Chapter 9: Cost of Belonging

I did not let the maid announce me, but went straight to Third Sister’s Jasmine Villa. Pushing open the door, I saw Third Sister, draped in a plain sari, gazing at a painting. In the painting, willows like mist, a figure in blue standing in the wind—only his back was shown, yet he exuded a noble air. It was Kunal, the man who recited poetry by the Yamuna that day.

The room was filled with a faint scent of jasmine, and the pale sunlight painted patterns on the floor. Sneha looked up, startled, her eyes rimmed with red.

"Third Sister…" I called softly. She hurriedly put away the scroll, panic flashing on her pale face. I looked at her thin face, unable to bear it, and said, "If you keep being ill, how can you recover?"

She tried to laugh, but the sound was brittle, more a sob than a giggle. I sat beside her, careful not to disturb the neat row of medicine bottles.

Third Sister laughed, a sound like ice shattering on marble. "In their eyes, delaying a wedding is the greatest sin." By ‘they,’ she meant Father and Mother.

Her voice was heavy with sarcasm, but I could see the hope she still nursed, however faint.

I said nothing, only remarked, "I heard Inspector Kunal will soon marry Princess Lakshmi."

I watched the words land. Sneha’s hand flew to her mouth, the scroll slipping from her grasp. She composed herself, but I saw her knuckles whiten, her fingers crushing a jasmine petal in her palm.

The scroll fell to the floor with a snap; Third Sister forced a cold smile. "Court matters have nothing to do with us girls."

Her words were true in a way, but also a shield for her bruised heart. I longed to tell her that we all carried such wounds.

I picked up the scroll. "Do you know why Papa did not marry you to the Kunal family?"

My question was gentle, but I wanted her to understand what lay beneath Father’s decisions.

"Isn’t it because the Kunal family is of humble origin, unworthy of the Cabinet Secretary’s daughter? We daughters are just goods waiting for a price—what does it matter whom we marry?"

Her bitterness filled the room, sharper than the medicine she drank. I reached out to touch her hand, but she pulled away.

Third Sister raised her head, like a noble scholar facing death. "Just report back: if I live to my wedding day, I will not disgrace the Kapoor family."

Her resignation made me ache, but I knew the futility of protest. The family’s honour always won.

I sighed. "You are wrong. Precisely because Papa knows Kunal is a pillar of the state, he cannot make this marriage. Kunal works at the Inspectorate; Papa is the Cabinet Secretary. If he allies with a close minister of the President, what will the President think? The consort has just borne a little prince; countless eyes are watching the Kapoor family. One misstep, and it is ruin."

I spoke as gently as I could, but the truth was hard. In our family, even love was weighed against the fate of a hundred relatives.

Third Sister suddenly coughed violently. "You all… cough cough… only see calculation. Is there any room for true feeling?"

Her coughs rattled in the silent room, echoing her broken hopes. I pressed a glass of water to her lips, blinking back tears of my own.

"Calculation?" I sneered. "You think Papa’s post was won by flattery? Last year, when the Ganga flooded, Papa donated half his fortune for disaster relief; this spring, during the northern drought, he argued to open the granaries. If he were not good at calculation, millions would have starved; if not for his weighing of interests, today it would be the Kapoor family that perished."

I could hear my voice rising, sounding older than my years. Sometimes, compassion and calculation are the same thing—a lesson I learned too soon.

I stepped closer. "The common life you speak of—do you mean being a market woman, haggling over three coins, or a farm wife, watching your child starve in a drought? The ghee you eat, the sandalwood cream you use—are they not the wealth Papa preserved through calculation? Without it, you would not even have plain dal and rice."

The words tumbled out, harsh but true. I saw the hurt in Sneha’s eyes and regretted my sharpness, but I could not unsay it.

Third Sister staggered back, her spine against the cold wall. I reached to wipe her tears, only to find my own cheeks wet. "We were born with the Kapoor family’s mark. Our love, even our lives, are lighter than a feather compared to the lives of three hundred Kapoor family members."

The truth of it pressed down on us both. I held her, our tears mingling, the weight of history too much for either of us to bear alone.

Third Sister slowly slid to the floor, her hairpin falling and striking the tiles with a crisp sound. I crouched down, gently hugging her trembling shoulders. We wept in each other’s arms, both knowing—this grief was for lives arranged long ago, and for the gratitude owed to the protection of a great family.

Outside, the birds sang as if nothing had changed. Inside, we mourned the cost of belonging.