“…believed he owned you.”
I stared at Amma.
“Owned me?”
Her trembling fingers tightened around mine.
“The man who wanted you back was your biological father.”
Outside, Shashidhar stopped knocking.
For a moment, the entire house fell silent.
Then Amma whispered a name.
“Rudrapratap Singh.”
I had heard that name before.
Not in our home.
In newspapers.
Rudrapratap Singh had once owned one of the largest printing and publishing businesses in eastern Uttar Pradesh. He was famous for his wealth, his political connections, and the enormous mansion overlooking the Ganges.
He had died twenty-three years ago.
I looked at Amma.
“What does he have to do with me?”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Everything, beta.”
I looked down at the hospital paper.
The unfamiliar name was Madhavi Singh.
“Who was Madhavi?”
Amma covered her mouth.
“Your mother.”
I felt as though someone had removed the floor beneath my feet.
For sixty-three years, I had believed I was born in this house.
That Sulochana had carried me.
That Harivansh was my father.
Now she was telling me something else.
I slowly withdrew my hand.
“Then who are you?”
The question hurt her.
I saw it immediately.
But she answered without hesitation.
“The woman who raised you.”
I sat on the floor beside her bed.
Amma began speaking slowly, stopping whenever her breath became difficult.
Sixty-three years earlier, Madhavi had been a young woman working as a bookkeeper at Rudrapratap Singh’s printing press.
He was already married.
Powerful.
Nearly twenty years older than her.
When Madhavi became pregnant, he refused to acknowledge the child publicly.
He arranged for her to give birth at a private nursing home.
Harivansh, then a junior supervisor at the press, had discovered the arrangement.
My mother paused.
“Your father knew Madhavi was frightened.”
“Harivansh?”
She nodded.
“He was your father in every way that mattered.”
I lowered my head.
She continued.
“Madhavi was told her baby would be sent away. She begged Harivansh to help.”
“And you?”
Amma smiled sadly.
“We had been married eight years. I had lost two babies. Your father came home and told me about a newborn boy whose mother was desperate to keep him safe.”
Her voice broke.
“I went to the nursing home. Madhavi put you in my arms.”
I could barely breathe.
“She gave me away?”
“No, beta.”
Amma shook her head fiercely.
“She asked us to protect you until she could escape Rudrapratap’s control.”
I looked at the hospital document.
“Did she ever come back?”
Amma began crying.
“She tried.”
The photograph beneath my father’s letter suddenly made sense.
I unfolded it.
It showed a young woman holding a baby wrapped in a white blanket.
On the back were three words.
My beloved Nandu.
I stared at her face.
She was beautiful.
But it was her expression that broke me.
She was looking at the baby as though she already knew she might never hold him again.
“What happened to her?”
Amma closed her eyes.
“She died when you were two.”
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
“How?”
“An accident, they said.”
I looked toward the gate.
“And Rudrapratap?”
“He wanted you brought into his household after her death.”
“Why?”
Amma’s voice became bitter.
“Not because he loved you. Because he had no surviving sons.”
I stared at her.
“He wanted an heir?”
She nodded.
“Your father refused to hand you over without safeguards. By then, we had raised you for two years. Madhavi had left a letter asking that you remain with us.”
I swallowed.
“And Rudrapratap accepted that?”
Amma shook her head.
“No.”
Outside, Shashidhar called again.
“Nandu! I know she’s telling you!”
I stood.
Amma caught my wrist.
“Don’t let him inside.”
I looked at her.
“Why is he here?”
She whispered, “Because he thinks the letter contains something he can use.”
I returned to the envelope.
There were four pages.
I began reading.
My dear Nandu,
If you are holding this letter, I have failed to protect you from the truth for as long as I hoped.
You came to us as a child in need of love. Your mother, Madhavi, trusted us when she had almost nobody left to trust.
I promised her that you would never be treated as a possession.
Years later, Rudrapratap’s representatives approached me again. They wanted your name attached to documents concerning the printing business.
I refused.
Then Shashidhar discovered something he believed would make him wealthy.
I stopped reading.
My cousin.
I looked toward the gate.
Shashidhar had gone quiet.
I continued.
There is an old declaration signed by Rudrapratap acknowledging you as his son. It also refers to property intended for your benefit.
But that document does not give anyone the right to control you.
Shashidhar obtained a copy and began negotiating with people connected to the Singh estate.
