Kabir Mehra
The bulletproof glass of the Tata Avantika muffled the roar of Delhi, but it couldn't silence the ringing in my ears.
Thirty-two.
I was thirty-two years old, and I was the Prime Minister of India.
I never wanted the crown. But when my father's heart gave out three months before the general election, the party needed a spotless face. They needed the brilliant, grieving pediatrician who had spent his twenties saving children in overcrowded public hospitals.
They needed the Mehra legacy.
So I traded my stethoscope for a mandate, my scrubs for crisp white kurta-pyjamas, and my soul for a political chessboard.
"Sir, we're two minutes from the residence," Anand, my Chief of Staff, informed me from the front seat without looking up from his tablet. "The Home Minister wants a briefing on the border security bill at six tomorrow morning. And Senior Mehra has requested a family meeting before the cabinet session."
"Tell my uncle I'll see him at breakfast," I replied, rubbing my temples. "Reschedule the Home Minister to six-thirty. I need thirty minutes to breathe."
"Of course, Prime Minister."
The gates of 7, Lok Kalyan Marg slowly opened.
SPG commandos saluted as my convoy entered.
To the world, I was an enigma—the youngest Prime Minister in India's history. A brooding bachelor. A man never seen with a woman. Someone fiercely protective of his private life.
My election affidavit listed only one dependent.
Kiara Mehra. Daughter.
No mother's name.
No photographs.
The media believed she lived in a boarding school somewhere in Switzerland.
They had no idea she was waiting inside, ready to tear me apart for being late.
---
Kiara Mehra
Six years old was old enough to know when someone broke a promise.
I sat on the marble floor of our private living quarters, arms folded tightly across my chest.
I was wearing Papa's oversized medical college hoodie. It reached my knees, but it was my favorite.
The clock read 10:45 PM.
He was late.
Again.
The heavy teak doors opened.
Papa walked in looking exhausted, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of an entire nation.
For one tiny second, I saw my Dadda.
Then the Prime Minister's mask returned.
"You're late," I declared, glaring at him. "Exactly one hour and fifteen minutes late, Mr. Prime Minister."
He sighed while loosening the top button of his kurta.
"Kiara, I told you not to wait up. Go to bed."
"No."
I stepped directly into his path despite being tiny compared to his six-foot frame.
"You promised we'd have dinner together. The chef made dal makhani. It's cold now."
"Then ask the staff to reheat it," he answered without meeting my eyes. "I have a nation to run, Kiara. I don't have time for tantrums."
"I'm not throwing a tantrum!"
My voice cracked.
"I'm hungry... and I wanted to eat with my Papa. Not the Prime Minister."
He froze.
Something painful flashed across his face before disappearing behind that familiar wall of ice.
"Sit down," he said quietly.
"I'll get the food."
---
Kabir Mehra
The moment those harsh words left my mouth, I hated myself.
But I couldn't afford to lower my guard.
Not around my family.
Not around the media.
Not around anyone.
If people started asking why a thirty-two-year-old bachelor Prime Minister had a six-year-old biological daughter, they would dig into my past.
They would find my medical college years.
They would uncover the desperate arrangement I made with a classmate to protect the truth I had buried for years.
I was gay.
In Indian politics, that truth could destroy everything my father built.
So I kept everyone at arm's length.
Even the little girl who meant more to me than my own life.
I returned from the kitchenette carrying a tray of food and placed it on the coffee table.
Keeping a careful distance, I tore a piece of roti, dipped it into the dal, and held it toward her.
"Eat."
Kiara glared at me before taking a dramatic bite from my fingers.
She chewed as if punishing the food.
"You need to eat too," she muttered. "You look like a ghost."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
She tore another piece of roti and pushed it toward my mouth.
"Eat. I don't want tomorrow's news saying the Prime Minister fainted because he's stubborn."
A smile threatened to escape.
I buried it before she noticed.
Automatically, the doctor inside me assessed her.
Healthy skin.
Normal breathing.
Slight dark circles.
Too many late nights.
"You're sleeping after nine every day," I said in my professional tone. "That affects your growth hormones. From tomorrow, lights out at eight-thirty. No exceptions."
She rolled her eyes dramatically.
"Yes, Doctor Prime Minister."
Kiara Mehra
Papa carried me to my bedroom.
His arms were warm.
Safe.
I pretended to be asleep.
But memories refused to stay quiet.
I remembered Mumbai.
Our tiny apartment that always smelled like antiseptic and lavender soap.
Back then he wasn't the Prime Minister.
He was just my Dadda
An exhausted resident doctor who came home at three in the morning, scooped me into bed, and laughed whenever I stole his stethoscope.
He smiled back then.
He kissed my forehead.
He told me I was his whole world.
Everything changed after Grandpa died.
Men in black suits started following us everywhere.
Dadda disappeared.
The Prime Minister took his place.
He tucked the blanket around me carefully.
His fingers gently brushed my hair away from my face.
"Goodnight, my Kiki," he whispered.
Before I could open my eyes, the warmth disappeared.
The door clicked shut.
---
Kabir Mehra
I stepped into the hallway and immediately found my uncle waiting.
"Ah, Kabir. You're finally back."
Devendra Mehra.
The party's chief strategist.
The man who reminded me every day that power always came with strings attached.
"Uncle," I greeted coldly. "It's nearly midnight. We agreed family discussions could wait until breakfast."
"This isn't family," he replied. "It's politics."
He stepped closer.
"The opposition has started whispering about your personal life again. A young, handsome Prime Minister with no girlfriends, no scandals, and no romantic history makes people curious."
"My record is clean."
"That isn't enough."
His eyes narrowed.
"The public wants a family man. We need a marriage announcement before the winter session. I've shortlisted daughters from several political families."
The walls around me suddenly felt suffocating.
Every single day I lived a lie.
Every day I buried who I truly was.
Every day I protected the little girl sleeping just a few doors away from becoming tomorrow's headline.
"I am the Prime Minister of this country," I said, my voice calm but razor-sharp. "I run the government. You run the campaign."
I stepped closer.
"Do not cross into my personal life again."
Without waiting for a response, I walked away.
I entered my private study and locked the door behind me.
Silence filled the room.
I sank into the leather chair and buried my face in my hands.
For several minutes, I simply sat there.
Then my thoughts drifted to Kiara.
She had waited for me.
Again.
She had fallen asleep hoping I'd stay.
With a tired sigh, I stood up.
The files could wait until morning.
The country could survive one night without me.
But my daughter deserved her father.
I quietly walked back to her room.
She was curled up beneath the duvet, hugging the old teddy bear I'd given her years ago.
Carefully, I lay down beside her without waking her.
Almost instantly, even in her sleep, she shuffled closer and wrapped her tiny arm around my waist.
A lump formed in my throat.
I kissed the top of her head.
"I'm sorry, Kiki," I whispered into the darkness.
Within minutes, for the first time in days, I —the Prime Minister of India—fell asleep beside my daughter.
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