“…your father’s younger sister, Gaurika.”
I stared at the words.
My father had never mentioned a younger sister.
As far as I knew, he had been an only child.I looked at Amma.
“Baba had a sister?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes, beta.”
“Where is she now?”
My mother’s lips trembled.
“She died twenty-nine years ago.”
I looked back at the letter.
Gaurika was nineteen when she arrived at our door carrying a newborn boy. She had been abandoned by the child’s father, and our parents were already dead.
She begged me to protect her son.
His name was Nandkumar.
I felt my heart tighten.
Nandkumar.
My younger brother.
The boy I had carried to school when he refused to walk.
The boy whose fever frightened me more than my own.
The man who had apparently been trying to sell our mother’s house.
He was my cousin by birth.
But that was not the part that frightened me.
It was what my father had written next.
Gaurika died shortly afterward from complications following her illness. Your mother and I raised Nandkumar as our own son.
We never intended to make him feel unwanted. We loved him without distinction, and I ask you to do the same.
I lowered the paper.
“Amma, did Nandkumar know?”
She began crying.
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
“Since when?”
“Since he turned twenty-one.”
My chest tightened.
“And I was never told?”
She shook her head.
“Your father wanted to tell you. But Nandkumar begged him not to.”
“Why?”
“He was afraid you would stop considering him your brother.”
I sat down heavily.
For decades, our family had protected his place in our home.
Yet somehow, he had grown into a man willing to frighten the woman who had raised him.
I unfolded the remaining pages.
Gaurika left a small agricultural property and a compensation deposit intended for her son. When Nandkumar became an adult, I handed him control of what legally belonged to him.
But there was another account.
The proceeds from the sale of my father’s land were divided between you and Nandkumar. Your portion was placed in a separate investment account when you turned eighteen.
My heart began pounding.
I remembered Baba telling me he had saved a little money for my future.
But I had never seen any investment certificates.
I continued reading.
Years later, Nandkumar asked me to let him manage the account temporarily. He had started a business and promised to return the money within eighteen months.
I made the greatest mistake of my life.
I agreed without asking you.
I felt cold.
Amma covered her face.
“He lost it, Shashi.”
I looked up.
“How much?”
Her voice broke.
“Almost thirty lakh at the time.”
I stared at her.
Thirty lakh.
Money my father had saved for my future.
Money I had never known existed.
Money my brother had been allowed to use without my consent.
I looked down again.
I spent years trying to replace what I permitted him to take. Some amounts were repaid through land income. Others remain outstanding.
I have kept a record of every transaction. If I die before putting matters right, Shashi must be told.
The final sentence made me cry.
My sons should never have to compete for my love. But neither should one son’s mistakes be paid for by the other’s silence.
I sat motionless.
For six years, this letter had remained hidden.
And my mother had carried the secret alone.
“Amma,” I whispered, “why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked at me with unbearable sadness.
“Your father made me promise that when you learned, I would explain that Nandkumar was still our son.”
I took her hand.
“His birth doesn’t change that.”
She began crying harder.
“I know.”
“But his actions do.”
Those words seemed to break her heart.
I immediately regretted their harshness.
Then I looked at the sale agreement.
The forged consent.
The nearly empty kitchen cupboards.
The fear in her eyes.
And I knew I could not keep protecting my brother from the consequences of his choices.
The following morning, I contacted Advocate Devyani Rao, an independent property lawyer recommended by Vedika’s colleague.
We brought the sale agreement, my father’s notebook, and the confidential declaration.
She examined everything carefully.
“Mr. Kulkarni, we need certified title records before determining who has authority to sell the house.”
I nodded.
“And the agreement?”
“The copy raises questions. Your mother’s alleged thumb impression must be examined. If she did not consent, we should act promptly to notify the parties and protect her interests.”
Amma sat beside me.
Her hands were trembling.
Devyani looked at her gently.
“Mrs. Kulkarni, do you want to sell your home?”
My mother shook her head immediately.
“No.”
“Has anyone pressured you?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Yes.”
