Chapter 1
Chapter 1 — The Girl from Agra
(Narrated by Dr. Kakashi)
I saw a girl—twenty-three, maybe. Her right hand was burnt, bleeding badly. I asked what happened, but she was too scared to answer. Tears had already done what words couldn’t.
When I asked her name, she whispered, “Niya.” Her voice trembled like it carried the weight of something heavier than pain.
“Where are you from?” I asked. Through her sobs, she managed to say just one word—“Agra.” Even that came out broken, barely formed between the cries.
Niya… that was the name I had always wanted to give my daughter—long before I even understood what it meant to have one. Before I knew anything about marriage, about family, or about life itself.
Maybe that’s why, the moment she said her name, something in me shifted. I felt attached—instantly, deeply—as if I were looking at the daughter I never had.
I calmed her down and asked softly, “What happened, Niya? Please, tell me.” She stopped crying. Her breathing slowed. For a moment, the silence between us felt heavier than her pain. Then she said quietly, “I went silent… it was my mistake. My silence irritated him. He burnt me… to test my patience. And I didn’t say anything.”
I froze. “Who’s he?” I asked. She looked away, her eyes distant. “My boyfriend.”
I’ve seen things—pain, loss, scars that never fade—but fire has always frightened me. Watching her hand, trembling and burnt, I felt that fear crawl up my spine.
“Did he also hit you?” I asked. She nodded slightly, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes… many times.”
And in that moment the man who hurt her became my arch-nemesis. I am a doctor—and as Doctor Tony Tony Chopper said, a doctor should not think about death casually—but in that moment I wanted to burn that man to pieces.
Out of stupidity, my next question made her cry again. I asked, “Niya, mamma, papa — kaha hain?” She started weeping and said, “I don’t have a mom and dad.” In my head I heard myself—idiot, m hu na—and without thinking, without paperwork or formality, I adopted her. All this while her heart treatment was still going on.
I asked her more—slowly, gently, one question at a time. I wanted facts, but I also wanted her to feel safe enough to tell them; so I kept my voice low and steady, waited through the ragged pauses, and let her speak in pieces.
She told me everything—without hesitation. He was her first love. She was crazy for him—crazy like you don’t see often—and even when he cheated and hit her, she stayed. She kept giving him chances, kept loving him. First love is different; you don’t want to lose that person, no matter what it takes.
So I handed her over to Dr. Tarun — the man who would watch her closest, the one who tried to mend the wounds inside her. Dr. Tarun sat with her, and without hesitation or ceremony, he told her pieces of himself as he listened to her pieces of the past.
