MRIDULA'S JOURNAL
February 19
It's been eight excruciating hours since Angira handed me that letter. Eight hours of pacing, glaring at it, and shoving it into the darkest corners of my room only to retrieve it again. The loop is annoying.
Still, I can't bring myself to open that damn letter. Not yet.
The curious part of me—the nosy, impatient brat who thrives on secrets—is clawing to rip it apart and devour the content like a starved human. But the other part of me, the girl who once escaped the relentless flashes of cameras, humiliated and broken, tail tucked between her legs, is petrified.
Terrified that she's still the same emotional fool who'd be used and discarded. The naïve idiot who fell for the charms and lies of a devil. What if I let him play me again? What if my family ends up paying the price for my weakness again?
I can't let that happen. Nope. A plate of shame with sensibility on top, please. Thank you.
So, like the coward I am, I've stashed the stupid thing away. It now lies buried in my childhood treasure box, hidden at the back of my closet where I or anyone won't have to see it or think about it, where it can't tempt me.
But even now, I can feel its presence—ominous like a curse whispering my name from the shadows. Waheguru knows what cheap spell he might have cast on it. It's scary because it's working. Rather slowly. But working!
And I'm apprehensive because I can't afford that.
Not with the elections six months away. Not when I'm here to make amends—to reclaim my dignity, my family's pride, and everything he so ruthlessly tried to destroy.
Mridula Singh Chandel doesn't have the luxury of faltering. She doesn't have time to waste. Which reminds me how I've already lost a week—locked in this room, drowning in old wounds when I should have been shouldering Bhai's burden like I promised.
But not everything is dark and gloomy. I've figured out a trick up my sleeve—something that could shift the tide in Bhai's favor. Shahneel and Komal might have let slip a secret that could be Bhai's shortcut to victory. It's clever, yes, but it's also nasty and ugly, the kind of move that leaves scars.
That's why I'm keeping it tucked away as a last resort.
Still, the knowledge alone feels like power—a card I can play if things spiral beyond control.
Recently, I discovered that—
*****
"Dulari! Dulari, are you up?"
The voice crashes into my thoughts, and I nearly jump out of my skin. The pen slips from my fingers, rolling silently across the lavender carpet.
Nothing unnerves me quite like Bhai's voice, especially when I'm trying to keep a skeleton hidden in the closet.
"Dulari? Are you up?" He repeats. Shortly after, another knock echoes through the room.
Shivering, I glance at the wall clock and then at the double wooden doors. Forty-five past midnight.
What could it be? Could Bhai figure—no!
"Y–yes, Bhai?" Wide-eyed, I nearly shriek, trying to shake off the dryness in my throat.
"I saw the lights on and thought maybe we could catch up. But it's okay if you're busy. I'll drop by later."
There's a chuckle in his tone, but something about it feels...off. Nervous, almost. Or am I imagining it?
"Wait up, I'm coming," I hastily close the old leather-bound journal and chug it in my laptop bag.
This journal has been my lifeline for the past three years, ever since a retail therapist in Malta suggested I write down my thoughts to organize and release them. It's done its job, sure, but it's also become a vault of secrets, opinions, and reflections I'd rather take to my grave.
The Mridula who scribbles on these pages feels like a stranger, even to me. She's a cunning strategist, weaving schemes with the precision of someone who knows the intricate dance of power. She exists only in thought, an imagination birthed from circumstantial need.
And yet, the mere prospect of her stepping out of these pages and into reality sends a chill down my spine.
When I open the door, I meet Vikrant Singh Chandel shuffling on his feet, looking ruffled and soul-drained. His loose polo and old shorts seem to hang off him, and his tired-hollow eyes hold the weight of too many sleepless nights or maybe nights of horror. He holds two cups of espresso, one in each hand.
"Move. I'm freezing." He mutters, inviting himself in. The steam follows his footsteps. I close the door and turn to face him to find him scrutinising every corner of my room with a scrunched nose.
Clean freak!
"It's been a week. A girl needs time to unwind," I quip, snatching the mountain of clothes off my bed and dumping them on the armchair.
Bhai raises an eyebrow at the action but doesn't comment. Instead, he hands me one of the cups and takes a seat at the edge of my bed, sipping his own espresso in silence.
"What have you been up to?" he asks, his sharp eyes sweeping the room before settling on the shelf by my desk.
Books stacked precariously, ready to topple with the slightest nudge. Trophies shoved haphazardly on top of each other, their metallic sheen dulled by a layer of dust. Collages barely clinging to the wall, their corners curling with age, holding onto memories like they're on borrowed time.
I feel my breath hitch as his gaze shifts, landing on the scattered pages. Almost immediately, his expression softens as his eyes meet mine with a quiet understanding.
"Looking for someone to talk to?" he asks gently, almost warm and coaxing.
I shake my head, forcing a small smile. "I was just working on a plotline," I lied, lifting the espresso to my lips. The bitter liquid burns its way down, grounding me against the lump of emotions threatening to rise.
He watches me for a moment, like he's trying to read between the lines, but then lets it go.
"Dulari—"
"So, the campaign plan has been mediocre, hasn't it?" I cut in hastily, shifting the conversation away from me. "I am thinking of a few tweaks. Maybe a slogan that really sticks, something catchy. I can already sense where this is going. Wait, let me guess—"
The words tumble out in one breath, a nervous habit I can't seem to shake. Bhai stares at me, searching my face. Whatever it is, he doesn't find it. His shoulders relax, and he leans back slightly, settling into the bed.
Ah, so this is how tonight's going to go.
Taking the hint, I nudge the pile of clothes from the armchair onto my office chair and sit down across from him.
"Why don't you sort them out? Here, hand them over. We'll fold," Bhai says, patting the space next to him.
I sigh, setting my cup on the side table before dropping the heap of clothes into his lap. He smirks, shaking his head, and starts folding. I tuck my legs under me as I lean against the bedpost, picking through the remaining pile.
It's been ages since we've had a casual sibling conversation. Me, halfway across the world, trying to stitch myself back together, and Bhai here, carrying the weight of what I left behind—we've both been drowning in our own chaos.
"Alright," I say, leaning back with a small smile. "What's it?"
"You first. What dragged you back to the pages?" he asks, stacking sweatshirts neatly while I wrestle with the dresses and one-pieces.
"I'm a writer and director, Bhai. Pages are my life. You tell me—what dragged you here?"
He hesitates, his fingers pausing mid-fold as I weighed for him to bring a Randhawa in our conversation.
"Nothing. I was just...missing you, you know? I have no idea how you're doing with your life. You stopped responding to my calls. Am I really that bad of a brother, huh?"
His accusing gaze pins me down, eyes searching mine like he's piecing together a puzzle.
I sigh, smoothing out a red cocktail dress before stacking it over a midnight-blue one. "You already had enough on your plate, Bhai. I didn't want to burden you with my mess."
"You know I'm never too busy for family," Bhai says. His voice is soft but carrying a pointed edge. "It stung, you know—watching you turn to Angira when earlier you used to lean on me."
His words hit harder than I care to admit, stirring something raw and unsteady within me. My throat tightens, and I blink rapidly, determined to keep the tears at bay.
Yeah, I stopped answering his calls after a month in Malta. It wasn't just the distance—it was the weight of watching him crumble under the aftermath of the election. And, maybe, I was too afraid to let him see that I wasn't the pillar of strength I pretended to be.
"I just needed time," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "Time to collect myself. I couldn't handle the pitying looks or the questions I didn't have answers to. Angira was..." I fumble for the right term to justify my three-year-old bond with the man I've known since childhood, "...available."
Bhai raises an eyebrow, picking up a pair of khaki trousers and folding them slowly. "Available?" He echoes sceptics.
"You know it," I defend too quickly, realizing how it sounds. "He was there. In Malta. A familiar face among strangers. He needed help with his startup, and I—I was looking for a distraction."
"So now he's a distraction too?" Bhai stops folding altogether as he pins me under a sharp and probing gaze. It feels like he's peeling back layers, searching for the truth I'm too reluctant to share.
"Not a fling, Bhai!" I cry, horrified at the direction his thoughts might be heading. "We're business partners. That's all. We worked together."
His eyes narrow, and I curl under the scrutiny. "Worked on what, exactly? And before you say it again, spare me the 'startup' routine. What was so pressing that you stayed out of touch for months?"
"It wasn't about the work itself," I admit, my shoulders sagging under his gaze. "It was... everything else. The chaos here. I hated watching you trying to fix everything. I needed to feel useful, Bhai. I needed to know I wasn't just running away."
He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, the folded trousers already forgotten. "And Angira? Was he your lifeline or your escape route?"
"Both," I admit softly. "He reminded me that I could start over. That I wasn't just the girl who fell apart after..."
"After Akaay," Bhai finishes for me. I flinch at his furious frustration. "He's just a man, Mridula. A snake, sure, but still just a man. Stop treating him like some kind of Voldemort. His powers don't grow every time you avoid saying his name."
His words are brusque, cutting through the air between us. "Talk about him, Dulari. You'll feel better. Keeping it bottled up only gives him more power over you. Speaking of which..." He trails off, fixing me with a glare that could cut glass. "You never told me exactly how it all went down. What actually happened? You got into a relationship at nineteen—"
I flinch again. There it is. The old wound, still raw, still festering. Guess, Bhai won't ever forgive for sneaking under his nose.
"—and you didn't just keep it from me; you were sneaking around right under my nose."
"Can you stop that?"
"No! You picked the wrong man—fine. But then what? How did he know? Did you slip it?"
"No!" I snap, horrified at the implication, at the thought of being seen as a traitor to my own family.
Bhai's piercing glare doesn't waver. I draw a shaky breath, trying to steady myself against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "I didn't tell him anything, Bhai. I wasn't stupid. I didn't realize what he was doing until it was too late. He..." My voice falters as the memories rush back with a force that makes my dinner stir.
"He what?" Bhai's tone softens, but the tension in his jaw remains. His fists remain clenched as if bracing himself for what's to come.
"He played me," I whisper, the words heavy with regret. "He made me believe he cared. He was charming, attentive—everything I thought I wanted in my boyfriend. But it was all a lie. He wasn't interested in me, not really. He was collecting pieces of me, piece by piece, until he had enough to shatter you."
The folded trousers in Bhai's lap lie forgotten as his hands curl into tight fists. "And you never thought to tell me? To ask for help?"
"I didn't know how!" I shoot back, my voice rising as the dam cracks under the weight of his judgment. "You were Bhai—an MLA, the perfect Chandel, the golden child. I thought you'd never get it. Though you'd be ashamed! And by the time I realized how deep I was in, it was too late. He had everything—my trust, my secrets, my..."
"Your dignity," Bhai hisses.
I nod. My throat tightens as tears sting my eyes. "I didn't give him anything willingly, Bhai. But he was clever. So clever. He made me feel safe like I could tell him anything like I should tell him everything. And by the time I saw him for what he really was, it was too late. He'd taken everything I had to give."
Bhai exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His eyes scream a storm of anger and guilt. "I need details, Dulari. Every single one of them. Angira stopped by... and... let's just say, I need to make an informed decision. I can't act until I know everything. So here I am." He leans forward.
"Tonight, we're peeling back every layer, starting right from the beginning. And for Waheguru's sake, don't hide anything. No matter how nasty, dirty, or twisted it is. I need to know it all."
His words hang in the air, heavier than the silence that follows. He's not just asking for my story—he's demanding it. Not as my brother, but as someone who's preparing for battle.
"Being a Chandel, I demand your loyalty." He folds his hand to his chest, looking me dead in the eye.
As I stare at him, my heart aches. The pile of clothes is already forgotten. Instead, a certain envelope jumps and burns in the dark and dead.
Tonight, I have to open the vault I've kept locked for years. I have to lay bare the ugliest parts of my past, the ones I buried so deeply that even I struggle to face them.
As he waits, I realize this isn't just about Akaay. It's about Bhai, about me, about reclaiming what Akaay took from us both. Bhai wants to fight, but first, he needs to understand the enemy—and the collateral damage.
And so, I brace myself for the storm, knowing that tonight isn't just a conversation. It's the beginning.
For a moment, I close my eyes, inhaling deeply as the memories stir, rising to the surface like ghosts. And when I open them, I begin.
*****
Drumrolls echo through the night,
And here we stand, at the edge of delight.
Who's ready to dive into a realm untamed,
Where love and betrayal are unashamed?
Affairs hidden in silken veils,
Stolen moments where passion prevails.
Secrets whispered, scandals unveiled,
Kisses that burned, yet hearts impaled.
Desires forbidden, yet impossible to deny,
A tale that lingers like a lover's sigh.
So buckle up, dear readers, and hold on tight,
For Akaay and Mridula will steal your night.
A story of fire, of shadows, of pain—
Welcome to their world, where nothing is plain.
Let the game begin...
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Until Then
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