Passionate Obsession

Aurora in a Foreign House

A new dawn had begun on earth. Yet today’s dawn felt different. No birdsong, no soft morning sun sneaking through the glass window, no magical rays of light and shadow—nor even Anu’s usual loud morning voice.

Only the shrill alarm of a phone at 9:00 a.m. kept ringing, and Aurora lay on her back staring blankly at the white ceiling. The alarm failed to wake her; her sleepless night had done its damage. On the opposite side of the planet it was evening in Bangladesh, the time difference making her restless. Add to that last night’s incident—without warning she had walked straight into a lion’s den. Even thinking of it now made her spine crawl.

By 9:35 a.m., Anu had already left for the hospital. She said it was urgent work. Anu, though young, carried a maturity beyond her years, the kind that comes when life keeps knocking on your door too often.

Aurora was still lying in bed when an unfamiliar male voice echoed from downstairs:

“JK! J-K! I know you’re in your room—come down right now, or I’ll come up myself. It’s important!”

Aurora rose, walked to the corridor and called down, steadying her voice:

“No one named JK lives here. You must be mistaken…”

Her words froze mid-air. Kritikh had stepped out from the next room—tall, double Aurora’s height, pale skin with rough stubble, long hair brushing his forehead, and eyes that seemed both distant and cutting. To Aurora he looked almost like a Greek god at first glance.

“Go back to your room,” his low, commanding voice cut through her thoughts.

“What?” Aurora blinked.

“I said go back to your room.”

She protested, “Why should I? That man downstairs is yelling your name!”

Kritikh’s tone hardened: “I told you—go to your room.”

For a moment Aurora felt she had been transported back eight years, standing again before the same Kritikh. But her rebellious mind snapped: Why should I be afraid? I’m not a child. She stood her ground—until another man appeared downstairs.

Sair Ahmed, broad-shouldered and loud, burst into view complaining about JK hacking his password, calling him a vampire, demanding answers. Kritikh stepped in front of Aurora like a wall, gripping her wrist tightly so she couldn’t retreat. When Sair finally noticed the small girl behind Kritikh, he froze. Aurora stood there with her hair in two long braids, cheeks flushed red with anger, her eyes locked on Sair’s.

Kritikh shoved Aurora back into the room and slammed the door. She stumbled, bruising her elbow. Blood oozed down, staining her T-shirt. She washed the wound in the bathroom, bandaged herself silently and decided she would heal her own injuries from now on—no complaints to Anu.

Downstairs, Sair sprawled on the couch scrolling his phone while Kritikh played a video game. Their conversation turned dark—about Alisa’s father getting out of prison, about threats circling their lives. Kritikh muttered under his breath, “If he dares to touch, I’ll kill him.” Sair blinked, stunned.

By noon Aurora was dizzy with hunger. She peeked out carefully; Sair, now wearing an apron, called up cheerfully, “Hey wild-haired girl, lunch is ready.” She descended to find Kritikh eating in silence and Sair offering her a plate of greens, steak, and mashed potatoes. Aurora scowled—no rice, no lentils, no curry. So she marched into the kitchen and, with a few ingredients she found, cooked khichuri. The aroma filled the house.

Sair’s eyes lit up. “Bangla food—after so long!” he exclaimed. Aurora served him a plate; he was thrilled. But Kritikh rose, towering over her. “I hate Bengali food. Don’t ever cook this here again,” he warned sharply.

Aurora fired back, “But aren’t you Bengali yourself—from a political family?”

In an instant Kritikh’s hand seized a silver knife from the table and pressed it against her neck.

“My rules. You obey me. No backtalk,” his eyes glinted.

Sair jumped but Kritikh gestured for him to stay back. With icy words, Kritikh threatened her then stormed off upstairs, slamming his door. Tears streamed down Aurora’s face. She ran to the balcony, shaking with humiliation.

Later Sair tried to comfort her but she refused his handkerchief. Evening fell; Sair left, urging Kritikh not to hurt “the sweet little girl.” Kritikh only gave a strange smile and said softly, “Who hurts their own heartbeat?”

When Anu finally came back from the hospital she found Aurora on the cold balcony, face pale and lips blue. She pulled her inside anxiously. The sisters talked quietly about their mother, about the hospital, about their strange new life here.

Then the doorbell rang. Several food packages arrived downstairs—biriyani perhaps. Anu thought it was a welcome gift from the company. Aurora, still hungry, sat down to eat happily, unaware of the storms gathering around her in this foreign house.