Nandini Verma was 18 when she penned her first story, a tale of passion, betrayal, and revenge. It was a masterpiece, poised for publication. But on the night she was to share her brilliance with the world, tragedy struck. Her abusive father, a figu...
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After leaving that haunting house, I firmly forbade Yash, Rakshit, and Nitu from coming to my place, no matter how much they insisted. I needed time alone, time to process everything that had resurfaced. The house, the grave, the manuscript—I needed to sift through the memories that were now tied to my past.
Once home, I took a shower, trying to wash off the weight of the day. My mind, however, was restless, circling back to the things I’d collected from the safe. After drying off, I carefully laid out the pistol and finger claws on the table, setting them aside.
I turned my attention to the documents. Some were property papers, others related to identities—false ones, maybe. But what intrigued me most was the thick file that looked like a manuscript. As I opened it, I was hit with a shock I hadn’t anticipated.
It was about Asura.
The antagonist from my book. Yash . Yashwardhan Singhania .
My hands trembled slightly as I flipped through the pages. Suddenly, fragments of childhood memories rushed to the forefront of my mind—my mother used to tell me stories about him, about his life, his intelligence, and his brutal yet fascinating world. My inspiration for Asura had come from her, I realized now, and not just my imagination. No wonder the character had always felt so real, so raw. It was my mother's imagination.
But why had she written about him in so much detail? I kept reading, unable to put the manuscript down. It wasn’t just a vague idea for a story. It was his life—Asura’s rise to power, his methods in the underworld, even his childhood. I could feel my pulse quicken as I read about his ruthlessness, his powers, his motivations. My mother had written it all, and I had taken these stories and turned Asura into a villain in my teenage fear.
I sighed deeply, closing the manuscript for a moment, my mind spinning. My mother had always wanted to be like Asura, that much was clear. Her imagination had created this powerful being, and she had poured herself into these stories. But I, as a child, had been terrified of Asura. He had always scared me, which was why I had made him the antagonist in my story.
And now I realized how wrong I had been. Asura wasn’t meant to be a villain in her eyes—he was her creation, her symbol of strength. But my eighteen-year-old self hadn’t known better. I’d been scared, and I’d written the story out of fear.
I turned my attention to her diary which was attached with the file , reading about how she met my father, how he had supported her dream of becoming an author at first . Yet, the irony was too heavy to miss—my father had hated seeing me follow in her footsteps. It all made sense now.
As I flipped through the last pages, I noticed some old photographs of my mother. She looked so full of life, so happy, even though I knew she had suffered in silence. Yash’s face flashed in my mind—he had never known love like this. He had no parents, no childhood filled with love and care. And yet, here he was, alive because of my story, but as a tragic antagonist. The realization hit me hard. I had kept him alive in my words, but I had also destined him for pain.
