6 Months of Silk and Fire
The fan rattled in the corner of the room, oscillating between the kitchen and the old study table that had seen more coffee spills than actual studying. The curtains fluttered weakly, lifting just enough to let in the gold of the late afternoon sun and the scent of rain that hadn’t yet arrived.
In a small two-bedroom flat nestled at the edge of South Delhi’s quieter neighborhoods, Naina Dutta sat cross-legged on the floor, folding neatly pressed salwar suits into a battered suitcase. Every motion was precise, efficient. The only sounds were the fan, the distant barking of a stray, and the unmistakable rustle of irritation pacing in the hallway.
“You can’t actually be serious.”
Isha’s voice, sharp and unmistakably done with the world, echoed through the flat.
Naina didn’t look up. “I’m always serious.”
Isha stormed in, barefoot, hair still wet from a rushed shower, eyes blazing. “I have one week of summer break. One week. And then college starts. My final semester. My future. The thing that gets me out of this—” she gestured vaguely to the peeling walls and the cracked edge of the switchboard, “—life.”
“I know,” Naina said calmly, tucking the next kurta beside the others. “And I’m proud of you.”
“Then why are you dragging me to a palace in the middle of nowhere like we’re in some bloody bollywood movie?”
Naina smiled slightly. “Because you’re not staying here alone.”
“It’s Delhi. Not outer space.”
“The Rajvansh estate is an hour outside the city. I’ll be working ten to twelve hours a day with Advay. I can’t manage both work and worry.”
Isha crossed her arms, standing in the doorway like a storm barely held back. “So let me stay at Prisha’s. Or Tara’s. I have friends. They have space. They also have Wi-Fi that doesn’t die when someone boils water.”
Naina gave her a long, calm look. The kind that said she’d heard all of this, but it wasn’t changing a thing.
“Isha,” she said gently, “you know I can’t do that.”
Isha groaned and threw herself into the nearby chair, limbs draped like drama incarnate. “I hate this. I hate rich people. I hate being around people who make you feel like you came in through the servant’s entrance even when you’re invited.”
Naina folded the last piece and zipped the suitcase. “They didn’t make me feel that way.”
“No, of course not. You’re composed. Untouchable. Everyone loves you. They’ll probably crown you official Rajvansh saint within a week.”
Naina chuckled softly. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. These people don’t live in our world. They have gold teaspoons and marble bathrooms and trust funds for their dogs. You think they’ll treat you like a human? You think they’ll treat me like one?”
Naina rose from the floor and sat beside her sister. Their apartment may have been small, the ceiling too low for grandeur, the furniture too modest for elegance—but the bond between them was the most unshakeable luxury either had ever known.
“They hired me to help their youngest son,” Naina said quietly. “Not to impress their guests. I’m not going there to play status games. I’m going to do my job.”
“And what about me?” Isha shot back. “You’re taking me into the lion’s den too.”
“You have a scholarship to the most elite college in Delhi, Isha. You’ve survived four semesters. You’ve written research papers that made your professors stare at you like you invented electricity. You’ll survive a 60-minute drive and some people who think privilege makes them better.”
Isha stared at her for a moment. “You’re very good at these calm lectures, you know. Makes me want to throw a plate at the wall.”
“You won’t. You’ll sigh and come with me.”
“I’ll sulk the entire way.”
“I expect nothing less.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the fan filling the space between their hearts. Outside, the first droplets of rain tapped against the window like polite visitors.
“I don’t want them to look down on you,” Isha said quietly. “You’re better than all of them.”
Naina looked at her sister then, really looked. At the girl she’d raised when no one else had wanted them. At the spark in Isha’s voice that had protected them both more than she’d ever admit. She reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair away from Isha’s cheek.
“They don’t get to decide my worth,” she said softly. “And they sure as hell don’t get to decide yours.”
Isha didn’t respond. But she didn’t argue either.
Naina took the win.
