Please bear in mind that I’ve only seen clips, so I don’t know the full story. I get that you guys know more and I can see the hate is real. No hate toward the new girl but something about her feels… off. I’m not sure what it is.
CHAPTER 6 PART 2
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Author's Note:
So... I am absolutely apologizing for the delay on this chapter. I meant to have this posted two weeks ago, and honestly, we should probably be wrapping up Chapter 9 by now if things had gone according to plan. Life has been turbulent in ways I didn't anticipate, and I'm genuinely sorry for keeping you all waiting.
But can we talk about the TIMING though? I've been working on this masquerade ball chapter for weeks, and then the show drops an entire masquerade episode and I'm sitting here like "okay, the universe is having fun with this." The parallels are actually killing me. I promise this is purely coincidental (and honestly, masquerade balls are such a trope that I think everyone's doing them right now), but the cosmic irony of it all is not lost on me.
Anyway, thank you for your patience. I appreciate you all sticking with Heer and Nawab even when I'm being a disaster. Hopefully the wait was worth it.
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Gulab Brar stood in her dressing room and considered the mathematics of destruction, each calculation sharp and deliberate, the kind of work she had spent her entire life perfecting.
It was elegant work, she thought. The exactness of it. The way she had orchestrated every detail, the accident itself, the narrative she had constructed afterward, the false memories she had injected into her son's healing mind like a virus. It was art, really. The art of remaking a person into something more suitable, something more obedient, something less influenced by a girl from the village who had somehow convinced him that love was more important than legacy.
She had spent years making sure her son understood his responsibilities. She had groomed him for a life that required obedience, control, the ability to set aside his own desires for the greater good of the family. He had been almost there, almost perfect. And then Heer had arrived and had undone years of careful training in the space of a few months. She had made him want things. She had made him choose love over duty. It was unacceptable.
But worse of all, she had made him choose her over his own mother, absolutely despicable. It was unforgivable and a betrayal I will never forgive.
The accident had been necessary.
She had arranged it through intermediaries, people far enough removed that there could be no connection back to her. The car that hit them had been driven by someone with a vendetta against Heer's family, someone who could be motivated by money and could be blamed if anything went wrong. It had been arranged so that Nawab would be hurt enough to require hospitalization, but not so badly that the damage would be permanent. The temporal lobe injury had been almost lucky, it had given her exactly the tool she needed to rewrite her son's mind.
And then Tina, sweet, malleable Tina, who would do anything to secure her position as the future Mrs. Brar, had helped construct the narrative. Tina had been in the room when Heer arrived at the hospital. Tina had heard the confusion in Nawab's eyes, the questions about who this girl was, why she was there. Tina had been the one to suggest that perhaps Heer had been driving, that perhaps Heer was responsible for the accident that had nearly killed him. It had been a masterwork of suggestion, carefully planted in a mind that was too injured to question what was being implied.
By the time Heer had arrived at his room, she had already been cast as the villain. And Heer, foolish girl that she was, had accepted the role. She had taken responsibility for an accident she did not cause. She had agreed to his demand that she stay away. She had allowed herself to be erased.
Gulab had sent her the letter, the one that made it clear that the deed was done, that Nawab no longer remembered the girl, that he was now safely in love with someone more appropriate. She had watched from a distance as Heer had begun to fall apart. She had observed with something approaching satisfaction as the girl had lost weight, stopped eating. It was all very tidy. It was all exactly as it should be.
Tonight was a celebration, in a way. The final proof that her plan had worked. She would go to the masquerade ball, she would see her son looking happy or at least, looking less tortured and she would confirm that her investment in his transformation had been worthwhile.
She wore a dress that was the color of midnight, elegant and severe. She wore a mask that had been designed specifically for her, made by an artisan in Milan. She looked exactly like what she was, a woman of power and control, someone who had decided the course of other people's lives and had succeeded.
In the mirror, she caught sight of her own reflection, and for just a moment, barely a moment, barely noticeable, she wondered if she had made a mistake. She wondered if the satisfaction of victory was going to be enough to fill the space that her son's estrangement would leave in her life. She wondered if the cost of his obedience would be his distance, and if that was a trade worth making.
Then she pushed that thought away. She was his mother. She had done what was necessary. She had protected him. If he never forgave her, that was the price of love.
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The ballroom was not something that could be described in simple terms. It was a space that had been designed to feel like stepping into another century entirely, a Venetian opera house transported directly from Vienna or Paris, somehow existing in absolute darkness except for the carefully placed candles that lined every surface. There were no electric lights, only flame and only the dancing shadows that came with it.
The architecture was pure old world elegance, soaring ceilings supported by Corinthian columns, arches that seemed to stretch endlessly upward, walls that had been painted a deep, muted gold that seemed to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. The marble floors were dark, black and gray in a pattern that suggested age and wealth beyond measure. Mirrors adorned the walls, but they reflected only candlelight and shadows, creating an infinitely receding space that made the ballroom seem both enormous and intimate simultaneously.
And everywhere, everywhere, there were candles. Candles in ornate candelabras that looked like they had been pulled directly from a Venetian palazzo. Candles in glass holders that caught the light and scattered it in fractured patterns. Candles on every available surface, on the tables, on the window ledges, on the mantels of fireplaces that had probably not been lit in centuries. The candlelight was not bright. It was muted, soft, creating an intimacy that felt both beautiful and deliberately mysterious.
The ceiling, if you could call it that, was open. Someone with more money than God and apparently a desire to obliterate the laws of structural engineering had decided to remove the roof entirely, revealing a night sky so perfectly clear and so full of stars that it seemed like it had been created specifically for this moment. The stars hung above like diamonds that had been scattered across black velvet, and the cold night air moved through the space, making the candles flicker and dance in ways that meant no one could quite see anyone else clearly.
It created an effect that was disorienting and beautiful simultaneously. The candlelight was just bright enough to see by, but not quite. Just clear enough to make out features, but not quite. It was the perfect light for a masquerade, for a space where secrets could live and mysteries could exist and people could be anyone they wanted to be.
The orchestra occupied a raised platform at one end of the ballroom, and the musicians were already playing violins and cellos, the kind of classical music that suggested this event had been happening in some form for centuries. It was the music of romance and tragedy, of Venetian masquerades and ancient balls, of a world where anything could happen because no one knew who anyone was.
Heer arrived early, before most of the guests, because Koyal had insisted on it. She wanted to acclimate, to find her footing, to understand the space before it became crowded. Buzo looked magnificent in his burgundy suit, tailored to perfection, the jacket fitted through the shoulders, the fabric catching the candlelight like wine. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath it, and his mask was a deep burgundy to match, trimmed in gold filigree that suggested wealth and restraint in equal measure. He had positioned himself within eyeshot of her at all times, scanning the crowd with the intensity of someone who was looking for threats. He was the closest thing she had to a guardian in this house, the one person besides Koyal who understood even a fraction of what she carried.
Koyal was in an emerald green dress that seemed to transform her into something fierce and otherworldly. The color was deep and rich, the kind of green that made you think of forests and dangerous things hiding in shadows. The dress itself was constructed with intention, fitted through the bodice with a corset like structure, flowing at the hem in layers of silk that moved like water when she walked. The neckline was a modest boat neck, drawing attention to her shoulders and neck rather than her breasts. She had done her hair in an elaborate braided crown style, the kind of beautiful that came with hours of preparation and strategic intent. Her mask was emerald to match the dress, with gold detailing around the eyes that made them seem larger, more piercing.
The two of them moved through the arriving guests like ghosts. Heer had learned very well how to disappear in plain sight. She had spent months perfecting the art of existing in spaces without actually being present. It was a skill that served her now, she moved through the ballroom like she was part of the shadows, like she belonged to the candlelight and the darkness.
Arjun swept in wearing a navy midnight blue suit, tailored so precisely it looked like liquid against his skin, the jacket buttoned only once at the chest, the white shirt beneath it open enough to suggest confidence bordering on arrogance. The suit was cut to emphasize his shoulders and the line of his body. His mask was silver and understated, crafted with minimal detail, which only made him more noticeable because his face was so visible around it. The simplicity of it suggested he knew he didn't need embellishment. He moved through the space with sharp, dangerous grace, the kind of confidence that only comes when you've decided the world's opinion doesn't matter. He carried himself like someone who had been told he was beautiful enough times that he'd stopped bothering to try, stopped caring, stopped seeing it as anything but a fact of his existence. There was something aggressive about his beauty, something that made you aware that he understood his own power and had chosen not to deploy it with mercy.
He caught sight of Heer across the ballroom and smiled at her, and she saw Buzo's entire body tense in response. The tension was not threatening. It was protective. It was the kind of tension that came from someone who understood that desire could be dangerous when it came from the wrong person.
She rolled her eyes.
"He's harmless," she said quietly to Buzo, though she wasn't entirely sure she believed it.
"Harmless or not, he looks at you like you're a possibility," Buzo replied equally quietly. "That makes him dangerous, but so does everything else right now." His eyes flicked to her dress, the way she moved. “I don’t trust him near you, not like this. Arjun has his eyes on you… and if he steps too far, he’ll answer to me. Nawab would never forgive it otherwise.”
Tina swept in twenty minutes before the silent dance was scheduled to begin, her entrance orchestrated to ensure all eyes had time to land on her, having practiced being noticed a hundred times in front of a mirror. Her dress was a deep jewel purple, the exact shade that wealthy women wore when they wanted to be unmistakably expensive and unmistakably noticed. The dress was cut low in the front with a plunging neckline that emphasized her carefully maintained figure, fitted through the waist and hips, then flowing slightly at the hem. The back was also low, creating a dramatic line of exposed skin down her spine. The fabric was silk that caught the light and seemed to shimmer with her every movement. Her mask was understated silver with small diamond like rhinestones clustered around the eyes, suggesting the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how much effort you've put in while pretending you didn't try at all.
She was beautiful in the way that came from careful maintenance and meticulous attention to detail. Her body had been shaped by personal trainers and restrictive diets. Her presence had been cultivated by stylists whose job was to make sure she always looked flawless. She was the kind of beautiful that came from money and effort and the absolute conviction that beauty was a form of power, a currency that could buy her anything including a man who was supposed to love her.
She moved through the crowd as if the room rearranged itself around her path, and she only had one destination in mind. She was looking for Nawab, scanning the space with the desperation of someone who needed him to see her, needed him to acknowledge that she was there and she was stunning. But the candlelight was working against her it caught others instead, illuminated faces that weren't his, bodies that weren't his. When she finally found him standing near the orchestra, relief flooded through her, and she positioned herself within eyeshot, waiting for him to notice her. The dress was supposed to do that, to make him notice. She had designed every detail of it specifically to make him remember why he had supposedly chosen her.
What she didn't know was that he was not thinking about her at all.
"Well, well," Arjun said from behind her, his voice dripping with false concern. He was suddenly at her side, like he’d been there all along. "I see they've let the help in through the front entrance. How progressive. I'm sure the staff had to rearrange some things, but we mustn't make a fuss about mixing."
Tina turned, and her entire face hardened into something that was beautiful and utterly dangerous.
"How charming that you're attempting wit," she said, her voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. "I assume this is your version of conversation making cutting remarks about things you clearly don't understand. Though I must say, your tailor deserves a raise. They've managed to make discount look almost respectable. Impressive, really. Like dressing a peasant in stolen clothes."
"I'm sure your extensive experience with wasting money will be very helpful," he said without a pause, standing close enough to make her feel the slight weight of his disregard. "All the styling, all the jewels… and yet somehow, still not very memorable."
Tina’s eyes narrowed, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "Is that supposed to hurt? Because I don’t recall asking for your opinion."
Arjun’s lips curved faintly, casual and cruel. "What? I have to admit, for all that effort, I’m still not sure it’s enough to make you interesting." His gaze flicked over her like she was a curiosity rather than a person.
Tina's face went very cold. "For someone who captains a cricket team on scholarship, you certainly have opinions about how money should be spent. Opinions, I might add, that no one asked for and fewer still care about."
"I do have opinions," Arjun agreed, pleasantly. "One of which is that money is usually wasted on people like you. But I’m trying to be supportive of your charitable nature, even if your charity extends only to yourself. Tell me, does Nawab know you’re spending his family’s money like you’re trying to bankrupt them, or is that part of the surprise?"
She turned to move away from him, and that was precisely when she walked directly into him, her heel catching slightly on the edge of the marble floor. His hand shot out to steady her, pure reflex, the kind of thing that happened before you could think about it and for just a moment, their eyes met, and something electric passed between them. A moment neither wanted to admit existed.
Then she straightened, pulled her arm away with force, and her voice was icy. "Don't touch me. And shouldn't you be doing something useful, like... I don't know... finding someone at your economic level to flirt with? There must be a catering staff member somewhere who appreciates discount cologne."
"Actually, I'm having far too much fun watching you pretend to be a functioning member of society," Arjun replied, but he was smiling, not a kind smile but a sharp one. A smile that suggested he was enjoying this far too much, enjoying the way she reacted to him, enjoying the fact that he could get under her skin so easily. "Besides, you haven't found your watchdog yet. Shouldn't you be circling him, making sure he doesn't stray? I hear you're very good at that, keeping people trapped through a combination of entitlement and emotional manipulation. It must be exhausting. Though I suppose if anyone's capable of that kind of dedication, it's you."
Tina's hand actually twitched, like she was considering striking him. Which only made the smile on his face widen.
"It's time," a woman in white announced, moving to the center of the ballroom. Her voice was clear, cutting through the ambient noise. "The drawing begins. Gentlemen, please approach the silver box. Ladies, approach the gold. Draw your tokens. Remember what your number is. You will not speak during the dance. You will not remove your mask. You will find your partner when the music begins, and you will move in silence. Nothing else matters."
The crowd moved toward the boxes. Arjun reached in casually, his hand closing around a token. He pulled it out and glanced at the number, seventeen. He smiled to himself, tucking the token away.
Jimmy, drew his token next to Arjun. His number was twenty-three. He nodded to himself, unsurprised. Everything in Jimmy's life had always gone according to plan.
But when Arjun moved to step away, his heel caught on the marble. For just a moment, his grip loosened. The token tumbled from his hand. Jimmy's reached out reflexively to catch it, but in the mix of hands and bodies, something happened. Jimmy ended up with thirty-three. Arjun, when he looked down, found himself holding twenty-three.
Neither of them realized it. Neither of them checked twice.
"Find your flowers," the woman announced. "Stand on your number."
And that was when Heer made her entrance.
She had been waiting in the corridor outside the ballroom, gathering courage for something as simple as walking down the marble stairs into a room full of people who might recognize her or might not. The dress felt like armor and like exposure simultaneously. She could feel Koyal's hand on her back, pressing gently, insisting that she move forward.
"Go," Koyal whispered in her mind. "Be magnificent."
And Heer descended the stairs.
She moved down them slowly, the gold fabric of her dress catching the candlelight and throwing it back in fractured patterns that seemed to multiply as she moved. The stairs seemed to take forever. The space below seemed impossibly far away. The candlelight caught on the lace overlays of her dress, creating shadows and light that seemed to make the fabric move even when she was still.
And then she reached the bottom of the stairs, and the ballroom seemed to hold its breath.
It was not dramatic but was subtle. It was the kind of thing where people didn't stop talking, but their conversations became slightly quieter, as if some part of their brains had registered that something worth noticing had entered the space. The candlelight seemed to find her, seemed to follow her, seemed to illuminate her in a way that made everything else in the room slightly less real.
Nawab stood near the orchestra in all black. His suit was tailored perfectly, the black as deep as the night sky visible through the open roof above. But the fabric itself seemed to hold light within it, as if he had sewn the stars directly into the weave. His shirt was black silk. His mask was a Venetian creation in gold, a half-mask that covered the left side of his face, his left eye hidden behind intricate filigree, his cheekbone obscured. But his mouth was completely visible. His right eye was visible. The right side of his face was entirely exposed. It created an asymmetry that was dangerous and intriguing in equal measure, half mystery, half exposure. The visible eye watched everything.
He felt her before he saw her. It was a shift in the atmosphere, a sudden awareness that something significant had changed. He turned, and there she was, a woman in a gold dress that seemed to glow from within, moving through the ballroom like she was made of light. Her mask framed her eyes perfectly, drawing every gaze toward them, hidden behind scrollwork and pearls. But her mouth was visible. Her mouth, which held all her secrets, was completely exposed. Even among a room full of beautiful, artificial things, her eyes were the only part that felt real.
He could not look away.
The dress was extraordinary in its simplicity and complexity simultaneously. The neckline was off-shoulder, dropping across her collarbones with the kind of deliberate elegance that suggested this was not an accident. The fabric was a blend of satin and silk, with delicate lace overlays that caught the candlelight. The neckline dipped low, low enough that the very peaks of her cleavage were visible, a glimpse of skin that was somehow more devastating for being partial. It was the kind of dress that said, I am confident enough to show you this much, but elegant enough not to show you more.
But the back, there was no back. The fabric dipped nearly to her spine, creating an expanse of exposed skin that somehow made the modest front even more devastating. The dress clung to her gaunt frame in a way that made the thinness look intentional, sculptural, like she had been carved from marble rather than made from flesh.
The color was luminous. In the candlelight, it seemed to glow with its own knowledge of how to catch the light and throw it back in ways that seemed impossible. It was the color of honey and old coins and centuries-old treasures. It was the color that someone wore when they wanted to be both invisible and unforgettable simultaneously.
Nawab found himself unable to breathe.
"You're staring," Snake observed, materializing beside him with two drinks in hand. "What happened to maintaining your carefully crafted emotional distance? What happened to being the most boringly controlled person in any given room?"
"Nothing," Nawab said, but he was still looking at the girl in the gold dress. "I'm just observing the room."
"You're observing one specific woman," Maddy corrected, ppearing on his other side, as if he had been waiting for exactly this moment. "The one in gold. The one who is absolutely luminous. The one who just looked directly at you like you were the only thing worth looking at. So that's interesting."
Nawab did not respond. He could not seem to look away from her. She was moving through the space with the grace that comes from long practice at being both invisible and completely impossible to ignore. And when her eyes met his for just a moment, barely a moment, it felt like being struck by lightning.
Something in his chest recognized her.
"There are flowers on the floor," the woman in white announced. "Each flower corresponds to a number. Find your matching number. Stand on your flower. When the music changes, you will dance."
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Previous chapter: Chapter 6 Part 1
Parts 3 & 4 will be out shortly
Disclaimer: This is all for fun and jokes, of course, I don’t actually want Arjun to get shot.
Our fandom, hallelujah 🤍
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Arjun gets shot, hallelujah
And nobody cares, hallelujah
Neelu throws Ajit in jail, hallelujah
Arjun’s scholarship gets cancelled, hallelujah
The Arjun ninnies can’t handle this, hallelujah
The Arjun ninnies will riot, hallelujah
The Arjun ninnies can’t take the heat, hallelujah
The Arjun ninnies are triggered, hallelujah
Pammi never steps foot in Canada, hallelujah
Pammi’s visa gets banned forever, hallelujah
Mosquitoes get humbled, hallelujah
Mosquitoes get humbled, hallelujah
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Gulab exposes her plan, hallelujah
Sunny gets an STD, hallelujah
Anmol leaves the Brars, hallelujah
Richa’s pillow is always warm, hallelujah
Ajit brushes his teeth, hallelujah
Cause we really don’t like you, hallelujah
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Nawab finds out, hallelujah
Dalip forces Nawab x Heer’s marriage again, hallelujah
Heer opens up, hallelujah
Rave gives Heer some western clothes, hallelujah
Bring back the J necklace, hallelujah
Nawab has her picture in secret, hallelujah
Nawab has a drawing of her, hallelujah
Jimmy grows a pair, hallelujah
Gurleen dies, hallelujah
Oh, Gurleen dies, hallelujah
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The writers learn good writing, hallelujah
The writers remember Heer isn’t underage, hallelujah
The writers actually check the plot before writing, hallelujah
The writers wake up and smell reality, hallelujah
Let them remember their plot holes, hallelujah
We’re all not into in-law drama, hallelujah
Bring back the college drama, hallelujah
Good lord, we miss you Tina, no, we really don’t, hallelujah
Tina roasts Arjun for his desperation, hallelujah
Tina reunites Nawab & Heer, hallelujah
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Everything Heewab, hallelujah
Everything Heewab, hallelujah
The Arjun minions will downvote this, hallelujah
The Arjun minions will downvote this, hallelujah
And I don't give a shit, hallelujah
Oh, I don't give a shit, hallelujah
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Everything Heewab, hallelujah
Everything Heewab, hallelujah
Let it marinade in your brain hallelujah
Let it spark in your neurons, hallelujah
Stop living in denial hallelujah
She’s with Arjun for now, but only for Nawab, hallelujah
Heer loves Nawab, hallelujah
I repeat Heer loves Nawab, hallelujah
Nawab loves Heer, hallelujah
They're endgame, stop dreaming, hallelujah
Oh they're endgame, hallelujah
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Everything Heewab, hallelujah
Everything Heewab, hallelujah
Our fandom, hallelujah
Our moderators, hallelujah
Our fandom is refreshing Reddit, hallelujah
Our fandom is taking screenshots, hallelujah
We break the internet, hallelujah
Our fandom is arguing in the comments, hallelujah
We are in this together, hallelujah
Our fandom has so much creativity, hallelujah
Our fandom makes edits, hallelujah
Everyone helps everyone, hallelujah
We ship everything, hallelujah
We cry over every episode, hallelujah
We make memes nonstop, hallelujah
We obsess over every scene, hallelujah
Our snacks disappear mid-episode, hallelujah
We have 37 tabs open at all times, hallelujah
We scream into pillows, hallelujah
We tag the writers relentlessly, hallelujah
We live for drama, hallelujah
When we’re not happy, we write fanfiction, hallelujah
We have a graph, hallelujah
We’re at work thinking of the episode, hallelujah
We’re supposed to be studying, ya know, hallelujah
Upload the episode, Hotstar, we see you, hallelujah
We’re gonna get you, hallelujah
From every time zone, we tune in together, hallelujah
Our random theories, hallelujah
Our fandom has panic attacks, hallelujah
Reunite our lovers, hallelujah
Oh, reunite them, hallelujah
Everything Heewab, hallelujah
Everything Heewab, hallelujah
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CHAPTER 6
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Author’s Note:
This chapter has dual POVs, so you’ll see things from both Nawab and Heer.
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The morning light came through the windows of Nawab's room with the kind of persistence that refused to be ignored. Three months. It had been three months since the accident, and his body had finally decided to cooperate with the project of living. The doctors called it remarkable progress. Nawab called it survival, though he kept that observation to himself.
His physical therapist, Dr. Sahni, a woman with the patience of a saint and the firmness of a drill sergeant, had declared him fit enough for "light social activity," which was a term that made him want to laugh or scream, he hadn't decided which. But the scans looked good. The swelling had gone down. The temporal lobe damage that had so concerned everyone was stable. He was, for all intents and purposes, healing.
What no one mentioned was that healing and remembering were not the same thing.
The gap in his memory sat inside his chest like a stone. Six months of his life,gone. Erased. The doctors had explained very carefully that the mind sometimes protected itself by forgetting, that trauma could create gaps that were sometimes permanent. They'd used words like "neuroplasticity" and "recovery trajectory" and "emotional context." What they meant was, you might never know what you lost, and you'll have to learn to live with that.
Nawab had become very good at learning to live with things that made no sense. He had learned to live with many things. He was getting better at it. But what he hadn't learned was how to fill the hollow space that the missing months had left behind-the sense that something vital had been removed from him and replaced with a careful fabrication. Sometimes he felt like he was living in a story someone else had written, waiting for a plot twist that would explain why everything felt fundamentally wrong. There was a weight missing from his shoulders, an absence where something should have been. He reached for it sometimes in the mornings, that shadow of something important, and found only the smooth walls of carefully constructed lies.
"You're brooding again," Jassa said from the doorway, holding two cups of coffee in each hand like he was some kind of juggler. Jassa had been his friend since childhood-his real name was something no one bothered with anymore. He was Snake, had been Snake for so long that Jassa felt like a borrowed name, something that belonged to a different person entirely. He had the kind of face that made people trust him, which was ironic because Snake was exactly as trustworthy as his nickname suggested-which is to say, not at all, unless you enjoyed having your plans rearranged and your expectations thoroughly subverted. He dropped one of the cups on the floor deliberately, watched the coffee splash across the expensive tile, and grinned at Nawab's complete and utter lack of reaction. "The doctors say brooding is not part of your recovery plan. Also, I just destroyed your floor. You're welcome."
"You're an imbecile," Nawab said without looking at him, but he took the remaining cup anyway. It was still hot, which meant Jassa had actually bothered to keep it that way. Which meant he was planning something, and Nawab did not look forward to whatever that something might be.
"He's definitely an imbecile," Maddy agreed, materializing in the doorway behind Jassa with the kind of lazy confidence that came from never being told no. Maddy's real name was Mandeep-not that anyone bothered to use it. He was Nawab's other lifelong friend, the kind of friend who assumed permission existed before it was granted and made it work through sheer force of will and inherited wealth. He surveyed the spilled coffee on the floor with the kind of disdain usually reserved for peasants. "Well, that's disgusting. Jassa, you've outdone yourself. Now there's garbage on the floor."
"Speaking of garbage," Snake said, flopping onto the chair at the foot of the bed with the kind of sprawl that suggested he owned the room, "we're here to drag you to that ridiculous masquerade thing tomorrow night. Your mother's orders, apparently, and who are we to disobey the matriarch? The money goes to the Romeo and Juliet Foundation, you know, the one that helps star-crossed lovers overcome family obstacles. Very romantic. Very you right now, considering you're about as romantic as a gravestone."
"It's Part Two of the last ball you attended, actually," Maddy added, picking at his nails like he was reporting the weather rather than imparting information that might actually matter to Nawab. "The one where something significant happened that you've decided to keep secret from literally everyone.This one’s supposed to be even more exclusive, more shrouded in the kind of conundrum that comes with ‘I’m mysterious and you’re not invited,’ kind of privillege. Oh and they're opening the roof to display the starry night, which is either very beautiful or very pretentious. Possibly both."
Nawab’s head lifted slightly. Something in Maddy’s description, the casual mention of the last ball, caught him. Something about hidden secrets, about an event wrapped in enough mystery to rival his own untold stories. He couldn’t help but wonder what it was all about.
"I don't want to go," Nawab said flatly.
"No one cares what you want," Snake replied with cheerful cruelty. "Tina is apparently 'absolutely losing her mind with excitement.' She's had three dress fittings, and she keeps talking about 'making an impression' that will 'remind you why you chose her.'" He made quotation marks with exaggerated precision, clearly enjoying Nawab's expression, which had gone very cold. "She screamed at the staff to keep her dress away from your wing of the house because apparently it's supposed to be a surprise. A surprise. As if you wouldn't rather face actual physical pain. So that's happening. You're going to stand there and look broody while she glitters at you, and you're going to be grateful for the opportunity."
"I could also not go," Nawab said, "and you could both leave my room."
"But where would be the fun in that?" Maddy asked. He had moved to the window and was examining the view like he was considering purchasing the entire landscape. "Besides, you're cleared for social activity. Doctors' orders. And the silent dance aspect might actually suit you, you could stand there looking like someone murdered your favorite cricket bat or, worse, came up with a prank you didn't think of first, and no one would know the difference because you wouldn't be allowed to talk."
"Right, the silent dance," Nawab repeated, and something in those words resonated through his chest with unexpected intensity. Silent. No performance. No pretense. Just movement, breath, the honest language of bodies that didn't require lies. For the first time in months, something felt like it might matter.
"There's a pairing system," Maddy explained, finally turning back from the window with a smirk that suggested he had orchestrated this entire conversation. "Random, entirely chance based. You draw a partner, and that's who you dance with. No talking allowed just movement, breath, the language of bodies. Very romantic, very Nawab. Very much not Tina, because apparently she's decided she wants something flashy instead of actually participating in the ball properly. You could get a break from her for once. God knows she's been trying hard enough to bribe the organizers to pair you two together."
This was interesting. This was potentially the first interesting thing Nawab had heard about anything in three months.
"You should meet someone," Snake said suddenly, with the kind of theatrical interest usually reserved for gossip columnists. "Someone mysterious and masked and completely unexpected. Someone who isn't-"
"If you say Tina, I will throw you out the window," Nawab said without heat.
"I was going to say 'completely unsuitable,' actually," Snake replied cheerfully, "but Tina works too. Hey, maybe you'll meet your match. A real brooder like you. Someone equally miserable. Wouldn't that be something?"
"Just get out, both of you," Nawab muttered.
Nawab did not particularly want to go to a masquerade ball. He did not particularly want to do anything. The doctors had given him a clean bill of health, but his life felt like a building that had been demolished and rebuilt by people who didn't quite remember the original architecture. Tina felt like a memory that had been implanted while he was sleeping. The thought of her made him feel vaguely guilty and vaguely suffocated, sometimes simultaneously. She loved him dearly and really looked after him, sometimes he felt really bad with how he felt for her, which only made everything worse.
His mother had already picked out his outfit because if he let it to Tina well there was no going back. The alternative was disappointing people, and he had apparently built his entire personality around not disappointing people, even though he couldn't remember doing it. His brothers were attending the function as well, which meant there would be scrutiny, there would be expectations, there would be the careful choreography of appearing grateful for his own continued existence. He had no intention of going to these masquerade functions. He had no intention of doing anything that required him to pretend to be something other than what he was, a man with a six-month hole in his chest and a six-month hole in his memory.
Maddy let out a sharp, cutting laugh, the kind that suggested he found all of this deeply amusing. "He's right, though. Last year's ball was… memorable, at least. You even managed to be slightly tolerable for a solid three weeks. Who knows, maybe history will repeat itself.”
Nawab did not respond. But he did not dismiss the idea either. He drank his coffee and looked out the window and felt something stir in his chest something small, something he immediately tried to suppress, something that felt like anticipation.
He wondered what was important enough to protect himself from. He wondered what had happened in those six months that was worth forgetting. And, in a small thought he quickly buried, he wondered if history might be willing to repeat itself.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
The letter had arrived three weeks ago in an envelope with no return address. Heer had known immediately who it was from. She had recognized the handwriting, precise, controlled, the handwriting of someone used to having their orders followed. The handwriting of someone who had decided to play God with other people's minds.
Ms. Heer Sandhu,
He's awake, and it appears you've done your job properly. Very well, actually. And now my son doesn't remember the village girl who had him wound around her finger like a piece of string. He doesn't remember the way he looked at you like you hung the moon. He believes he loves Tina now. Control has been reestablished. Order has been restored to my house, finally. The balance has returned. Do you understand what that means? It means my way has won. It means the highway is the only acceptable option, and my son has finally learned to walk it.
He doesn't remember a thing from the past six to seven months, nothing. You are officially erased from his life, and he is looking at Tina as if she holds the stars in her hands instead. Tina is the right balance, controllable, appropriate, suitable, moldable. Tina will never make him forget his duty to this family. Tina will never make him choose love over legacy. Tina understands the hierarchy. Tina understands that I am always right, and there is no other option.
Good riddance, and make sure you keep your distance at all costs. We wouldn’t want history to repeat itself, would we?
And do take care… far, far away.
-GB
In her head, Heer sent her thoughts toward him. I will hold on to the memory of you. I'll remember everything for both of us. I'll remember the person you were before they took you from me. I'll remember what it felt like to be loved by you. I'll hold onto the fragments of what we were so that when, if you ever remember, there will be someone waiting who knows the truth.
Heer had read the letter once, and then she had read it again, and then she had kept it. She would not destroy it. It was a memory, the only proof that what had happened was real, that he had loved her, that it hadn't all been a fabrication. The words had stayed with her, burrowed into her chest like a second heart, a heart that beat only with guilt and rage and the terrible knowledge that her silence had been successful. He did not remember her. He was alive and well and had been told that he loved someone else. And she had made that possible through the most devastating choice of her life.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
She had not eaten properly since.
The guesthouse was smaller than she expected. Cold tile floors and pale walls that seemed to absorb sound rather than reflect it. She had moved from the servants’ quarters to here three months ago, and it should have been an upgrade, should have meant something, but it only meant she was further away from him. Everything in her life now was measured in distances, the distance from his room to this one, the distance from what was to what now is, the distance between the girl she was before the accident and whatever broken thing she had become after.
Heer had not eaten in days at times. She had not slept properly in weeks. All she did was think of him. She would hug her pillow in the dark and cry, imagining his voice, his touch, the way he had looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking his entire life. Sometimes, in the quiet moments before dawn, she swore she could smell him, mahogany and cedarwood and mint, and the hallucination would break her all over again. She hated that she imagined him this way. She hated Tina for making sure to flaunt herself near Heer, for ensuring that every moment was a reminder of what had been taken.
She hid when Buzo came by with meals. She hid when Koyal showed up with soup that someone's mother had made, with concern in her eyes and determination in her voice. She hid in the bathroom, in the back of her small closet, in the shadows of the guesthouse where no one could see her, because if they saw her, they would try to feed her, and she could not be fed. Her body was not ready for food. Her body was not ready for anything. She had perfected the art of disappearing before anyone could find her, slipping out when she heard the gates open, wandering the grounds until she was certain they had given up. She had not eaten since the accident. Not properly. Not in a way that mattered. She had drunk water because her throat required it, because her basic survival instincts were apparently stronger than her desire to fade entirely.
When Koyal found her in the guesthouse on the afternoon before the ball, she was sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing, which had become her primary activity. Koyal had a key, she had obtained a key at some point after Heer's hospitalization, probably from Buzo, probably in preparation for exactly this kind of moment where Heer needed to be rescued from herself, where Koyal would need to break in and drag her friend back to the land of the living. Koyal wasn't the type to take no for an answer. She was pure fire energy, stubborn, fierce and willing to drag you kicking and screaming into the light if that's what it took.
Koyal was a study in controlled precision. She moved like someone who had learned very early that the world required armor, that softness was a liability, that caring about someone meant you had to be willing to drag them into the light even when they wanted to stay in the darkness. She had light blonde, brunette hair that fell past her shoulders and eyes that were a unique of green with hints of blue, capable of extraordinary warmth once you earned it. She was beautiful in the way that made people nervous, the kind of beauty that came with intelligence and expectation. Behind her came her cousin Pammi, who had apparently been drafted for makeup duty. Pammi was opportunistic, the kind of person who was always looking for the next angle, the next advantage, she'd been trying to get to Canada for years and didn't particularly care how she got there, as long as she got there. She looked at Heer's skeletal frame with barely concealed horror, the kind of horror that came from seeing something that had fallen so far from grace.
"No," Heer said immediately, without looking up. "Whatever you're about to suggest, the answer is no."
"I haven't suggested anything yet," Koyal replied, but she had that determined look on her face, the one that meant she was about to suggest something whether Heer wanted it or not. She sat down next to her on the bed with the weight of someone who had decided this was non-negotiable. "But I'm going to suggest that you shower, eat something that isn't liquid, and come with me to a party tonight."
"I'm not going to a party."
"You're attending the masquerade ball tonight," Koyal said, her voice carrying the kind of finality that suggested this was not a discussion but a decision that had already been made. "Remember? You volunteered. You said you wanted to help with the Romeo and Juliet Foundation fundraiser. You said you wanted to keep your mind off things by doing something useful. Well, I changed the plan. You're not helping backstage. You're attending. You're going to wear a beautiful dress, and you're going to dance, and you're going to remember what it feels like to be a human being instead of a ghost."
"I can't-" Heer started, but Koyal cut her off with the kind of gentleness that was somehow more devastating than anger. It was the gentleness of someone who had learned to care about people despite knowing how much it could hurt.
"You can," Koyal said firmly. "You're going to. Buzo's going to be there. I'm going to be there. Arjun will be there. Anmol will be there. And you're going to get through one evening without thinking about him."
There it was. The elephant in the room. They didn't say his name anymore. They'd learned not to, learned that saying his name made something in Heer's chest shatter all over again. They tiptoed around him, these four people who loved her, walking on eggshells and changing the subject whenever his name came up, whenever his presence threatened to dominate the conversation. They thought they were protecting her. They didn't understand that his absence was louder than his presence could ever be.
The thing was, Heer was thinking about him constantly. Not about the present version of him, living upstairs in the main house, they had not met, had barely been in the same space since the accident, since she'd given her confession to him in the hospital. Not about his current version, the one that lived with Tina now, the one that believed whatever lies they'd constructed for him. She was thinking about the version of him that only existed in her memory now, the version that had loved her with a fiercity that had felt like drowning and flying simultaneously. She was thinking about the moment his face had changed when she told him she was driving when the car hit them. She was thinking about the accusation in his eyes.
He is Tina's now, she thought, and sighed.
She was thinking about all of this while sitting on the edge of a bed, slowly disappearing.
"I've already called in a favor with someone who does alterations," Koyal continued, pulling out her phone with the precision of someone who had already anticipated all of Heer's objections. "They can have a dress ready by tonight. Something that makes you feel like yourself. Or something that makes you feel like someone else entirely. Your choice."
Later, when Heer was standing in front of the mirror, because Koyal had somehow physically removed her from the bed and dragged her to the bathroom and locked the door until she showered, she did not recognize the person staring back at her.
She was still pretty, that much hadn't changed, that much couldn't be erased. But she was small now, impossibly small, like she was slowly disappearing into nothing. Her face was gaunt, hollowed out from the inside, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She looked fragile, breakable, like a strong wind could scatter her into dust. The girl staring back at her was a shadow of someone who used to exist, and Heer couldn't quite remember if that girl had deserved any better than this.
Her body was a map of her unraveling. The curves she used to have, the softness that had made her feel feminine, alive had vanished. Her collarbones jutted out like weapons. Her ribs were visible through her skin. The dress that Koyal had chosen hung on her like it was made for someone twice her size, swallowing her whole. She was disappearing not just from his life but from her own body, fading into the ghost that everyone had always expected her to be.
She had been writing letters to him since the beginning, letters she would never send, letters that lived in the dark corners of her jewelry box like secrets, like prayers, like desperate pleas to a god who had already made up his mind. She wrote to him when she couldn't sleep. She wrote to him when the silence was too loud. She wrote to him about the things she couldn't say, the things she wanted him to know, the things that would destroy him if he ever read them, the things that were clearly gnawing at her. She felt some form of solace and torment as she poured her woe into words. Her letters to him were a small detachment from her hollow life.
Arjun had found her writing one, weeks ago, her pen moving furiously across paper, her hands shaking. He'd walked in on her in the gardens, had seen the letter in her lap before she could hide it. He'd tried to get her to stop then, tried to tell her it was self-torture, that writing letters to a man who would never read them was only hurting herself more. "You're killing yourself with these," he'd said, and she'd felt the weight of his concern, the strange edge of something else in his voice that she couldn't quite name. "Just stop. Please. Stop writing to him. You're only making it worse."
But she couldn't stop. Writing to Nawab was the only way she had to exist in his world anymore.
There was a letter she had been meaning to keep, not destroy, never destroy. It was hidden in the bottom of her jewelry box, buried beneath things that no longer mattered, beneath the letters that came before it. It was the only conversation she was ever going to have with him, even if he never read it. It was the last prayer she could offer to a man who no longer knew she existed.
She had written it three weeks ago, on a night when the weight of everything had become too heavy and she thought perhaps she could make it lighter by putting words to paper. It was an attempt to explain, to justify, to confess everything. It was a love letter written to someone who no longer existed.
My Nawab,
I don't know how to start this. I've written it a hundred times in my head and I can't seem to find the right words. How do you tell someone you love that you destroyed them? How do you confess to erasure? How do you look yourself in the mirror when you've deliberately, methodically, erased the person you love most from your own mind?
I can't eat. I can't sleep. All I do is think of you. I hug my pillow in the dark and cry imagining your voice, your touch, the way you looked at me like I was the answer to a question you'd been asking your entire life. Sometimes, in the quiet moments before dawn, I swear I can smell you, mahogany and cedarwood and mint and the hallucination breaks me all over again. I hate that I imagine you this way. I hate that Tina makes sure to flaunt herself in front of me, the necklace you gave me that now adorns her body, ensuring that every moment is a reminder of what has been taken. Every single moment.
It's been three weeks since you stopped looking at me like I was real. Three weeks since I became a stranger in a house where I never truly belonged anyway. I have never heard you laugh upstairs, but I imagine it constantly, and I imagine it's at her jokes, her charm, her suitability. And I have to leave my own room in my mind because the imagined sound of your laughter makes me want to claw at my own skin.
I did this. I erased you. And the most terrible part is that when I look at your face now, I understand that what I did was not a mercy. It was a catastrophe. A catastrophe of my own making. I was trying to protect you from the mess of loving me, from the complication of a marriage that was supposed to keep you away from me, and instead I broke you in a way that can't be fixed because you don't even remember what was broken. You can't mourn something you don't remember losing.
You don't remember us.
I destroyed us. I can't believe we're here again in this god fucking mess. Why can't we just be happy? I don't understand what the universe wants from us. You spent months choosing me, fighting for me, loving me with a fierceness that terrified me and exhilarated me in equal measure, and now you don't remember a single moment of it.
You don't remember the night at the NRI ball when you touched my back and the lights went off for just a moment, and I felt like electricity was moving through my entire body. You don't remember the way you looked at me when I wore that white saree, like I was the only thing worth looking at. You don't remember fighting with me, loving me, choosing me over everything else, over your family, over your legacy, over everything that was supposed to matter. You don't remember that for one brief, shining moment, we were so goddamn real.
I wish I could go back to that very first day of CPU. I would gladly redo those days again. Oh Nawab, how I wish you were here. How I wish you were anywhere but where you are, with her, believing whatever lie they've constructed for you.
And I have to live with the knowledge that it was real, that it mattered, that you loved me with a fierceness that terrified and destroyed me. I have to live with that while you live with a carefully constructed lie, with a woman who will never understand what it means to love you the way I do.
The worst part is that I can see you're happy. Or at least, you're less unhappy. You don't have the weight on your shoulders anymore, the weight of fighting against your family, against the expectations, against a love that was destroying both of us. You're lighter now because I made you light. I took away the burden of loving me. And I don't know how I feel about this. I wanted to protect you, but all I did was steal from you.
I've felt it every time you touched me in those last months before the accident and our whole marriage collapsed. Every time your hand found the small of my back. Every time you pulled me close like I was something precious. Every time you looked at me like I was the answer to a question you'd been asking your entire life. I felt it, and I lived for it, and I knew that it was impossible and I didn't care. I was reckless. I was selfish. I was so in love with you that I forgot that loving you came with a price.
I don't know if I should apologize or if I should beg you to remember. I don't know if what I did was brave or monstrous. I only know that I can't eat, I can't sleep, and I'm slowly disappearing because you're slowly becoming someone else. I'm gaunt. I'm skeletal. I'm giving up. And the worst part is that you'll never even know I'm gone because you don't know I exist.
If you ever read this, I hope you understand that I did it because I loved you. Not despite the destruction it caused, but because of it. I loved you enough to erase myself from your life. I loved you enough to become a ghost. I loved you enough to let you go, even though every cell in my body is screaming for you, even though I'm slowly disappearing without you, even though I'm not sure there's anything left of me to give anymore.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it. And I know you'll never ever forgive me. Hell, I wouldn't either.
-H
She had not sent it. She would not send it. It sat in her jewelry box like a confession to a crime no one knew she'd committed, evidence of a guilt that had nowhere to go.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Buzo had come to the guesthouse two days ago. He had found her in the same position she always found herself in now, on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, existing but not really living. When he sat down next to her, she could feel the weight of his presence like a physical thing.
Buzo was different from other people. He had the kind of face that suggested he had seen things, understood things, accepted things that other people would never be able to accept. He had dark eyes that seemed to contain entire worlds of secrets. He moved like someone who had learned to navigate spaces carefully, who understood that his presence could be threatening simply by existing. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but carried an authority that came from experience rather than arrogance. He was beautiful in the way that made you trust him, which was probably the most dangerous thing about him. And beneath all that controlled quiet, there was the depth of someone who had loved and lost and knew how to sit with that kind of pain without flinching from it. He was the closest thing Heer had to Nawab now, the only person who understood the weight of what she carried, the only person who knew about the marriage, the secret that had cost her everything. She missed the way things used to be with Buzo, before she'd destroyed Nawab, before guilt had become a third presence in every room they occupied together.
"Koyal says you're coming to the masquerade," he had said without preamble.
"I'm not."
"You are," Buzo replied. "Because I'm asking you to. Because I need you to."
This was the lever that Buzo used. He knew that Heer could not say no to him, that her guilt over what she had done to Nawab extended to everyone who had been collateral damage in her disaster. He knew that she would do almost anything to prevent him from being disappointed in her.
"I can't be around him," she had whispered.
"You won't be around him," Buzo had said, his voice gentler than she deserved. "You'll be in a room full of strangers wearing masks. The chances that you'll even see him are minimal. And if you do see him, he won't know you."
He won't know you. It felt like someone had driven a knife into my heart and kept twisting. I had to inhale quietly, fighting the nausea rising in my throat. The knife twisted slower, but the pain kept building.
This was true, and it was the cruelest truth of all. He would look at her and see nothing. He would see a stranger, someone who meant nothing to him. He would not see the girl who had loved him so much she was willing to give up her own life.
"I've lost too much weight," she had said. "I look like a skeleton."
"Then eat something," Buzo had replied with care hidden beneath his anger. "Eat today. Eat tomorrow. Come to the ball looking like yourself or looking like someone new. I don't care. But you're coming because you're going to remember that there's a world outside of this house, outside of your guilt. You're going to dance. You're going to live a little bit."
This was how Buzo operated. He did not comfort you. He demanded that you comfort yourself, and he stood beside you while you did. It was infuriating and effective in equal measure.
So she had eaten. She had eaten for three days, small meals that her stomach had to relearn how to accept. She had not gained weight, three days was not enough for that but she had gained enough substance that her clothes were not quite as catastrophically loose.
And now she was standing in front of a mirror, and Koyal was behind her with a dress.
"No," Heer said immediately, before even seeing it.
"Yes," Koyal replied. "I don't care what you're going to say. You're wearing this dress because it makes you look like someone who hasn't given up. It makes you look like someone who is still fighting. And that's what we need you to be tonight, a fighter, not a victim."
The dress that Koyal held was a revelation of contradiction.
It was off-shoulder, the neckline dropping across her collarbones and upper arms with the kind of deliberate elegance that suggested this was not an accident but a design choice. The fabric was a blend of satin and silk, with delicate lace overlays that caught the light. The neckline dipped low, low enough that the very peaks of her cleavage were visible, a glimpse of skin that was somehow more devastating for being partial. It was modest and immodest simultaneously, elegant and dangerous, the kind of dress that made you want to look and made you feel guilty for looking.
But the back was where the real story lived.
The fabric at the back was nearly nonexistent. It dipped to nearly her spine, creating an expanse of exposed skin that somehow made the modest front even more devastating. It was the kind of dress that said, I am beautiful enough to not need to show you everything, but I am confident enough to show you this. It was the kind of dress that a woman wore when she wanted to be unforgettable but not obvious about it.
The color was luminous. In the candlelight of the ballroom it would seem to glow with its own knowledge of how to catch the light and throw it back. It was the color of honey and old coins and centuries, old treasures. It was the color that someone wore when they wanted to be invisible and unforgettable simultaneously. Her mask was Venetian and delicate, small pearls sewn into the design so that when she moved, fragments of light would catch them and scatter across her face like tiny stars.
"You're going to be magnificent," Koyal said, and she was not wrong.
What Heer did not tell Koyal was that she already knew she was magnificent. She had always known it. What she was trying to forget was that someone had once loved her magnificence, had once looked at her like she was the only real thing in a world of artificial things. She was trying to forget Nawab the way he was trying to forget her, and it was proving to be just as impossible.
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Part 2 will be posted in two hours.