:- True story of a girl who shifted to Mumbai and changed her perspective towards life. Used her family to learn how to dominate and ruin the family and lives happiness.
After completing my studies in Jaipur, I moved to Mumbai to start a private job. Mumbai was a city of opportunities, challenges, and independence—a world unlike the one I had known. It taught me resilience, resourcefulness, and, most importantly, how to stand on my own. But with independence came distance—from my family, my roots, and the values I once held close.
As the pandemic unfolded, isolation became my reality, and with it came a sense of self-sufficiency that turned into stubbornness. I started believing I could rewrite the dynamics of my relationships, molding them to fit my newfound ideals. The thought of building my own version of "family" consumed me, even if it meant dismantling the one I had.
My mother became my first ally. Convincing her to see things from my perspective wasn’t difficult—my father, always busy with work and later with his illness, had left emotional gaps I could exploit. I brought her to Mumbai several times, and over the months, I subtly rewired her thinking. She began to see me not just as her daughter but as her guide and protector. Eventually, I convinced her to file for divorce from my father—a man who, at 62, was battling not just illness but a cascade of emotional shocks.
The divorce papers were drafted with the help of a friend who was a lawyer. Filled with false accusations, they were designed to sever ties irreparably. My mother changed her number and cut off all communication with my father. He, ever trusting and emotionally fragile, was left to grapple with this betrayal alone in Noida. Watching him crumble from afar gave me a twisted sense of power.
My brothers were next. The younger one, struggling academically and professionally, saw me as his saviour. I helped him find small jobs in Mumbai, pulling him closer to my orbit. The elder one was more challenging—his bond with our father was strong. I worked quietly, planting seeds of doubt and resentment. Eventually, he too turned his back on our father, pushing him out when he came seeking solace.
It wasn’t difficult. My father’s love for me had always been unconditional, his trust unwavering. That made it all the easier to manipulate him and the family he had worked so hard to hold together.
Now, as I sit in Mumbai, reflecting on the chaos I’ve sown, I feel an unsettling mix of satisfaction and emptiness. My father doesn’t know where I live or how I orchestrated this estrangement. I imagine him alone, staring at the divorce notice, burdened by the weight of falsehoods and shattered expectations.
I know he cries. I know he wonders where he went wrong. And I know he may not survive the heartbreak. Yet, I feel no remorse—only a cold determination to perfect the art of control. This city has taught me well. Mumbai gave me the tools, and I used them to dismantle the very foundations of trust and love that my family once stood on.
Perhaps one day, I’ll look back and feel the enormity of what I’ve done. But for now, I march forward, carrying the lessons of this city—lessons that shaped me, for better or for worse.
