Previously on Niraya: The Past...
Chaat stand. Kabir stares at his pani puri without touching it. Avni and Vihaan are right there but he's miles away — stuck on the duffel bag. The money. You'll understand the business.
They try to pull him back. He gives them nothing. "I'm just tired." They don't believe him. He knows it.
He rickshaws home alone. His father's car pulls up at the same time. They walk inside together — side by side, not speaking. Dinner happens. No yelling. No breaking anything. It feels almost normal. That's what makes it strange.
Then Avni texts. One question leads to another and suddenly Kabir's telling her about Riya — his best friend, his first girlfriend, his old life before Anandpur. Avni asks too many questions. Gets too quiet. "Are you jealous?" — "No." — "You sound jealous." She goes to bed abruptly. Kabir smiles at his phone in the dark.
Next day at lunch she comes back for round two. Vihaan watches like it's a tennis match. The bell saves Kabir. Vihaan leans over — "She's so into you, man."
Then Kabir walks out of school and freezes.
His father. Leaning against his car. Waiting.
"Can't a father pick up his son?"
He's never done it before.
Kabir gets in anyway.
They drive to a grey nondescript building. His father disappears inside for twelve minutes. Comes back with a stranger — tall, leather jacket. Something small changes hands. A handshake. The stranger walks away.
Kabir writes everything down in the back of his notebook. Date. Time. Unknown man. Unknown object.
Then chai on the side of the road. His father keeps staring at him. Searching for something. Never finding the words.
Back outside their building his father finally opens his mouth — and closes it again. "Nothing. Go inside. Your mother's waiting."
Kabir walks in without turning around.
But he keeps the notebook.
NOW
Rajesh (Kabir's father) sat in his car, engine off, windows up. The street outside was busy—people walking home from work, vendors packing up their carts, the evening settling in like dust. He pulled out his second phone. The one that never rang at the dinner table. The one his wife had never seen.
He dialed.
It rang twice.
"Yes?" The voice on the other end was clipped, businesslike.
Rajesh's tone shifted. The warmth he used at home—the occasional softness, the tired patience—disappeared. What replaced it was colder. Sharper. A voice that gave instructions and expected them followed.
"The route is confirmed," he said. "Farooqi handled the timing. Everything's in place."
A pause. Then: "Payment?"
"Clears after delivery. Not before."
"Understood."
"Good. I'll confirm once it's through."
He hung up. Sat there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand. Then he turned it off, slipped it into the glove compartment, and started the car.
The diary was buried under old notebooks and a stack of comics he hadn't touched in months. He pulled it out—a plain black notebook with a slightly bent cover. He hadn't used it much. Just occasionally, when something felt important enough to write down. Birthdays. The day he and Avni first performed together. Random thoughts that felt too big to keep in his head.
But now it had a purpose.
He flipped to the back, found the notes he'd scribbled in his school notebook during the car ride, and copied them over in neater handwriting.
March 31st. 4:15 PM. Father picked me up from school. Drove to unknown building. Went inside for 12 minutes. Came out with unknown man—tall, thin, leather jacket. Man gave father unknown object (small, couldn't see clearly). They shook hands. Father stared at me in the car. Didn't say why.
He stared at the words for a moment, then added one more line.
He's hiding something. I'm going to find out what.
He closed the diary, shoved it into his backpack. From now on, it stayed with him.
His phone rang.
He glanced at the screen. Unknown number. He almost didn't answer, but something made him pick up.
"Hello?"
"Yo! Kabir!"
Kabir blinked. That voice. "Aryan?"
"The one and only, bro! Miss me?"
Aryan was his cousin—older by five years, living in Pune, studying engineering. They used to play games together during summer vacations when Aryan would visit. But this call was random. Completely out of nowhere.
"Uh—yeah, I guess. What's up?"
"Never mind that. Just open your Steam account. There's something special waiting for you. Check it and call me back, okay? Bye!"
The line went dead.
Kabir stared at his phone, confused. Then he opened his laptop, logged into Steam, and saw it.
A gift notification.
Aryan has sent you a gift: Left 4 Dead 2.
Kabir's jaw dropped.
"No way."
He clicked it. The game downloaded immediately—he'd had it on his wishlist for months, waiting for a sale, saving up pocket money that never quite added up.
And now it was just... here.
He laughed. Actually laughed—a sound that felt foreign after the last few days. He stood up, did a little spin, punched the air.
Then he called Aryan back.
"DID YOU SEE IT?" Aryan's voice was grinning through the phone.
"Hell yeah, I saw it! Oh my God, bro, this is my childhood! My first game! I've wanted to play this for so long—oh shit, man, this is insane!"
Aryan laughed. "I knew you'd freak out. I was gonna wait and give it to you for your birthday, but I thought, why wait? Today felt like the right day."
"This is the best birthday gift I could ever have. Seriously. Thank you so much."
"No problem, little man. You deserve it."
They talked for a few more minutes—Aryan told him about college, about his part-time job at a design firm, about how this game was part of his second salary and he wanted to spend it on something that mattered.
When they finally hung up, Kabir was still smiling.
He opened the game. Selected the campaign. Dead Center. First map. Hotel.
The familiar music kicked in, zombies swarmed, and for twenty minutes, Kabir forgot about everything else. He made it to the safe room, barely, his health in the red, adrenaline pumping.
Then his mother's voice cut through from downstairs.
"Kabir! Food is ready! Your classes are starting soon—come down, fast!"
He glanced at the time.
"Oh, shit."
He quit, grabbed his phone. No messages from Avni. Usually she texted before class—you coming? or see you there—but today, nothing.
He typed quickly.
Kabir:are you coming today, madam?
The reply came instantly.
Avni:oh i thought you were busy with riya
Kabir smiled at his phone, shook his head.
"Kabir?" His mother's voice again, closer now. She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. "I thought you were asleep. You didn't even hug me today. And why are you smiling at your phone like that?"
She was smiling too, though. That knowing smile mothers have.
"Nothing, Maa." He stood up, still holding his phone.
"Nothing? You're grinning like an idiot."
"I'm not grinning."
"You're grinning."
He laughed, walked past her toward the stairs. She followed.
Kabir:avni i dont even talk to her anymore. she was my friend back then, not now. why are you saying all this lol
Kabir:are you coming today or not?
Avni:yes
He stared at the message. Just one word. Yes. But something about it felt... cold. Distant.
He didn't know why that bothered him, but it did.
"Kabir." His mother's voice was firmer now. "Eat first. Then look at that phone. You're going to be late."
He slipped the phone into his pocket and sat down at the table. His mother served him rice and sabzi, and they ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
Then she said, "Your father told me you went with him today."
Kabir's hand froze halfway to his mouth.
She wasn't looking at him. Just serving herself, her tone casual. But there was something underneath it.
"Yeah," he said carefully.
"He doesn't usually do that."
"I know."
She set the spoon down, finally met his eyes. "Whatever happens, beta... just remember. Your father loves you. He always will."
Kabir stared at her. "What about you?"
"What?"
"Does he love you?"
Her face went still.
Kabir's voice dropped. "The things he does... does that give him the right to treat you like this? I don't know if he loves you, but I know you're not doing anything about it. Why not just divorce him? Fight for your self-respect, Maa. You're everything. You're special on your own. You don't need him."
His mother stared at her plate. For a long moment, she didn't say anything.
Then, quietly: "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because society won't accept it. People won't let us live. A divorced woman with a son? Do you know what they'll say? What they'll do? And your father... he's doing everything for us. For you. For your future."
Kabir's voice rose—just a little, but enough. "What? Why should we care about society? Who are they? They're just... tiny bubbles. They shouldn't matter to you. They don't—"
"You won't understand." His mother cut him off, her voice sharp now. "You're still too young for all this."
Kabir stared at her. Then he stood up, pushed his chair back.
"Thanks for the food, Maa. It was really good. But I have to go. I'll be late."
"Kabir, finish your—"
"I'll eat later. Just cover it. Thanks. Bye."
He grabbed his bag and walked out before she could say anything else.
The street was quieter now, the afternoon settling into evening. Kabir walked with his earbuds in, music loud, trying to drown out the conversation still echoing in his head.
When he reached the studio, he stopped.
The class hadn't started yet. But he could hear voices inside—singing, instruments, someone laughing.
He walked up to the door and looked through the small window.
Rohan and his crew were inside, practicing. They were running through a song—some old Hindi track Kabir vaguely recognized—and they were good. Really good. Rohan's voice had a rough edge to it, raw but controlled, and the harmonies his friends were layering underneath were tight.
Kabir stood there, watching, processing nothing and everything at once. The conversation with his mother. The diary in his bag. Everything.
Then the song ended, and Rohan stepped outside, grabbing a water bottle from his bag.
He saw Kabir immediately.
"Hey, golden boy."
Kabir blinked, pulled out his earbuds. "Nice practice. I can see that."
Rohan took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks."
Kabir nodded. Didn't know what else to say.
"We're registering for the audition today," Rohan said casually. "Since today's the registration deadline."
Kabir frowned. "What? Today? But the auditions aren't until mid April. There's still time."
"Yeah, but registration closes tomorrow. Didn't you hear?"
"No, I—" Kabir shook his head. "I thought we had more time."
Rohan shrugged. "Guess not. Either way, we're ready. See you at the audition, man."
He winked—actually winked—and walked back inside, whistling.
Kabir stood there, still processing.
Then Avni and Vihaan showed up.
"Hey," Vihaan said, grinning. "You good?"
"Yeah. Fine."
Avni didn't say anything. Just walked past him into the studio.
Vihaan gave Kabir a look—dude, what did you do?—but Kabir just shook his head.
Class started.
Mrs. D'Souza clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone, settle down. Before we begin, I have an announcement."
She waited for the room to quiet.
"The inter-school talent competition is coming up next month. We'll be holding internal auditions to select our school's representatives. Anyone interested should register their names with your class teacher by tomorrow—that's Wednesday."
Kabir raised his hand. "Miss, I thought the auditions were supposed to be in mid April. We were supposed to have more time to prepare."
Mrs. D'Souza nodded. "They were. But the district organizers moved the date up—apparently there's a scheduling conflict with the venue. So we're accelerating our timeline. Internal auditions will be next week. After that, the inter-school round will be two weeks later. And if you make it through that, the main talent show will be the first week of May."
Murmurs rippled through the class.
"So," Mrs. D'Souza continued, "if you're planning to audition, you need to be ready. No excuses."
She started the warm-ups.
The class practiced for an hour—scales, breathing exercises, a group number they'd been working on for weeks. Kabir sang mechanically, hitting every note but feeling none of them. Avni was next to him, but she didn't look at him once.
Vihaan, on his other side, kept glancing between them like he was watching a tennis match.
When they ran through a duet—Kabir and Avni, of course—the chemistry was still there. Their voices blended perfectly, instinctively. But the feeling wasn't. It was like singing with a stranger.
When class ended, everyone started packing up. Kabir was shoving his notebook into his bag when he heard Rohan's voice behind him.
"Hey, Kabir."
He turned. Rohan and his crew were standing there—all of them, not just Rohan. They looked... different. Less hostile. Almost friendly.
"Yeah?"
"Just wanted to say," Rohan said, "you guys rocked today. That duet? That was clean."
Kabir blinked. "Uh... thanks."
"Seriously. You've got good control. And Avni—" He glanced at her, then back at Kabir. "You two are gonna be tough to beat."
"You too," Kabir said. "Your practice earlier was really good."
Rohan grinned. "Yeah? Thanks, man. Means a lot coming from you."
He stuck out his hand.
Kabir stared at it for a second, then shook it.
"See you at the audition," Rohan said. Then he winked again—that damn wink—and walked out, whistling some tune Kabir didn't recognize.
His crew followed, one of them giving Kabir a nod as they left.
Vihaan leaned over. "Dude. What just happened?"
"I have no idea."
Avni was already walking toward the door.
"Avni, wait—" Kabir called.
She stopped but didn't turn around.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't seem fine."
"I said I'm fine, Kabir."
She walked out.
Vihaan whistled low. "Man, you really stepped in it, huh?"
"I didn't do anything!"
"You talked about your ex-girlfriend. To a girl who's clearly into you. That's doing something."
"She's not into me. We're... just friends."
Vihaan laughed. "Yeah. Okay. Keep telling yourself that."
He clapped Kabir on the shoulder and left.
Kabir stood there alone in the empty studio, staring at the door Avni had just walked through.
Then he pulled out his diary, flipped to a new page, and wrote.
March 31st. Rohan complimented me. Avni's mad. I don't know what I'm doing anymore.
He closed the notebook, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out into the late evening.