The Secret

Chapter Five: The Choice He Never Made

Arun barely slept that night.

Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the anonymous messages.

If you wear the saree tomorrow, be careful what you agree to afterward.

And then the name that had appeared without explanation.

Someone who knows Rohan Varma.

Who was Rohan Varma? Why had a stranger mentioned him? And what could a family friend possibly have to do with the secret surrounding Nandita?

Arun picked up his phone from the bedside table and read the messages again.

He considered replying to the unknown number, but he knew what would happen. The sender would either ignore him or give him another mysterious warning without explaining anything.

Instead, he typed one final message.

Arun: If you know something important, stop sending warnings and tell me the truth.

He waited.

One minute passed.

Then five.

No reply came.

With a frustrated sigh, Arun placed his phone face down and lay back against his pillow.

Tomorrow was no longer an ordinary day. The journalist was coming, his father expected him to participate in a lie, and somewhere in the background, someone seemed to know more about his family than he did.

He turned towards the window.

The garden was dark, and the old trees moved gently in the night breeze.

For the first time, Arun wondered whether the unknown sender was genuinely trying to protect him—or whether they were simply trying to make him suspicious of everyone.

He had no answer.

Eventually, exhaustion overcame his thoughts, and he fell asleep.

The next morning, Arun woke to the sound of a knock on his bedroom door.

"Arun? Are you awake?"

It was his mother.

He checked the time. It was a little past seven.

"Yes, Amma. Come in."

Devika opened the door. She was carrying the same garment box he had seen the previous afternoon.

Arun sat up immediately.

"Amma, please tell me you're not bringing that box again."

She looked down at it.

"I need to speak to you before your father leaves for the office."

"About the saree?"

"About today."

She placed the box on the chair near his desk rather than on his bed.

For a moment, she seemed unsure how to begin.

"Your father has spoken to the journalist's office," she said. "The journalist is expected to arrive this afternoon instead of tomorrow morning."

Arun stared at her.

"This afternoon?"

"Yes."

"And when exactly were you planning to tell me that?"

"I found out only an hour ago."

He rubbed his face with both hands.

"Of course. Because everything in this family must happen at the last possible minute."

"Arun, I know you're angry."

"I'm not just angry, Amma. I'm being asked to do something that could affect my entire life, and everyone keeps treating it as if we're discussing what I should wear to a family function."

Devika sat down.

"I understand why you feel that way."

"Then tell Appa to find another solution."

"I tried."

"And?"

"He believes there isn't enough time."

Arun gave a humourless laugh.

"That seems to be his answer to everything."

His mother remained quiet.

After a moment, she spoke more softly.

"You can still refuse, Arun. I want you to remember that."

He looked at her, surprised.

"Does Appa know you're saying this?"

"No. But he doesn't have to agree with every word I say."

For the first time that morning, Arun felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"Then why are you carrying that box?"

Devika glanced at it.

"Because if you decide to help, I don't want you to feel that you must figure everything out alone."

Arun looked at the box for a long moment.

He still did not want to wear the saree. He did not want to pretend to be Nisha, and he certainly did not want to become a convenient solution to his father's problems.

But he also knew that the journalist's arrival could expose Nisha to questions she was not prepared to answer. He wanted the truth about her mother to come out, even if he disliked the way his father was trying to control it.

Those were two different things, and he needed to remember that.

"Amma," he said at last, "if I agree to help today, it will be my decision. Not Appa's."

Devika nodded.

"Yes."

"And I'm not going to invent stories about Nisha's childhood or pretend that I know things I don't know."

"All right."

"If anyone asks me a question I cannot answer, I will say so."

She hesitated briefly, then nodded again.

"I understand."

"And the moment I feel that this has gone too far, I stop."

"I promise I will support you."

Arun studied her face, trying to decide whether she truly meant it.

Then he looked towards the garment box.

"Give me some time."

Devika stood up.

"Take all the time you need."

She walked towards the door, leaving the box where it was.

Before she left, Arun called after her.

"Amma?"

She turned.

"Please don't let Appa tell people that I've already agreed."

Devika's expression grew serious.

"I won't."

After she left, Arun remained seated on his bed.

He had not agreed to wear the saree.

Not yet.

But for the first time, he was considering the decision without feeling that he was simply obeying his father.

And that difference mattered to him.

At breakfast, Madhavan was already preparing for the day.

Several documents lay beside his plate, and he was speaking to someone on his phone. When Arun entered, his father ended the call.

"Good. You're awake."

"I usually am at this time."

Madhavan ignored the remark.

"The journalist will arrive around three. I expect you to be ready before then."

Arun pulled out a chair.

"You expect me to be ready for what, exactly?"

His father looked at him.

"We have already discussed the plan."

"We discussed it. I haven't agreed to it."

Madhavan put his phone down.

"Your mother told me you were thinking about it."

"Thinking is not agreeing."

"Arun, we don't have much time."

"You keep saying that. Maybe if you had spent less time hiding this family history, we wouldn't be in this situation."

His father's face hardened.

"That is enough."

"No, Appa. It isn't enough. Not anymore."

Devika entered the dining room before the argument could grow further. She placed a cup of tea in front of Arun and sat down.

Madhavan took a slow breath.

"The journalist has information about Nandita and her mother. We don't know exactly what he intends to publish. If he begins asking questions in front of the entire family, we could lose control of the situation."

"Perhaps you should stop trying to control it," Arun replied. "You could start by telling the truth."

"And what if the documents are incomplete? What if the journalist publishes accusations that cannot be verified?"

"Then answer the accusations with evidence."

His father looked away.

Arun noticed the movement.

There it was again—that brief silence whenever the conversation reached something uncomfortable.

"Appa," he asked, "is there something in those documents that you haven't told us?"

Madhavan looked at him sharply.

"Why would you ask that?"

"Because every time I ask you a direct question, you talk about the journalist, the business, or the family's reputation. You never explain what actually happened."

For several seconds, Madhavan said nothing.

Then he gathered the papers beside his plate.

"I have work to do. We will discuss this before the journalist arrives."

He stood up and left the room.

Arun watched him disappear into the corridor.

"Amma," he said quietly, "he's hiding something."

Devika did not answer immediately.

"I think there are things about the past that even I don't fully understand," she admitted.

Arun turned towards her.

"What does that mean?"

"It means your grandfather kept parts of his life separate from the rest of the family. Your father was young when some of these events happened. He may know more than he has told you, but I don't believe he knows everything."

Arun considered her words.

For the first time, he wondered whether Madhavan's fear was not only about what people might discover, but also about what he himself might learn.

Before he could ask another question, his phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

Arun opened the message.

Unknown: Your father is not the only person who wants you to wear that saree.

His expression changed.

He read it again.

Then he typed quickly.

Arun: What does that mean?

The reply arrived several seconds later.

Unknown: Ask why Rohan Varma is coming to your house today.

Arun stared at the screen.

Rohan Varma.

The name had appeared twice now, and the sender was clearly determined to make him suspicious of the man.

But Arun had never met Rohan. He had no reason to trust him, and no reason to believe an anonymous stranger either.

He typed another message.

Arun: Who is Rohan Varma?

This time, there was no immediate response.

Arun waited, watching the screen.

Finally, a message appeared.

Unknown: Someone your father trusts.

A second message followed.

Unknown: That should worry you more than it does.

Arun's fingers tightened around his phone.

He wanted to demand an explanation, but before he could type, the sender went silent again.

He placed the phone on the table.

Whatever was happening, he would not let an unknown person make his decisions for him.

He would ask questions.

He would observe what happened.

And he would decide for himself whom to trust.

For now, that was the only plan he had.