The whole village was buzzing with excitement. The Ganesh Puja was an annual tradition, and everyone poured their heart and soul into the preparations. It wasn't just a ritual; it was a celebration of our faith and unity.
The ancestors believed that the Puja had once saved the village from hardship, and since then, it had become an unshakeable part of our lives.
This year was no different. Tomorrow, the grand festivities would take place, and today, every corner of the village was alive with the sound of laughter, chatter, and the rustling of preparations.
In my house, the smell of fresh flowers filled the air. My garden, sprawling and full of vibrant marigolds, jasmines, and roses, was the pride of our home. It was my job to collect the best flowers for the Puja, and my best friend Sheela had come over to help me.
"Preeti, you're so lucky you have this garden," Sheela said as she threaded a garland of bright yellow marigolds. "Your flowers are always the best in the village. If I had a garden like this, I'd spend all my time in it!"
I smiled as I worked alongside her. "It's nothing special, Sheela. It's just a garden."
"Oh, stop being so modest," she teased, nudging me with her elbow.
The TV was on in the background, playing some news program. Neither of us was paying much attention until a familiar name caught Sheela's ears.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, dropping the flowers in her lap. "Preeti, look-it's him!"
I glanced at the screen. The anchor was talking about Rivaan Kapoor, the young and wildly successful billionaire who seemed to be everywhere these days.
"Who?" I asked absently, focusing on threading another garland.
"Rivaan Kapoor! The richest bachelor in the country!" Sheela practically squealed.
I rolled my eyes. "So what? He's just a man."
Sheela gasped, clutching her chest like I'd insulted her personally. "Just a man? Just a man?! Preeti, he's the man! Look at him!"
I sighed and glanced at the TV. A sharp-jawed, impeccably dressed man filled the screen, shaking hands with some international delegates. He looked serious, confident, and impossibly polished.
"See? Isn't he gorgeous?" Sheela pressed.
I shrugged. "I don't see what's so special. He's just a rich guy in a suit."
Sheela groaned dramatically. "You're impossible, Preeti. He's not just a rich guy. He's Rivaan Kapoor! The most eligible bachelor in the country. Every girl dreams of him!"
"Well, I'm not every girl," I replied, focusing back on the flowers.
Sheela huffed. "You're no fun. Don't tell me you've never thought about what it would be like to meet someone like him. Imagine! A life full of luxury, traveling the world, living in a mansion-"
"Sheela," I cut her off, laughing, "he's 30 years old. I'm 22. He's in some big city far away, running billion-dollar companies, and I'm here in this village, making garlands. Don't waste your time dreaming about someone like him."
"Fine, fine," she muttered, picking up her garland again. "But you can't stop me from dreaming. He's perfect."
I shook my head, amused by her obsession. But as I worked, I found my thoughts wandering.
What was his life like? Did he really live in a big mansion? Did people treat him differently because of his wealth? Did he ever feel lonely, despite having everything?
I glanced back at the TV. The segment on him was still going, showing clips of his latest business venture. He looked so confident, so sure of himself, like he had the entire world at his feet.
For a moment, something odd stirred in my chest. A strange mix of curiosity and... something else.
"Preeti," Sheela said suddenly, breaking my thoughts. "If you could meet him, what would you say?"
I shook my head, laughing softly. "Nothing. There's nothing to say. He doesn't even know we exist, Sheela."
She grinned mischievously. "Well, I exist, and who knows? Maybe one day, I'll be Mrs. Sheela Kapoor."
I laughed, shaking my head again. "Good luck with that."
But as the evening went on and we continued threading flowers, I couldn't quite shake the image of Rivaan Kapoor from my mind.
Rivaan's POV:
My life was a well-oiled machine. Every second meticulously planned, every move calculated.
The morning began like any other. I woke up to the sound of my alarm, the automated blinds revealing the sprawling skyline of Mumbai. My home was silent, save for the occasional hum of the city below.
"Mr. Kapoor," my secretary, Tanu, greeted me the moment I entered the office. Her efficiency was one of the few things I could rely on. She handed me a coffee-black, no sugar, just how I liked it.
"Today's schedule," she began, listing meetings, conference calls, and an interview with yet another business magazine that wanted to feature me as their cover story.
"Skip the interview," I said curtly.
She blinked, surprised. "But, sir, this is Forbes-"
"I said skip it, Tanu," I repeated, walking into my office and shutting the door behind me.
I sank into my chair, rubbing my temples. The world saw me as a billionaire, a leader, a man who had everything. But behind the tailored suits and polished image was a man suffocating under the weight of expectations.
I had always been the one to take responsibility. When my younger brother Dev decided to pursue law, it fell on me to run RK Groups, the company my father built from the ground up. I'd given up my dreams without hesitation. Photography-my one passion-was a distant memory now, buried under years of business deals and boardroom battles.
It wasn't that I resented Dev; he deserved to follow his dreams. But some part of me-buried deep-couldn't help but wonder: What if things had been different?
"Mr. Kapoor, the investors from London are on the line," Tanu's voice crackled through the intercom.
I straightened, pushing those thoughts aside. "Patch them through."
Work always came first. It had to.
---
Later that evening, I attended a charity gala. Events like these were a constant in my life, a stage where the rich and powerful gathered under the guise of philanthropy. I hated the pretense, but it was part of the job.
As I made my way through the crowd, exchanging polite smiles and firm handshakes, I couldn't help but notice the glances-the whispered admiration and envy.
"He's the youngest billionaire in India."
"Still single, can you believe it?"
"Every girl's dream man."
The words slid off me like water. I'd heard them all before. To most people, I was Rivaan Kapoor-the perfect, untouchable bachelor. But none of them really knew me.
By the time I returned to my home, the silence felt deafening. I think everyone went sleep as usual. I loosened my tie and poured myself a drink, staring out at the city lights.
Somewhere out there, millions of people lived ordinary lives, free from the expectations and scrutiny that came with my name.
What would it be like to live like that? To not be Rivaan Kapoor for just one day?
The thought lingered as I sipped my drink, the city stretching endlessly before me.
---
The next morning, as I skimmed through the headlines, a news segment caught my attention. It was about a small village preparing for their Ganesh Puja.
The camera panned over a young woman with long hair tied in a braid, her hands busy arranging flowers. She wasn't looking at the camera, her focus entirely on the task in front of her. Her simplicity stood out amidst the chaos of the busy marketplace.
"She's making garlands for the Ganesh Puja," the reporter explained. "This annual tradition is deeply rooted in the history of the village."
I don't know why I paused to watch. Maybe it was the contrast-the simplicity of her life against the chaos of mine.
Tanu's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Sir, your father is on the line."
I turned off the TV, setting the remote down with a sigh. "Put him through."
As always, my father's tone was sharp, direct. "Rivaan, we need to discuss the merger with Gupta Industries."
I nodded, already preparing myself for the hours of negotiations ahead. But as my father spoke, I couldn't help but think of the girl on the screen.
How different her life must be. No meetings, no deadlines, no boardroom politics. Just a simple life, untouched by the complications of wealth and power.
And for a fleeting moment, I envied her.
---
In my family, we didn't show emotions. We built legacies, made deals, and chased perfection. Feelings had no place at the dinner table or in the boardroom.
My father, Rajesh Kapoor, is a man of numbers and ambition. To him, life is a business transaction, and everyone has a role to play. He built RK Groups from scratch, and I can't deny the respect I hold for him. But admiration and affection are two different things.
Growing up, we weren't a family in the traditional sense. We were a corporation. My father made sure that my siblings and I understood the weight of our surname from a young age. Failure was not an option, and success was our birthright.
Dev, my younger brother, managed to escape the corporate web. He became a lawyer, something my father grudgingly accepted because it kept the family name in a position of prestige. Dev is everything I'm not-kind, approachable, and full of warmth. His easygoing nature sometimes feels like a slap to my face. How does he balance it all? The career, the family, the love?
His wife, Riya, is no different. Smart, sharp, and polished. She's Vice President of RK Groups, and she's damn good at her job. I respect her professionalism, but I've always felt like there's a line between us. She's a loyal wife to Dev and a doting mother to their daughter, Baani, but her ambitions sometimes remind me too much of my father.
Then there's Kritika, my youngest sibling. She's our family's wild card-a budding actress with a zest for life that borders on recklessness. Kritika often jokes that she's the "fun Kapoor," and sometimes, I think she's right. She's the only one who doesn't seem to carry the weight of our family's expectations.
And then there's my mother, Manvi.
My relationship with her is... complicated. She's beautiful, poised, and cold as ice. I don't remember her ever holding me as a child or asking about my dreams. To her, I've always been the heir to RK Groups-the son who must carry the family's legacy forward.
But if there's one person who's ever truly cared for me, it's my dadi, Parvati Kapoor.
Dadi is the heart of this family, even if my mother and father pretend otherwise. She's the only one who's ever looked beyond my title and seen me as a person. Her presence brings a warmth to our home that no amount of luxury can replicate. She lives in the village now, far from the chaos of Mumbai, but she still holds sway over the family's decisions.
---
Last week, we sat down for dinner-a rare occurrence, considering how busy we all were.
"Rivaan," my father began, his tone as commanding as ever. "We need to finalize the Singapore deal next week. You'll lead the negotiations."
I nodded, cutting into my steak. "Already prepared for it."
Dev glanced at me, his usual look of concern flashing in his eyes. "Don't push yourself too hard, bhai. You've been working non-stop."
"I'm fine," I replied curtly.
"Maybe Rivaan likes being a workaholic," Kritika teased, smirking. "Besides, who else is going to keep this family afloat?"
"Enough," my father interrupted, his voice sharp. Kritika rolled her eyes but stayed quiet.
"Rivaan, don't forget the investors' dinner on Friday," my mother added, her tone clipped. "Your presence is expected."
I nodded again, the weight of their expectations settling over me like a second skin.
As the conversation shifted to other topics, I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was Baani, Dev's four-year-old daughter, her big brown eyes staring up at me.
"Chachu," she whispered, "can we play after dinner?"
Her innocence was a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere at the table. I nodded, giving her a small smile. "Of course, Baani."
"Play?" Kritika chimed in, her eyebrows raised. "Bhai, don't tell me you're actually going to crawl around on the floor like a kid."
"If it makes Baani happy," I replied, my tone softening.
"See?" Dev said, nudging Riya. "Rivaan does have a heart."
The table chuckled, but I stayed silent.
---
Later that night, as I sat in my study, I thought about my family.
We were a complex web of ambitions, expectations, and unspoken emotions. Dev and Kritika had managed to carve out pieces of happiness for themselves, but I was still caught in the machine my father built.
Dadi often said I carried too much on my shoulders, that I needed to let someone in. But letting someone in meant risking everything-my control, my composure, my carefully constructed world.
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