Chapter 3: Breaking the Silence

I forced down my anger, turned, and gently patted Sneha’s hand. “Sneha, tum ghar chali jao, ya bahar dinner pe chale jao, koi achhi movie dekh lo. Yahan aaj hungama hoga. Mujhe nahi chahiye tum pareshaan ho.”

Sneha’s eyes brimmed with worry. She squeezed my hand, silently asking if I was sure. She hesitated, glancing at the door, her fingers still nervously twisting her dupatta.

Before she could answer, my cousin’s wife let out a shrill, mocking laugh. “Arey wah, dekho Rohan ki precious girlfriend—do lafz bhi sun nahi sakti. Kya naseeb hai, hum toh compare bhi nahi kar sakte!”

She rolled her eyes, lips curled in a sneer, her daughters giggling like it was the schoolyard. Sneha’s head dipped lower, hands folding tight in her lap, the colour rising in her cheeks.

A flash of shame and anger from my school days burned in my mind—those times I’d been mocked for being ‘too sensitive’, for never fighting back.

I replied, calm and clear, holding her gaze. “Haan, sahi kaha aapne—woh precious hai. Woh bardaasht nahi karti jab usse bura bola jata hai, na hi main bardaasht karta hoon. Koi bhi ho, kitna bhi rishta ho, agar kisi ne usse galat kaha toh main chup nahi rahunga.”

A hush fell. An aunty murmured, “Waah, nowadays boys are standing up for their wives.” A cousin hid a grin, quickly texting about the drama in the family WhatsApp group.

I picked up the steel bottle opener and tossed it onto the table. The clang echoed, sharp as a temple bell. The opener shattered a plate, and the room froze.

Everyone jumped. The cook ducked back inside. Maybe they’d never seen me angry. My cousin’s wife’s eyes darted away, lips pressed tight. Her daughters shrank into their seats, silent now. Sneha slipped out quietly, pausing at the door to look back, her eyes full of concern.

But my uncle thundered at my dad. “Bhaiya, is this how you raised him? Your brother and papa ji are here, and he’s smashing things! Is this how an unfilial, unruly junior acts? If you won’t discipline him, I will!”

Oh, so when Amit curses and slams tables, you’re blind, but when I toss a bottle opener, you want to come down hard?

Always one rule for them, another for us. My jaw clenched, injustice boiling over. You want to discipline me? Fine, let’s go.

I sat up straight, voice ringing out. “Uncle, you’re the most filial, right? When Dadi was sick, you didn’t care. When she died, you grabbed her gold ring first. For years, you haven’t paid a paisa for Dadaji’s bills. My dad gives him ₹8,000 a month—you quietly take ₹7,500. Not paying is one thing—when Dadaji had a fever, you didn’t even cook him a meal. You nearly starved your own father. You’re so filial—who here can compare?”

The words were cold, just facts. Uncle’s face went green. He opened his mouth, then shut it, caught out. Relatives whispered, “Hai Ram!” Aunty nudged another, “Sab jaante hain, bas koi bolta nahi.”

“Enough! You little rascal!”

Uncle’s voice cracked with fear and rage. Amid the commotion, Dadaji slammed his cane, rising tall. He picked it up, eyes wide with fury. “Ill-mannered little rascal! How dare you talk to your uncle! It’s right for your dad to be filial and give me money—I’m his father! I can give it to whoever I want. What right do you have to criticise? Just because you gave a little, you think you can slander your uncle? You’re gutless!”

He shook his cane, voice trembling. “Zamana bigad gaya hai!”

Fine. Uncle is his precious son, and I’m just the little rascal my dad raised. My family pays the money... But today, I’m done being silent.