Previously on Niraya: The Past...
Anandpur. 2 AM. The city pretends to sleep.
Kabir doesn't. He lies in the dark counting fan rotations while his father's voice tears through the house — "I gave up everything! So that boy can chase his stupid dreams!" Glass shatters. His mother never raises her voice. Then the slap. Then the crying. Soft, broken crying. Kabir pulls the pillow over his head and waits for silence.
Morning flips everything. The stage. Two hundred kids screaming. Him on the mic, Avni on guitar, and for a few minutes nothing else exists. Backstage she punches his arm — "We killed it. Don't sell yourself short." Vihaan appears out of nowhere grinning — "When are you gonna admit you like her?" Kabir says they're just friends. His stomach disagrees.
School blurs past. History. Math. PT. Everything clicks. It always does. But the final bell rings and the weight comes back — slow, heavy, familiar. He takes the long route home. Stands outside his building for a full minute before going in.
His mother comes out of the kitchen. He walks straight into her arms like he's still a little kid. He notices the bruise on her wrist she thinks he hasn't seen. And he asks the question that's been burning in him — "Why don't you leave him?" She looks away. "He loves us. He's doing this for you." Kabir's jaw tightens. "I don't want him doing anything for me." She shuts it down. "This is our family."
He watches The Walking Dead Season 5 finale alone in his room. Screams "Absolute cinema!" at his laptop. Then Avni texts and the world softens just enough.
Evening. Outside the singing studio, six seniors step out of the alley. Rohan — arms crossed, voice dripping — "Does it hurt being so perfect?" Kabir doesn't flinch. Doesn't raise his voice. "I've never done anything to you. I'm not gonna apologize for working hard." Rohan backs off. But Kabir's hands are shaking in his pockets the whole time and nobody sees it.
Inside, Avni cracks on the high note. Kabir fixes it — "You're not cracking, you're going sharp. Relax your shoulders." She tries again. Perfect. She grins — "Okay, you were right." He already knew.
After class, pani puri two streets over. Avni tells the vendor — "Extra spicy for him. He likes to suffer." They argue about implied dog deaths and Walking Dead zombies and laugh until the vendor closes up. Kabir pays. With his own money. He'd been saving that fifty rupee note all day just for this.
On the bus home they share an earbud. City lights blur past the window. She turns to him — "You sure you're okay? For real?" He nods. "I'm good. Promise."
She doesn't fully believe him.
He's fourteen years old. And already the world feels too heavy to carry.
NOW
The apartment was still empty when Kabir got home that night. No shoes by the door. No yelling. Just silence.
His mother was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. He dropped his bag and went to her, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
"How were the classes?" she asked, not turning around.
"Good. We worked on harmonies."
"That's nice, Kabir." She patted his hand. "Now go finish your homework. Your father will be home soon."
He pulled back. "Maa—"
"No." She turned to face him, her expression firm but exhausted. "No more of this talk. We've been through it already."
"We could leave. Both of us. I can work, you can work—"
"Kabir." She cupped his face. "You're fourteen. You don't understand how the world works. I can't just... we can't just leave. This is our life. This is our family."
"But he hurts you—"
"Enough." Her voice cracked slightly. "Go upstairs. Do your homework. No more talking about this."
She left the kitchen before he could say anything else.
Kabir stood there for a moment, fists clenched, then grabbed his bag and went upstairs. He slammed his door and opened his laptop, pulling up The Walking Dead. Season 6, Episode 1. Then Episode 2. The violence on screen felt easier to process than the violence downstairs. At least on the show, people fought back.
When he finally closed the laptop, he pulled out his homework—Math problems that seemed pointless, History dates that didn't matter. He worked mechanically, his handwriting getting messier as his mind wandered.
He was almost done when he heard it.
The front door opening. Heavy footsteps. His father's voice, slurred and too loud.
"Where is everyone? Hiding from me now?"
His mother's voice, soft and pleading. "You're drunk. Just go to bed—"
"Don't tell me what to do in my own house!"
Crash.
Kabir's pencil snapped in his hand.
"I work all day, all night, for what? For you to look at me like I'm some kind of monster?"
"Please, just—"
The slap echoed up the stairs.
Then crying. Always crying.
Kabir stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He walked to his door, hand on the knob. He was going down there. He was going to stop it. He was—
He froze.
What would he even do? He was fourteen. His father was twice his size. And even if he tried, even if he fought back, what then? It would just make things worse. It always made things worse. His mother would probably hate him.
So he stood there, hand trembling on the doorknob, listening to his mother cry and hating himself for not being brave enough to do anything about it.
Eventually, the noise stopped. Footsteps. A door closing. Silence.
Kabir went back to his bed and lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling fan until exhaustion finally dragged him under.
Morning came with sunlight and birdsong, like the night before hadn't happened at all.
At school, the principal called an assembly. Kabir and Avni were handed envelopes—prize money for winning yesterday's inter-school singing competition. Five hundred rupees each.
"Congratulations," the principal said, shaking their hands while everyone clapped. "You've made us very proud."
Kabir stared at the envelope in his hand. Five hundred rupees. It felt heavier than it should.
In class, Avni slid into the seat next to him. Vihaan's desk was empty.
"Where's Vihaan?" she asked.
"Sick. Said he'll try to make it to class tonight though."
"Poor guy." She pulled out her notebook. "At least we have each other, right?"
"Yeah."
But then Kabir felt it—eyes on them. He glanced up and saw Rohan and his group sitting a few rows back, all of them staring. Not even trying to hide it. Just watching. Judging.
Avni noticed too. She shifted in her seat, pulling her notebook closer, her shoulders tensing.
Kabir leaned over slightly. "Ignore them."
"I'm trying."
The teacher walked in—Mr. Mehta, English—and the class settled. Kabir raised his hand for every question. Named the themes in the poem they were studying. Identified the literary devices. Explained the historical context. Mr. Mehta kept calling on him, and every time, Kabir heard snickering from the back of the room.
He didn't care. Let them laugh. He knew the answers.
During PT period, they played throwball again. Kabir's team rotated him into the throwing position, and he didn't disappoint. First throw—caught by the opponent, but his second throw sailed clean over their heads and hit the ground in the back corner. Point.
"Yes!" his teammate shouted, slapping his back.
Third throw. Fourth. Fifth. Every single one landed perfectly. His aim was surgical. He could feel the rhythm of it, the way his body knew exactly how much force to use, exactly where to send the ball.
And then he heard it—Avni's voice from the sidelines.
"Go, Kabir!"
He looked over. She was sitting with a few other girls, all of them watching the game, but she was the only one cheering. Her face was lit up, smiling wide, and when their eyes met she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled louder.
"Come on! One more!"
Something warm spread through his chest. He turned back to the game, grinned, and sent the next throw flying. Perfect aim. Perfect landing. The other team didn't even try to catch it.
His team won easily.
When the bell rang, Kabir walked off the court still riding that high. Avni jogged over, still smiling.
"You were amazing!"
"It's just throwball."
"Just throwball? You destroyed them!"
He laughed, wiping sweat off his forehead. "Thanks."
"Seriously, I think you could go pro or something."
"Yeah, right. Professional throwball player. That's definitely a thing."
"It should be. You'd make millions."
They walked back toward the main building together, and Kabir felt lighter than he had in days.
Then the final bell rang and everyone started to leave. Kabir again took the long way through the park and reached home.
At home, his mother was folding laundry in the living room. Kabir dropped his bag and went straight to her, hugging her tight.
She hugged him back, then pulled away, studying his face. "Why are you so happy today?"
"I just... had a good day."
"A good day?" She smiled.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. "Here."
She frowned. "What's this?"
"Prize money. From the competition. Five hundred rupees."
"Kabir, no—"
"Take it, Maa. Buy something for yourself. Something you want."
"Your father gives me money—"
"I know. But this is from me. For you." He pushed the envelope into her hands. "Please."
She looked at it, then at him, her eyes watering slightly. "Kabir..."
"Just take it."
She finally nodded, folding the envelope and tucking it into her dupatta. Then she pulled some money out—two hundred rupees—and handed it back to him.
"For your classes. And for... whatever you need."
"Maa, you don't have to—"
"Take it." She pressed it into his palm. "You earned it. You should have some for yourself."
He pocketed the money and hugged her again.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," she said. "Your singing class is early today. The teacher called—something about the studio needing the space later for a recording session."
"How early?"
"In about an hour. You should get ready now."
"Already?"
"Yes, already. Go freshen up."
Kabir grabbed his bag and headed to his room. He changed out of his uniform, splashed water on his face, and was heading back downstairs when he saw it through the window.
His father's car. Parked outside.
And someone was inside with him.
Kabir moved closer to the window, squinting. His father was in the driver's seat, talking to a man in the passenger side. The man handed him something—a thick envelope—and his father opened it, counting what was inside.
Money. Stacks of it.
His father nodded, shoved the envelope into a duffel bag sitting on the backseat, then zipped it shut. The man got out of the car and walked away without looking back.
Kabir stood frozen, watching.
His father climbed out of the car, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He locked the door and turned toward the building—then stopped.
His eyes met Kabir's through the window.
For a second, neither of them moved. Then his father started walking.
Kabir stepped back from the window, his heart pounding.
He started to walk downstairs. He heard the front door open. Footsteps on the stairs.
His father appeared in the hallway, still carrying the bag. He stopped a few feet away, his expression unreadable.
"Classes?" he asked.
Kabir nodded.
His father crouched slightly, resting his hands on his knees, the bag hanging heavy from his shoulder. "You're doing well in school, I hear."
Kabir didn't say anything.
"Good. That's good." His father straightened, then started to walk past him.
But as he did, the zipper on the bag gave way—he hadn't closed it all the way—and a single stack of bills fell out, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
His father stopped. Looked down. Looked at Kabir.
Then he bent down, picked up the money, and zipped the bag shut properly this time.
He stood there for a moment, holding the stack in his hand, staring at it like he was deciding something.
Finally, he looked at Kabir.
"I hope one day I'll tell you who I am," he said quietly. "Or maybe you'll figure it out yourself. Either way... you'll know. You'll understand the business."
Kabir just stared at him.
"You want to ask me something?" His father's voice was almost... gentle. Like he was giving permission.
But Kabir couldn't speak. His throat was too tight. His mind too loud.
His father waited another second, then nodded. "Alright."
He turned and walked toward his room, closing the door behind him.
Kabir stood there, rooted in place, until his mother's voice called from kitchen.
"Kabir? You're going to be late!"
He blinked. Shook himself. Grabbed the bag that his mother had prepared.
As he headed for the door, he heard his father's voice from inside the bedroom—sharp and angry.
"Can't you let me talk to him? Get your hands off me!"
His mother's voice, strained. "He needs to go. Let him go."
Kabir didn't wait to hear more. He walked out, closing the door behind him.
The studio was already filling up when Kabir arrived. He scanned the room for Vihaan, but didn't see him. Then he spotted Avni near the back, setting up her guitar.
He started toward her, but realized halfway there that he'd forgotten something.
His sheet music. The notes for the new song they were supposed to practice today.
"Damn it the notes," he snapped.
"Forget something?" Rohan's voice cut through the room. He was sitting with his group near the front, all of them grinning.
Kabir ignored him and kept walking.
"What's wrong, golden boy? Not so perfect today?"
Laughter rippled through the group.
Avni looked up, frowning. "Leave him alone, Rohan."
"What? I'm just asking a question." Rohan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "It's just funny, you know? Every competition, every performance, it's always you two. And now... the great Kabir forgets his notes."
More laughter.
Kabir felt his jaw tighten, but he didn't respond. He sat down next to Avni.
She leaned over. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You sure? You look... off."
"I'm fine." But his voice was flat. Distant.
Vihaan slipped into the seat on his other side, out of breath. "Sorry I'm late. Still feeling like crap, but I didn't want to miss—" He stopped, looking at Kabir. "Bro, what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
Mrs. D'Souza clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone, let's get started. We're short on time today, so no warm-ups. Straight into the new piece."
Kabir tried to focus. Tried to follow along. But his mind kept drifting—to the duffel bag, to the money, to his father's words.
You'll understand the business.
What business?
"Kabir." Mrs. D'Souza's voice snapped him back. "Are you with us?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
"You're supposed to come in on the third beat. You missed your cue."
"I know. I'll get it."
"Okay. From the top."
They started again. Kabir forced himself to concentrate, but his hands were shaking. His breathing was uneven. He could feel Rohan's eyes on him from across the room.
And then he missed the cue again.
Mrs. D'Souza stopped the class. "Kabir, is everything alright?"
"I'm fine—"
"You're clearly not fine. You're panicking."
"I'm not—"
"Take a breath. Relax. Focus."
Avni put a hand on his arm. "Hey. It's okay. Just breathe."
Vihaan leaned in. "Ignore those idiots. You've got this."
But Kabir couldn't hear them. All he could hear was his father's voice.
You'll understand the business.
All he could see was the money. The duffel bag. His mother's bruised wrist.
Something inside him had shifted. Something had broken.
And he didn't know how to put it back together.