Mumbai never slept, but that night, it screamed.
Rain lashed against the cracked windows of the Mehta home in a forgotten corner of the city — a modest, two-storey house that had seen better days. Inside, little Aarav Mehta pressed his palms to his ears as thunder rolled across the sky. His mother’s voice came from the kitchen, soft and humming, trying to drown the chaos outside. His father sat at the table, scanning the same worn-out ledger, sighing at the same debts that never seemed to end.
But beneath the ordinary hum of the monsoon night, something felt wrong — unnervingly wrong.
Aarav’s father, Raghav Mehta, had been tense for weeks. He worked for Vikram Malhotra, one of the richest businessmen in Mumbai — a man known for his sharp mind and sharper enemies. That night, Raghav had told his wife, “Bas ye project khatam ho jaaye, phir sab theek ho jayega.” (Once this project finishes, everything will be alright.)
But Aarav had seen the fear in his father’s eyes.
At 10:27 PM, the electricity went out. The world went black.
His mother gasped. “Aarav, don’t move!” she said, her voice trembling. But before she could reach him, the front door exploded inward.
Three men in black rushed in — faces hidden, voices rough. Aarav froze, watching in disbelief as one of them grabbed his father by the collar, shouting words he couldn’t understand. His mother screamed, her arms thrown around Aarav, trying to shield him.
Aarav’s father’s voice rose over the chaos. “You’ll never get it from me! Vikram Malhotra will—”
The sound of a gunshot swallowed the rest.
Time fractured. Aarav didn’t move. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. The world turned to a blur of light and sound and rain as another shot rang out — and the warmth of his mother’s blood splattered against his cheek.
Then silence.
Only rain.
The smell of smoke began to fill the room. One of the men poured something on the floor — kerosene. Flames crawled up the walls, licking at the old photographs, the wooden shelves, the childhood drawings pinned near the kitchen.
Aarav’s small hand clutched at his mother’s dupatta, shaking her shoulder again and again.
“Maa… Maa uthho…” (Mom… get up…)
But she didn’t.
And when he looked up again, the house was on fire.
He heard the men outside, arguing — “Boss said leave the boy! Let the fire handle it!”
Then they were gone.
Aarav tried to move her body, tried to drag her toward the door, but the smoke was too thick. His lungs burned, his vision blurred — he stumbled, coughing, choking. He reached for the photo of his parents on the shelf, the one where all three of them smiled, taken at Juhu beach.
That was when a hand broke through the flames — strong, steady.
“Bachcha! Are you okay?” A voice shouted through the smoke.
It was Vikram Malhotra himself, soot and rain covering his face. He had come too late for Raghav and his wife, but just in time for their son.
Aarav fainted before he could answer.
---
He woke up in white — white sheets, white ceiling, white light. A hospital room. The world smelled of antiseptic and something faintly sweet, like the roses his mother used to keep near the window.
There was a man sitting beside his bed. Vikram Malhotra. The name that lived on every billboard, every business magazine.
“Do you know who I am, beta?” he asked softly. Aarav nodded weakly.
“Your father worked for me,” Vikram continued, voice heavy. “He was a good man. Brave. What happened wasn’t his fault. I… couldn’t save them. But I can save you.”
Aarav’s lip trembled. His voice came out cracked and small.
“Why did they die?”
Vikram sighed. “Because your father stood for what was right. And because some men don’t forgive honesty.”
Silence fell between them, broken only by the beeping of machines. Vikram leaned forward, his eyes soft.
“You’ll come home with me, Aarav. You’ll stay with my family now. You’ll study. You’ll live. That’s what your father would have wanted.”
Aarav stared at him — unsure, frightened, and lost — but something in the man’s eyes made him nod. Slowly. Wordlessly.
That was the night Aarav Mehta died.
And a new version of him — one
who had nothing left to lose — opened his eyes to the world.
The car ride to Malhotra Mansion was silent.
Aarav sat beside Vikram Malhotra in the back seat, clutching the photo frame he had saved from the fire — the only thing left of his family. The rain outside blurred the world into streaks of silver and black.
He hadn’t spoken a word since the hospital. His eyes looked empty, too old for a ten-year-old boy.
When the car finally turned into the long, winding driveway, Aarav caught his first glimpse of the mansion.
It wasn’t a house — it was a palace. Gleaming marble pillars, golden chandeliers shining through the tall glass windows, and gardens that stretched farther than he could see.
The car stopped before the grand entrance.
Aarav hesitated, afraid to step out — afraid that the world behind those gates was too bright, too alive for someone as broken as him.
“Come,” Vikram said gently, opening the door for him. “This is your home now.”
Aarav’s feet touched the ground, and he felt the warmth of the earth beneath his wet shoes. He looked up — and froze.
At the top of the stairs stood a woman in an elegant saree — Meera Malhotra, Vikram’s wife. Beside her, hiding behind the folds of her mother’s saree, peeked a little girl — Tara.
She couldn’t be more than seven. Dressed in a pink frock, clutching a small teddy bear, she had wide brown eyes that glimmered like melted chocolate.
Aarav blinked, staring. And for the first time since the fire… he smiled.
It was small, barely there — a crack in the wall of grief. But it was real.
Tara, who had been hiding shyly, peeked at him again. Their eyes met — and she smiled back.
Meera bent down and whispered, “Tara, say hello. He’s going to stay with us for some time.”
The little girl stepped forward, hesitant but curious.
“Hi,” she said, her voice soft, like wind chimes.
Aarav didn’t know what to say, so he whispered, “Hi.”
Then, without warning, Tara reached out her small hand and placed a tiny chocolate in his palm. “Papa says chocolate makes sad people smile,” she said matter-of-factly.
Vikram chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Smart girl.”
Aarav stared at the chocolate — a simple, melting Dairy Milk — and something inside him shifted. He hadn’t cried at the fire. He hadn’t cried at the funeral. But now, holding that tiny piece of kindness, his eyes burned.
Tara frowned. “Are you crying?”
Aarav quickly looked away. “No.”
“Good,” she said proudly. “Because I don’t like people who cry. You have to be strong like me.”
Meera laughed softly. “Tara, stop bullying him on his first day.”
“Main bully nahi hoon!” (I’m not a bully!) Tara pouted. “Main toh sirf friend banna chahti hoon.” (I just want to be his friend.)
Aarav’s lips curved again — this time, a real smile.
Friend. The word felt warm. Familiar. Safe.
---
Later that night, when everyone had gone to sleep, Aarav sat near the balcony of his new room. He could see the ocean from there — calm, endless, unlike the storm inside him.
He heard a faint noise and turned. Tara was standing at the door, holding a blanket and her teddy bear.
“You didn’t sleep?” she asked.
Aarav shook his head. “Couldn’t.”
She walked in, dragging the blanket behind her. “You can sleep in my room if you’re scared.”
He frowned. “I’m not scared.”
She tilted her head, unconvinced. “Liar.”
He almost laughed — almost.
“I’m not lying,” he said softly. “I just… don’t sleep well.”
Tara thought for a moment, then sat beside him. “When I get bad dreams, Mumma sings me a song. Want me to sing?”
Before he could answer, she started humming — soft, tuneless, but sweet.
Aarav closed his eyes. For the first time in weeks, the burning smell of smoke faded. The screams, the fire, the gunshots — they melted into her quiet voice.
When she finished, she smiled and said, “See? You’ll sleep now.”
And she was right.
That night, Aarav slept — really slept — for the first time since his world had burned.
And from that moment, she became his light. His first smile after tragedy.
His first reason to live.
His Tara.
As the years rolled by, the mansion witnessed two souls growing up together — one from privilege, one from pain — bound by a friendship neither could explain.
Aarav learned to laugh again because of Tara.
Tara learned what compassion was because of Aarav.
He carried her books, made her hot chocolate when she cried, fixed her bicycle, and listened to her endless stories.
In return, she defended him when others mocked his orphan past.
“Tum mere best friend ho, Aarav. Jo bhi ho, humesha mere saath rahna, okay?”
(You’re my best friend, Aarav. No matter what happens, stay with me, okay?)
He had smiled, hiding the truth behind his eyes — I’ll stay with you, Tara, even if it breaks me.
Their world was simple… until Myra Singhania arrived.
It started the year Tara turned sixteen — a new admission in her elite school. Myra was everything Tara admired: confident, fashionable, fearless. Within weeks, she became Tara’s closest friend.
And the first person to whisper poison in her ear.
> “You ever notice how Aarav looks at you?”
“He acts so innocent, but poor boys like him only want rich girls’ attention.”
“Don’t you find it weird how much he follows you around?”
At first, Tara laughed it off.
But slowly, the seed of doubt began to sprout.
Myra smiled every time Tara snapped at Aarav.
And in her eyes — hidden behind a perfect smile — burned something dark.
Something dangerous.
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