Prologue
Viya
The sound of the pressure cooker hissing filled the small kitchen as I stood over the stove, stirring the curry with careful, practiced movements. Steam rose from the pot, curling around my face in warm waves. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven thirty in the morning. Right on schedule.
This was how my days always began. Cooking breakfast for my family. Vinay Uncle, Sangeetha Aunty, and my cousin Avija. The routine was so deeply ingrained in me now that my hands moved almost without thought, reaching for spices, adjusting the flame, tasting, and adding salt. I had been doing this for so long that I could probably cook with my eyes closed.
I turned off the stove and moved to check on the parathas I had made earlier. They were stacked neatly on a plate, covered with a clean cloth to keep them warm. The sabzi was done too, sitting in a covered bowl, ready to be served. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be just the way Aunty liked it.
I have lived with my uncle and aunt since my parents died in a car accident when I was ten years old.
Even now, twelve years later, the memory came to me in fragments. Broken glass. The smell of rain on asphalt. The sound of sirens growing louder and louder until they swallowed everything else. I remembered standing in the hospital corridor, my small hand clutching the edge of my school uniform, waiting for someone to tell me that it was all a mistake. That my parents would walk out of those swinging doors and take me home.
But they never did.
Uncle Vinay came instead. He was my father's younger brother, and he took me in without hesitation. He gave me a home when I had nowhere else to go. He gave me a roof over my head, food to eat, and a place to sleep. For that, I would always be grateful. I owed him everything.
Uncle Vinay made sure I went to school. He made sure I studied. He made sure I completed my education even when Aunty Sangeetha complained about the expenses. Because of him, I finished my engineering degree. Because of him, I had a future.
But living in this house came with its own set of rules.
Aunty Sangeetha made it very clear from the beginning that I was not her responsibility. I was not her daughter. I was the orphan her husband had brought home, and every meal I ate, every piece of clothing I wore, was a debt I had to repay. So I worked. I cleaned. I cooked. I made myself useful in every way I could.
Avija, my cousin, had always been different from me. She was beautiful, confident, and effortlessly charming. She had dreams of becoming a fashion designer, and Aunty encouraged her at every step. Avija never had to lift a finger around the house. That was my job. She looked at me sometimes with a kind of detached indifference, as though I were part of the furniture. Something that had always been there but was never really worth noticing.
Aunty Sangeetha was harsher. She did not waste kind words on me. Her instructions were sharp and efficient. Do this. Clean that. Make sure you finish before noon. She never asked if I was tired. She never asked if I needed anything. And she certainly never asked if I had eaten.
But I did not complain. Complaining would change nothing. This was my life, and I had learned to accept it.
I arranged the breakfast plates on the dining table, making sure everything was placed just right. Then I hurried upstairs to my small room at the far end of the hallway. I needed to wash up and get ready. Today was different. Today was important.
Today I had an interview at New Gen Corp.
The thought sent a nervous flutter through my chest. New Gen Corp was one of the biggest companies in the city, a giant in the tech industry, and I had somehow managed to get an interview for a junior position in their development team. It was not a glamorous job, but it was a start. It was a chance to stand on my own feet. A chance to build something for myself.
I had not told Aunty about the interview. I was too afraid she would find some reason to stop me. So I kept it to myself, clutching the secret close like a fragile thing that might break if I spoke it out loud.
I washed my face quickly, and changed into a simple pair of jeans and a plain top. Nothing fancy. Nothing that would draw too much attention. I tied my long hair back into a neat ponytail and looked at myself in the small mirror above my dresser. My reflection stared back at me with wide, nervous eyes. I looked young. Uncertain. But there was a small spark of hope there too.
I could do this. I had to.
I grabbed my file of documents and hurried back downstairs. Aunty was sitting on the sofa in the living room, scrolling through her phone with a bored expression. She glanced up as I approached, her sharp eyes sweeping over me in a single dismissive look.
"I am going out, Aunty," I said softly.
She did not look particularly interested.
"Did you finish all the chores?"
"Yes, Aunty."
"Did you make breakfast?"
"Yes, Aunty. Everything is ready on the table."
She waved her hand in a vague gesture of permission.
"Fine. But you need to be back before lunch. You still have to cook."
