot."
"Of course. He's everything I want to become." A pause. "And you're his daughter. You understand that world."
She did. With Rohan, she could exist in the world she'd been raised in. Could share the specific language of Mumbai's elite.
They circled back toward the mansion as darkness settled.
"Thank you for today," Rohan said at the entrance. "For giving us another chance."
"Thank you for coming."
He kissed her gently. "I meant what I said. About marriage. About building a future."
"I know."
She watched him leave—this successful man who fit perfectly into her family's world.
And somewhere across the city, in his Dubai hotel room, Dilip lay awake feeling the afternoon's intimacy through their connection—not the physical details, just the shift. The way her heart had sung.
Understanding that he was losing her to someone who could give her what he never could.
Not just love. But belonging.
Part 15: The Confession to Dilip
That evening, Anya reached for the Dilip connection. Found him in his Dubai hotel room, the wound between them still fresh.
She didn't send words. Just images.
Her with Rohan. Afternoon sunlight. Intimacy. Then the feeling—not guilt exactly, but acknowledgment. Complexity.
She felt his shock come back through the connection.
Then his understanding. The images told him everything. The way her heart had sung. The way everything had felt right.
Fuck, came his thought, raw and hurt.
She sent back: an image of herself, torn. Then him on one side, Rohan on the other. Then her father's face, looming. Then just darkness, confusion.
He understood. He always understood.
They stayed connected like that for a long time—not fighting, not arguing. Just existing in the space between them, both knowing everything had changed.
She'd told him without telling him.
That's what real intimacy meant. Even when it was breaking you.
The connection stayed open through the night—neither sleeping, neither speaking, just present with each other's pain.
Because the Vashikaran binding didn't care about choices or love given elsewhere.
It just held.
Permanent and inescapable.
Part 16: The Vision
And somewhere in that long night, at 3 AM, something broke through the connection. Not from Anya. From somewhere else.
A vision, sharp and clear:
The Alibaug beach house. White walls and sea breeze. Sunset light streaming through windows.
Anya standing by the window in a thin cotton dress.
And Vikash—her father—coming up behind her. His hands on her shoulders. Turning her around.
Kissing her.
Not paternal. Not innocent.
Kissing her the way a man kisses a woman he desires.
And Anya kissing him back.
Her hands in his hair. His hands pulling her close.
Moving toward a bedroom. Clothes falling away. Bodies intertwined.
Father and daughter at the beach house, making love with the sea crashing outside.
The vision hit Dilip like a physical blow. He sat up in bed, gasping, feeling sick.
What the fuck was that?
He reached for Anya through the connection.
But the connection had gone dark. Silent. Locked.
As if she knew he'd seen something he wasn't supposed to see.
As if she was hiding now.
Dilip sat alone in his Dubai hotel room, the vision replaying in his mind, unable to unsee it, unable to unhear the sounds, unable to stop feeling the wrongness of what the connection had shown him.
Was it real? A future? A past? A fear? A desire? Some dark secret living in the Chandra family's heart?
He didn't know.
And somewhere in Malabar Hill, in the mansion directly opposite Priyadarshini Park, Anya lay awake too, feeling Dilip's horror through their connection, knowing he'd seen something, unable to explain what it meant.
END OF CHAPTER 10