To defeat a monster, I realized I had to stop being one.
For years, my anger had been my shield, but it had only served to make me the villain in my parents' eyes. Every time I fought for my rights, I looked selfish. Every time I shouted, I looked bitter. I was playing the game by their rules, and I was losing.
So, I decided to change the game.
I decided to kill 'Viraaj'—the proud, stubborn prince—and replace him with a martyr. I started practicing the most dangerous weapon in human psychology: Total Submission.
I began taking responsibility for things I hadn't even done. If a vase broke, I was the first to apologize. If dinner was late, I was the one offering to help. I became the "responsible" son, the one who bowed his head and accepted every criticism with a humble smile.
The shift in my parents' eyes was almost instantaneous. They were confused at first, but slowly, the suspicion turned into warmth. They started seeing me not as a problem, but as a young man who had "finally grown up."
But the real masterstroke was how I handled Meera.
Now, when she made a mistake, I didn't point fingers. I did the opposite. I took the blame for her. If she spilled juice on the rug, I would rush to clean it before my father could see. "It's okay, Papa, it was my fault. I should have been more careful," I would say, my voice dripping with fake sincerity.
I watched as my parents looked at me with newfound respect. Look at Viraaj, their eyes said. He is being so big-hearted toward his niece.
I was reclaiming my territory without firing a single shot. I was stealing back my parents' hearts by pretending I didn't want them. My confidence began to soar. For the first time in years, I felt like the King again, but this time, I was a King hidden behind a servant's mask.
And Meera? I could see the cracks in her composure. She wasn't smiling that tiny, arrogant smirk anymore. She was fuming. She saw exactly what I was doing. She watched me "protect" her and "sacrifice" for her, and it drove her mad. She realized that by being "perfect," I was making her look "ordinary."
The power was shifting. I was suffocating her with my kindness. I was winning. I had crushed my own ego into the dust just so I could bury hers underneath it.
But then, the air in the house changed. The "Angel" was cornered, and a cornered predator is the most dangerous kind. She realized that her tears wouldn't work against my "saintly" image anymore.
She knew she had to raise the stakes. If she couldn't make me look like a villain by being good, she would have to make me look like a monster by being 'hurt I was winning back the territory, but I hadn't conquered the hearts.
My parents had started to respect me, yes. They saw me as 'responsible' and 'mature.' But the deep, magnetic attraction they felt for Meera was like a hypnotic spell I couldn't break. No matter how many chores I did or how many apologies I offered, their eyes still sought her out first. She was the sun, and I was merely a reliable satellite.
Meera saw the shift. She saw the ground beneath her feet trembling, and she decided to dig her claws in deeper.
She began a campaign of Passive Aggressive Torture. She would wait until I was watching, and then she would take something of mine—a pen, a book, a souvenir—and slowly, deliberately, break it or "lose" it. She would flaunt the extra money my father gave her right in my face, counting the notes with a slow, rhythmic snap. She was daring me to explode. She wanted the "Old Viraaj" back—the angry, shouting boy that my parents hated.
Every time she pushed, I felt a roar of fire in my throat. My vision would blur with pure, murderous rage. But I would take a breath, count to ten, and put on the mask.
"It's okay, she's just a child," I would tell my parents with a calm, saintly smile, even as my fingernails dug crescents of blood into my palms.
But the rage had to go somewhere.
Late at night, behind the locked door of my room, the 'Saint' died. I would fall upon my bed, grabbing my pillows and punching them until my knuckles throbbed. I ripped the fabric with my teeth, tearing at the stuffing as if I were tearing at her throat. I was a wild animal in a cage of my own making.
Within weeks, three of my pillows were decimated—shredded into lumps of cotton and torn cloth.
One morning, my mother found the remnants of a pillowcase under my bed. "Viraaj, look at this!" she exclaimed, holding up the tattered fabric. "There must be rats in this house. Huge ones. Look at how they've gnawed through this. I need to get some poison."
I stood there, looking at the "gnawed" fabric, and felt a dark, twisted urge to laugh.
"Yes, Maa," I said, my voice steady. "The rats are everywhere. They're smart, they're hidden, and they're destroying everything we own from the inside out."
She didn't get the metaphor. She didn't realize that the "Rat" wasn't under the bed; the Rat was sitting in the living room, eating chocolate and watching cartoons. And the other "Rat" was standing right in front of her, losing his mind in silence.
I realized I couldn't keep this up. The pillow-punching wouldn't be enough for long. My anger was becoming a physical weight, a poison in my blood. If I didn't find a way to trap her soon, I wouldn't just be tearing pillows. I would be tearing the whole house down.
I needed a plan. Not a reaction, but a trap. A trap so subtle that she would walk into it thinking it was her own victory.