“Open the door, Tara! It has been two days.” Raghav yells, knocking on the door, a perturbed frown on her face. 

The sibling trio has just come back from the orphanage, attending only the first day of Daya sir’s prayer meet, Raghav not wanting to leave Tara alone for too long and Ruhi and Ranveer wanting to stay at home if Mishti ever needs them and yet it is the latter two who are worrying the most for the girl.

“Tara, love, we are all worried for you, please open the door!” Ruhi says, shaking the doorknob from beside her brother, an equally concerned look gracing her features, her gaze inadvertently falling on the floor, seeing a photograph peeking from the small slit under the door. 

She picks it up.

“What if she has passed out? She hasn’t eaten any meal in the last forty-eight hours, and I doubt the snacks in her room would have sufficed. She has diabetes.” Ranveer reminds them, brows curling up in worry, while Raghav’s eyes widen in horror. 

“Yes! That must have been the case. We have a spare key, don’t we?” he asks his siblings and when they nod in unison, he heaves a breath of relief, immediately going in the direction where he thinks the keys are.

“Should I inform Mihir? He is at Daya sir’s prayer meet.” Ruhi asks putting the photo in her purse for the time being, but her twin seems to have conflicted feelings regarding the statement just like her, both the events being equally important.

“I guess…. don’t bother him right now, let us go inside first and see everything for ourselves. I – I should have followed her that day.” Ranveer says regretfully making Ruhi look at him with concerned eyes.

“Which day, Ranvi? Did you know that she was here?”

“I –”

“I have got the keys, guys. Hopefully, everything will be alright.”

*

Everything is not alright. For Mishti it isn’t.

Since morning she’s been feeling like this, low and dejected. Maybe it’s the stress from last week; how she had been caught by Vivek, or the excitement that finally Vivek and Aisha will be meeting each other tomorrow after literal years, both of them refusing to directly talk on the phone because they are just too shy. Or, maybe it is the task looming over her head that she has to carry out without hurting Samrat, something that is a task in itself. Or maybe it is just him.

Samrat.

He has always had the talent of occupying Mishti’s entire mind, because of course he can’t settle for anything less than that. 

She’s been thinking these days.... of a future, a future that probably won’t have Samrat in it. A time where she’ll be done with all the tasks and will have to leave this house; a future where she’ll not be able to witness his rare smiles turning frequent or the mischievous glint in his eyes that he carries around with him 24/7 these days, a future where she'll be bereft of feeling the glances behind her back that send butterflies flying around in her stomach, or the way his hands seem to linger over hers for over a few seconds when they reach out for the same cup.

She would miss all that.

“So, I have been noticing,” Samrat had said yesterday during the dinner, and Mishti had hummed while serving him a portion of spring rolls and some fried rice. 

“You’ve stopped addressing me as Sir.” Mishti’s hand had stopped midair listening to the statement, eyes growing wide.

What?

Sir?

Had she stopped doing that? 

“You talk to me quite casually these days, don’t you think?” Mishti could hear an underlying amusement in the statement, but she couldn’t conjure up a smile, neither could she conjure a recent memory where she had called him ‘sir’ or addressed him formally.

The realization had Mishti’s widened eyes widening even more, straightening up herself as she looked at Samrat. 

“I – I didn’t realize…. I didn’t mean to disrespect y –”

Samrat cut her off at that, a slight twitch growing on his lips as he leaned back into the chair, quirking a brow. “Oh, I don’t feel disrespected at all.” He said with a wave of his hand.  “On the contrary….” He trailed off, his amused gaze falling on her face and his lips fully taking up on a smile as he said like it was the most casual thing in the world. “– I think that you should stop calling me sir altogether. Call me by name.” 

The words her reached her ears like a thunderclap, the empty glass in her hand slipping through her hand, though before it could reach the ground and crash, Samrat caught it. 

“A shattered glass would have been too dramatic for the situation, don’t you think so?” he quirked, huffing out a chuckle, putting the glass back on her tray and continuing with his lunch like he hadn’t just shifted Mishti's world upside down in a matter of seconds. 

Yes, she would miss that too.

Mishti doesn’t want to abandon all this, but she doesn’t think that these pleasant and heart-warming instances are meant for criminals like her. They aren’t.

The realisation makes her chest ache and eyes glimmer with pain.

It’s only when she steps out to bring a glass of water and a diya in her room from outside for doing prayer for Daya sir, does she see it, the sight that brings her world to a screeching halt – because there in the living room which is decorated with white flowers is a photo, a photo of a man whom she recognises well with garland hung around it and in front of that photo sits another man whom she recognizes way too well in white Kurta Pajama, his hands joined in prayer and eyes closed. 

The name under the photo says Dayanand Agnihotri, but all Mishti sees is Daya sir.

And the man who sits in front of the photo is her employer, her target, but all Mishti sees is Dayanand Agnihotri’s son, Samrat Agnihotri. 

Oh.

How could she have missed it?

Why wasn't she informed.

Did the agency know about it?

Why didn't they tell them?

She had been already having hard time accepting that today was the day her Daya sir had passed away, the only person who had cared for them in the orphanage. And after her brother's reminder that day, Mishti hasn't been able to stop the memories that rush in her mind one after the other of the aforementioned man and his son.

This one is of the time when she was yet to feel comfortable around anyone but her brother and friends in the orphanage, the only exception being Daya Sir. His words safely nestled into the corner of her mind even now.

“Daya sir!” Eight-year-old Mishti shrieks as she sees her favourite sir after two full weeks. 

“Mishri!” As usual he pronounces her name wrong, but she doesn’t know if it’s by mistake or intentional. Anyways, she doesn’t waste time in minding the fact and quickly goes and situates herself beside the man who has his wallet open, giving money to another man with tangled hair and torn clothes who smiles brightly in return. 

“Who is this?” Mishti asks pointing to the photo in the man’s wallet when he is done giving the money. Mishti knows that it is a good thing to help those in need and Daya sir has always been the kindest.

Daya smiles fondly at the little girl sitting in his lap who he adores like a daughter he never had, ruffling her pigtails at which she whines but averts her attention to the photo in the wallet once again.

“Who is this? And why do you have his photo in your purse?” she asks, and the man lets out a sigh, brushing a gentle finger over the photo. 

“He’s my son, the light of my life,” he says in a daze and looks up to find the girl pouting at the picture, “apart from you, of course,” Daya adds and smiles when he sees the girl giggling. 

“Papa didn’t keep my photo in his purse,” Mishti admits with a mellow voice, and the man’s heart breaks for the girl just like it had on the first day of her and her brother’s arrival. 

“Keeping your loved one’s photos isn’t the only way to show them your love, right? Your father used to bring you so many toys, didn’t he?” he asks and the girl nods with the pout. 

“Still…” the sigh that leaves the girl’s mouth doesn’t suit her age. 

“Well, I have a solution for that. Here, hand me your notebook and your pencil.” Daya says and Mishti is quick to comply with the demand. 

A minute later there is a sticker sized drawing of a girl with two pigtails on the paper that the man neatly tears into a square. 

“Who is this?” he asks and Mishti grins, pointing to herself. “Me!”

“Yes!” Her sir then puts the drawing in his wallet with his son’s photo. “See, now I have your photo in my wallet too, are you happy now?” Daya asks and beams as the girl does.

“I am cuter and smarter than your son,” Mishti announces making her sir laugh, his head thrown back and eyes crinkling at the sides.

“Of course, you are. No doubt. My son still has a long way to go and grow up into a smart and handsome young man who cares for others. Do you think he’d ever be able to do that? To make a name for himself and become such a good man that he earns a place in everyone’s heart?”

Yes, Mishti wants to say, yes to all of it, now that she has seen everything for herself. It is a pity that the father who had wanted to witness those things isn’t here anymore.

It is with a deep sigh that Mishti takes her steps in the living room, her gaze landing on Vivek, who sits beside Samrat. She gives him a small smile which he returns taking his sweet time, still not trusting her fully. But that’s ok, had she been in his place, she too wouldn’t have trusted herself. 

It’s when she bows and murmurs a small prayer before Daya sir’s smiling and kind face that is adorned into a portrait that Samrat takes a notice of her, his head cocking to the side as he looks at her in question, his face calm and mellowed. 

Mishti swallows. “I – I knew him…Daya sir. He used to c-come to our orphanage. He used to keep my photo in his wallet.” She tells childishly.  And then in a hesitant voice asks, “C-Can I stay here?”

She doesn’t see as Samrat’s brows curl solemnly, his heart aching for the girl who stands in front of him, not surprised that the girl knew his father, she had grown up in an orphanage and her father had many under his name. 

Not mentioning the fact that he had always envied the girl who had been successful in making her way to his father's wallet, giving him a tough competition.

He used to hate the girl with pigtails.

The memory makes him chuckle because  now that he witnesses the same girl standing there all quiet, hesitant and pretty, his heart doesn't give him the permission to do that anymore.

Samrat doesn't think he'll able to dislike her ever again. Though he can't quite say anything about its opposite being true.

It’s only when Samrat pats on the empty spot beside him that Mishti looks up and finds a small smile on his face and understanding in his eyes. 

“Come, sit. I’m sure papa will be happy to see you here.”