Chapter 10: A Show of Grief

I forced a smile and went out.

My lips trembled, but I managed a grin, nodding to relatives and strangers alike. The mask felt heavy, suffocating, but I wore it as my mother commanded.

It was my sister’s funeral, but it was the Sharma family’s main stage.

The banners bore their name, the priests chanted for their welfare, and the cameras clicked for their glory. My sister was barely mentioned, her story erased beneath layers of ritual and performance.

Everyone came to offer condolences to Sneha’s father, while Sneha bragged with her friends at the door.

Clusters of girls in shiny suits gathered around Sneha, their voices high and excited. She smiled, tossing her hair, basking in the attention her tragedy had bought her.

Her friends were amazed, asking in a flurry, “Did someone really die for you?”

They giggled, eyes wide, as if it were a scene from their favourite serial. “Sach mein, Sneha? Tumhare liye kisi ne jaan de di?”

Sneha pointed at my sister’s coffin, proudly saying, “Of course! If you don’t believe me, I’ll ask Papa to open the coffin and show you.”

Her voice was tinged with cruel pride. The coffin became her trophy, proof of her importance. The other girls shrank back, horrified yet fascinated.

The friends shrank back, frightened at the thought of seeing a corpse, and quickly said there was no need.

“Nahin, nahin, Sneha! Please, rehne do!” They backed away, giggles turning to nervous whispers, as the reality of death brushed too close to their manicured nails.

They sighed, saying Sneha was like the heroine of a TV serial, a princess with someone dying for her.

One girl clapped her hands, eyes wide with envy. “Waise toh sirf movies mein hota hai, par Sneha, tum toh asli heroine ho!” Their words fluttered around her like confetti, shallow and fleeting.

Sneha smiled especially happily, then added resentfully, “Papa gave her family two lakh rupees.”

Her lips twisted, a hint of bitterness creeping in. “Do lakh diye hain unko, ab bas.” It was as if the price of a life could be measured in cash, as easily as a new phone or a designer bag.

In those days, when the average monthly wage was only a few thousand, her friends gasped in astonishment.

“Do lakh? Arrey, kitni badi rakam hai!” They exchanged glances, awe and jealousy mingling in their eyes, already imagining what they could buy with so much money.