At Singhania Mansion
As I sat on the edge of the bed, lost in thought, the memories of the day played in my mind like a soft melody. My first day here had gone far better than I had imagined. Before arriving, I had wrestled with a cloud of doubts—what if someone here looked down on me? What if they saw me as an outsider, an opportunist, someone who came seeking wealth or refuge? Just like in those clichéd Indian soap operas, where the moment a girl from a modest background enters a wealthy household, she's greeted with suspicion and snide remarks. The high-class characters always look at the less privileged as if they're dirt on their polished shoes.
I had promised myself—if anyone looked at me with disgust or treated me like a burden, I would quietly walk away, no matter how hard it was.
I was sure that if no one else had a problem with me, then at least Mrs. Meenakshi would. According to the soap opera rulebook, she was supposed to be the matriarch who disliked me the moment I stepped in. But reality, as it turns out, had something else in store.
Not only did no one treat me with disdain, but instead of pity or indifference, they had embraced me with warmth—gentle drops of affection that slowly began to heal the invisible wounds I carried.
That morning, after having breakfast in my room, I had just lain back to rest when I heard a soft knock at the door. It creaked open and to my surprise, Mrs. Meenakshi walked in.
Startled, I quickly sat up.
"You? Is everything alright? I saw you downstairs… it seemed like you wanted to say something to me, but couldn't. I was just about to speak with you, but then you got a phone call and left," I said, my voice tinged with curiosity.
She smiled, carrying a few shopping bags.
"Yes, actually. I had picked out some clothes for you—comfortable nightwear and casual outfits for going out. I just wanted to show you. I chose them myself, but if you don’t like them, you can let me know your preferences, and I’ll get you something else."
As she opened the bags, I saw a collection of cozy nightdresses, elegant kurtis, some kurti-palazzo sets, and a couple of jeans and tops. I was taken aback.
"You didn’t need to go through all this trouble… I don’t really need these many clothes," I said gently.
"Oh, why not? I know you’re still recovering and need rest, but once you’re better, you’ll be stepping out—and these will come in handy."
Her words triggered a painful reminder—I wasn’t truly part of this family. One day, I’d have to leave. I looked down, a faint ache tightening in my chest.
"Yes... once I’m better, I’ll have to go," I murmured, my voice low and shadowed with sadness.
Meenakshi’s expression softened instantly.
"Oh no, you’ve completely misunderstood me. That’s not what I meant at all. I was saying that the moment you’re back on your feet, Adwait and Omkar won’t let you leave this house even for a second!"
Her words stunned me, my heart skipping a beat.
"Do you mean they’ll… throw me out?" I asked hesitantly, the weight of fear returning.
Meenakshi laughed softly, shaking her head.
"No, my dear! They’ll drag you out—not from the house, but for shopping! Trust me, their shopping sprees last minimum five hours—maximum, I don’t even know! And they’ve already planned to show you around Mumbai—Malabar Hill, Juhu Beach, all the iconic places. Adwait’s been working overtime just so he can take a week off. Even Omkar is applying for leave from college."
Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring her smiling face. The care... the effort… the way they were including me—it was overwhelming.
"Hey, what happened? Did I say something that hurt you?" she asked, concerned.
I wiped my tears and shook my head.
"No, not at all. It’s just… I’ve never had anyone care for me like this. It made me emotional."
"Aww, please don’t cry! I really don’t like to see you cry," she said warmly and pulled me into a gentle hug.
"Now, come on, no more tears. Tell me—which outfits are you more comfortable in? Kurtis or jeans and tops?"
"I’m comfortable in both, honestly. I don’t really have a specific preference Mrs Singhania," I replied.
She frowned, placing her hands on her hips and giving me a playful pout.
"Then why are you calling me Mrs. Singhania? That’s so formal! You call Mira 'aunty' and me 'Mrs. Singhania'? Not fair at all."
I chuckled, her dramatic expression lighting up the room.
"Mira aunty told me to call her that, so I do. Don’t be mad!"
"Fine then," she said with a mock huff. "You’ll call me Meenu aunty, okay? I don’t want to hear 'Mrs. Singhania' again. That’s what outsiders call me. You’re not an outsider. Everyone in the family calls me Meenu—you will too. Or else I’ll get angry!"
Laughing gently, I nodded.
"Okay, okay! Meenu aunty it is."
"And yes, you should feel free to call the rest of the family the way you want to. For my husband, you can say 'uncle' or 'Atharva uncle'. For Maa, call her 'Dai'. And for Adwait, Omkar, and Kartavya—whatever you feel comfortable with. Don’t worry—no one will be offended."
Her reassurance melted another layer of fear inside me. I nodded again, this time with a soft smile.
"Good girl. I’ll ask the staff to arrange your clothes properly and let you rest now," she said, and with that loving warmth still lingering in the air, she left the room.
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