Chapter 3: Money, huh? Well, you’ve come to the right guy

Ishaan steered the bike away from Ari’s office, the wind whipping past him. After dropping her off, a rare sense of freedom stirred in his chest, urging him to delay the inevitable return to Misahay and Lajja’s sharp tongues. “Do I really have to go back?” he muttered to himself, the engine’s rumble blending with his thoughts. “Those two will just tear into me again—Lajja with her endless curses, Misahay nodding like a puppet. Maybe I should just keep riding… but where to?” The weight of their flat’s tension pushed him to veer toward Nala Sopara, a quiet suburb where an old coworker from his pre-Ari days might still linger. “Ravi might be there,” he said aloud. “He was kind back then. Would he even remember me now?”

The ride stretched his mind back to the life before Ari, a time of relentless struggle carved into his soul. Adopted by the Ahuja family at 11, he’d found a flicker of love from his father, Rajesh, and his timid sister, Niti, but Madhura, his adoptive mother, had always been a cold void. “Why didn’t she ever care?” he questioned, his voice rising over the wind. “Was I just a burden to her from the start? I tried so hard to please her, but her eyes never softened. Did she hate me for being adopted, or was I just invisible to her?” He gripped the handlebars tighter, the memory of her indifference stinging like an old wound. “Still, I was grateful for a home,” he admitted. “A roof, food—better than the streets. But was it worth it? All that gratitude, and for what?”

At 18, Rajesh’s death had shattered his fragile peace. On his deathbed, his father’s weak hand had clung to his, voice trembling. “Ishaan, promise me you’ll look after your mother and Niti.” Those words had bound him like chains. “Why did I make that promise?” he asked himself, the guilt creeping in. “I wanted to honor him, but did I have a choice? The uncles—Aarush, Divit, Zavian—they never wanted me. ‘You don’t belong,’ they’d sneer. ‘An orphan tainting our blood.’ Did they ever see me as family, or just a servant they tolerated?” Niti, his sweet sister, had been too timid to shield him, her soft voice drowned by their cruelty. “Poor Niti,” he sighed. “She loved me, but she couldn’t fight for me. And Madhura? Did she even notice my pain? Was I nothing to her but a chore?”

Forced to abandon his engineering dreams, Divit had smirked one day, “Work will toughen you up, boy.” It was a pretext, a cruel trap. “Toughen me up?” Ishaan scoffed aloud. “He just wanted me scrubbing tables at the family restaurant! Did he think I’d break? I never complained—never dared. Why didn’t I fight back then? Was I too scared, or just too used to it?” He toiled as a waiter, rising to manager by 21 through sheer determination. “I proved myself,” he said to the road. “Managed schedules, handled customers—didn’t I earn their respect? But no, they saw me as a tool, not a person.”

Then, at 21, Divit struck again. “You’re too comfortable here,” he’d said with that fake smile. “Go see real life—leave the family business.” “Real life?” Ishaan laughed bitterly. “Odd jobs, Away from family business—that’s what he meant! Did he enjoy watching me struggle? Was it a game to him, kicking me out after all I gave?” For a year before marrying Ari, Ishaan bounced between gigs—loading trucks until his hands bled, delivering parcels in the scorching heat, working at retail shops,. “Was it worth it?” he asked empty air. “All that toil, just to end up a house husband under Lajja’s thumb? Or was it preparing me for this… this power I feel now?”

The dusty streets of Nala Sopara stretched out before Ishaan as he navigated the bike through memory, the hum of the engine a steady companion to his swirling thoughts. He aimed for a familiar address—an old coworker from his pre-Ari days, Ravi, who’d once shared a laugh and a meal with him at a computer sales and repair showroom. “Will he still be here?” Ishaan murmured to himself, the bike rattling over uneven roads. “It’s been years—has he moved on, like I never could? Or am I chasing a ghost of my old life?” The uncertainty gnawed at him, but the need for a connection, someone who might help him navigate this new strength, drove him forward.

Guided by faint recollections, Ishaan parked near a weathered building and climbed the narrow stairs to a 1BHK flat. He knocked, his heart thudding. The door creaked open, revealing a young man with a puzzled frown. “Who is it?” Ravi asked, squinting at the tall figure before him.

“So now you can’t even tell it’s me?” Ishaan said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Ravi’s eyes widened, recognition dawning like a sunrise. “Ishaan!” he exclaimed, lunging forward to hug him tightly. “Ishaan, I’m so glad to see you! How are you?”

Ishaan returned the embrace, a rare warmth spreading through him. “I’m good, Ravi. I’m surprised you haven’t moved out of here yet.”

“I know, I wanted to move too,” Ravi laughed, stepping back to gesture inside. “But well, I’ll tell you about it later. First, come inside!”

Ravi, a good-looking guy who’d been 19 when they first met—Ishaan at  was a stark contrast to his rural roots. His family, back in a distant village, depended on his earnings, pushing him to Mumbai as soon as he could work. The 1BHK flat was a chaotic haven, its hall dominated by PCs for repair and parts scattered like treasures. A table groaned under three monitors and a massive custom CPU—Ravi’s intimidating gaming setup, a testament to his love for high-stakes virtual battles. “Sit here,” Ravi said, clearing a single sofa chair by shoving parts aside, the clatter echoing in the small space.

“Tea?” Ravi offered, heading toward a kettle.

Ishaan waved a hand, pulling out a bag. “I bought some samosas and Pepsi on the way. Here.” He handed it over with a shy smile.

Ravi’s face lit up. “Nice! Hold on.” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with the snacks arranged on plates. Handing one to Ishaan, he settled into his own chair, the glow of his monitors casting shadows. “So, what’s up?” he asked, popping a samosa into his mouth.

Ishaan hesitated, the weight of his purpose pressing down. He hadn’t seen Ravi in two years, and the secret of the book burned in his chest—something he’d never share, not yet, not with someone he’d just reconnected with. “It’s been a long road, Ravi,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “You remember how tough it was back at the showroom?”

“Yeah, man,” Ravi nodded, chewing. “You were always the quiet one, fixing keyboards while I debugged systems. What happened after?”

Ishaan sighed, leaning back. “After that job, life got messier. The Ahujas—my adoptive family—never wanted me. Ravi frowned. “That’s rough, bro.”

Then Ari came along.” Ravi raised an eyebrow. “Ari? Your wife? How’d that happen?”

“A long story,” Ishaan said, deflecting. He’d come here for a reason, not to dwell on the past. “Ravi, I need your help. I’ve been stuck doing housework, no real income. ‘How do I earn money?’ I ask myself every day. ‘Can I break free from this?’ You’re a computer whiz—any ideas? I need something to start with, something to build on.”

Ravi leaned forward, intrigued. “Money, huh? Well, you’ve come to the right guy. Let’s talk business, bro. What skills you got now?”

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