Jaisingh Mansion-Mumbai

Arnav leaned against the balcony railing, the night cool against his skin. Stars stretched endlessly above, indifferent to the worries below.

His thoughts drifted to Anvi and Maan, tucked safely in bed after the evening's small dramas. He felt a quiet satisfaction, but beneath it, a low, gnawing ache.

They look to me for everything... laughter, comfort, guidance. Even for the little things their father should have given.

A flicker of anger flared — not at the kids, but at the man he had once called father. Viren, absent for years, now smiled and joked, trying to fill a role he had abandoned.

Arnav's jaw tightened as he stared at the distant stars. 

He can try, but they already know me. I've been here for them when no one else was. And yet... I'll always carry the weight he refused.

Meanwhile....

Viren stood alone on the balcony, the night spread wide above him, stars scattered like reminders of everything he'd lost. The cool breeze brushed past, but it did little to ease the heaviness in his chest.

His eyes lingered on the sky, unfocused, his mind replaying the small, tender moments he had watched earlier — the way Anvi clung to Arnav, the quiet trust in her eyes, the warmth that was never his to claim.

A flicker of guilt burned first — for the years he hadn't been there, for the walls he'd built too high, too early. But guilt soon gave way to something darker.

They look at him like he's their father... and me? Just a shadow standing behind them.

His jaw tightened. The stars blurred.

For the first time, he realized how it felt to be replaced — not by a stranger, but by his own blood.

His thoughts came to a halt by the ring of his phone

Viren furrowed his brows, lifted the receiver, and answered in his calm, measured tone.

"Hello?"

A small, trembling voice on the other end spoke:

"Am I talking to Mr. Jaisingh?"

Viren's fingers tightened around the phone. "Yes... you are speaking to him. Who is this?"

There was a pause. The person's voice came out shaky but determined:

"Are... are you Avyukta's father?"

Sitara

Avyuktha held Aarush's hand tightly as they walked down the empty, dimly lit street. The weight of the day pressed on her small shoulders, but she kept moving forward, scanning for any kind of help. Soon, a small tea stall appeared, its dim lantern casting a warm glow.

She approached the elderly man behind the counter, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Kaka, kya aap kisi kaam ke badle humein thoda kuch khila sakte hain?"

The old man peered at her face, taking in the thin frame, the tired eyes, and the malnourished look of the little girl before him. His heart softened instantly.

"Thik hai Beta, pehle kuch khao, phir kaam karna. Tabhi main tumhe kuch de sakta hoon," he said kindly, gesturing to a steaming cup of tea and a small plate of biscuits.

Avyuktha hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She poured the tea into two small cups, giving one to Aarush and sipping the other herself. The warmth spread through her, a fleeting comfort she hadn't felt in years.

After finishing the small meal, she picked up a stack of utensils and began cleaning them carefully, her movements precise and quiet. Watching the old man work, she felt a faint flicker of hope.

"Kaka, kya aaj hum log yahan par ruk sakte hain?" she asked softly, glancing at Aarush who clutched her dupatta.

The old man furrowed his brows, suspicious, but seeing their exhausted faces and Aarush's tiny trembling hand, he softened.

"Ek hi choti si jhopadi hai meri, tumhari kaki ke sath rehtaa hoon....tumlog chaho toh rukk jao," he said after a pause.

Avyuktha's eyes lit up with relief.

"Please kaka, bas ek raat ke liye. Kal subah hum nikal jayenge," she pleaded, her voice small but earnest.

The old man nodded silently, his heart aching at the sight of the two children who seemed to carry the weight of the world on their young shoulders.

Sitara/Mumbai

Viren's heart skipped a beat. The words hung in the night air. Silence stretched for a few seconds, broken only by the soft hum of the evening breeze.

It was Parth who had made the call, finally pushing past his fear—he knew his mother had transformed into a demon, and he couldn't wait any longer to reach Viren.

Parth's hands trembled as he clutched the phone. He didn't have a second to waste—if his mother came in, she would snatch the phone, maybe even break it, or scold him mercilessly. His voice quivered as he whispered into the receiver, almost pleading, "Are you... Avyuktha's father? Please... tell me quickly, please."

For a moment, silence. Then Viren's voice came, steady but distant. Parth held his breath.

"Yes... I am," Viren finally said, his tone measured, but something in it hinted at frozen shock.

Parth's words tumbled out, stuttering. "You... please... take your children away from here... now... please!"

Viren's mind snapped sharply on one word: "children."

"Children?" he asked, confusion sharpening his tone. "Avyuktha was an only child..."

"No... no!" Parth almost shouted into the phone. "Aarush... he's there too... your son! Do you even know that or not?"

Viren's chest tightened. "Aarush..," he repeated slowly, trying to process the torrent of information.

Viren staggered back against the railing, his knees trembling as if the ground beneath him had vanished. His world spun, every thought derailed. Seven years... all this time...

Parth's voice grew urgent again, the tremor now laced with desperation. "Please... take them away from here... if you are even a little late, they will die! Sir... they are living... living in the most pathetic condition. Please... please... if you have any feelings left... any humanity left... take them away from here, otherwise... they will die!"

Viren gripped the railing, the phone pressed to his ear as his mind raced. He felt the walls of his carefully constructed life shatter.

Viren's voice stuttered,"who are you and..".

Parth's voice came one last time, faster now, almost in a rush: "I... I am Prateek's son... Avyuktha's cousin... My mom... she is in a fit of rage... beating Avyuktha right now... my father... he's not at home... She... she has thrown both Avyuktha and Arush out on the streets... please... please come... immediately... please take them away..."

A loud creak of the bedroom door made Parth flinch. He knew Prerna was coming. Without thinking, he cut the call, deleted the number, and blocked it.

His chest heaved. His small fingers trembled against the now-silent phone, his heart pounding like a war drum. Outside, the house was quiet, but the storm within him was very loud.

Viren's hands trembled as he lowered the phone, the weight of years pressing down on him like a vice. The balcony railing felt too solid, too cold, yet it was the only thing tethering him to reality. Seven years... seven years he had been blind, deaf, absent. The business deals, the endless contracts, the empire he had built—they had been nothing but walls between him and the children he had abandoned, the lives he had broken.

He thought first of Arnav, the boy he had left to grow up carrying burdens no child should ever bear, forced to be both son and surrogate father to his siblings. Then Anvi—his little girl—whose tender heart had learned to lean on the wrong shoulders because he had never bothered to be there. Maan, growing quietly into a shadow of himself, searching for love where none had ever been freely given.

And now... now Avyuktha. His own flesh and blood, abandoned in a moment of rage and ignorance, struggling for life, for survival, while he had wandered blindly, thinking himself a man building a legacy.

And the worst part? He hadn't even known she had a son. Aarush... a boy who existed, breathing, growing, completely unknown to him.

I've failed them all... every single one. How could I have been so blind?

The guilt hit him like a physical blow. 

I have failed them all. Every single one. I was supposed to protect them. I was supposed to guide them. And I... I abandoned them. I left them to the world's cruelty while I hid behind my pride, my empire, my excuses.

He sank to the balcony floor, the night air sharp against his face, but it did nothing to cool the fire consuming him inside. The author could almost hear his heart breaking in real time, the sound of regret so deep it could drown him. He had been the worst father imaginable—not absent by accident, but absent by choice, by rage, by indifference. And now, staring into the shadows of the night, he realized the enormity of his crimes: he had failed the daughter he didn't even know he had a son for, he had failed the children who loved him only reluctantly, and he had failed himself.

Every muscle in his body was taut, every thought sharpened by a terrible clarity: he could not undo the past. He could not erase the years of neglect, the silences, the pain. But he could act now. He must. He would claw back every moment, every stolen smile, every lost night, for Avyuktha, for Aarush, for the family he had abandoned.

The world outside was indifferent, the stars cold witnesses to his guilt. But inside him, a fire ignited—not of pride, not of power, but of desperate, furious love. "This ends tonight," he whispered, almost as a vow to himself, almost as a prayer. "I will bring them home. I will protect them. No one will hurt my children again. Not ever."

The phone lay forgotten on the railing. The night stretched endlessly, but in Viren's mind, the world had narrowed to two names, two lives, and one broken, determined promise: Avyuktha and Aarush.

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