Chapter 5: The Wild Child’s Secret Heart

Ananya was not what she appeared to be.

To the casual observer, my fourth sister was the rebel, the rule-breaker, the one who wore her sexuality like armour. She dressed in clothes that scandalized our conservative relatives ripped jeans that showed her knees, tops that revealed the curve of her waist, her hair dyed at the ends to match the auburn of autumn leaves. She laughed too loudly, argued too fiercely, and flirted with every man who crossed her path with a shamelessness that made our mother weep and our father rage.

But I had watched her. I had seen the way she retreated to her room after these displays, the way she sat before her mirror removing her makeup with hands that trembled slightly. I had noticed how she never actually brought boys home, how her “wild” stories of college life grew more elaborate the more questions were asked, how her eyes held a loneliness that her provocative clothing could not disguise.

Ananya was performing. And I was about to discover what lay beneath the mask.

It was three weeks after I had claimed Kavya. Three weeks during which the eldest sister had transformed from a reluctant participant to an eager initiatrix, teaching me things she had researched in secret, bringing books and videos to my room that made my eyes widen with possibilities. Three weeks during which the twins visited every weekend, turning our parents’ absences into marathon sessions of flesh and sweat that left us all exhausted and glowing.

But Ananya had been avoiding me. She had seen something, I realized the way Kavya touched my arm at breakfast, the secret smiles the twins gave me across the dinner table. She was perceptive, my wild sister, and she suspected that something had changed in the house. But she did not know if she was welcome in this new world, or if her performative sexuality had excluded her from the genuine intimacy her sisters had found.

I decided to show her that she was not only welcome she was essential.

It was a Thursday afternoon in late May, the heat outside reaching forty-five degrees, turning Jaipur into a furnace of sandstone and dust. Our parents were at the factory. Kavya was at her college. The twins were in the city. Ishani was at a friend’s house for a study session. Ananya was supposedly at her fashion design classes, but I had seen her motorcycle still in the garage, had heard the soft sound of sitar music drifting from her window.

She was skipping class. She was alone. And I was going to confront her.

I did not knock on her door. I had learned from my experiences with the twins that hesitation was the enemy of desire. I turned the handle and walked in, finding my sister lying on her bed in a tank top and shorts, her eyes closed, her headphones covering her ears.

She was beautiful in repose. Without the armour of her makeup and attitude, she looked younger, softer. Her face was turned toward the window, the harsh sunlight illuminating the fine down on her cheeks, the curve of her neck. One hand rested on her stomach, rising and falling with her breath, and I could see the outline of her breasts beneath the thin cotton, the dark circles of her nipples visible through the fabric.

I walked to the bed and gently removed her headphones. Her eyes flew open, startled, and for a moment I saw fear there genuine fear, not the theatrical surprise she usually performed for effect.

“Arjun!” She scrambled to sit up, pulling her knees to her chest in a defensive posture. “What the hell don’t you knock?”

“I used to,” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed, close enough that my thigh pressed against her folded legs. “But I’ve learned that doors are barriers we no longer need in this family.”

She looked at me sharply, her dark eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by that?”