Chapter 11: The Cost of Survival

I wasn’t angry.

A strange calm settled over me. Their words bounced off, meaningless. I remembered what my mother had told me, and held my silence.

Because Mom said I had to smile.

I kept the mask on, my lips curving upward, even as my heart screamed inside. Smiling was the only weapon left to me.

Mom also told me never to forget this day.

I repeated the vow in my mind, each syllable a stone laid in the foundation of my resolve. I would remember, always, no matter what came next.

During the memorial, to maintain appearances, Sneha’s father had her be the first to offer flowers at the samadhi, telling her to thank my sister for saving her life.

The priests droned on, their voices blending with the drone of the air conditioners. Sneha’s father pushed her gently forward, placing a garland in her trembling hands. “Go on, beta. Say thank you.” His tone was soft, but his eyes brooked no refusal.

I knelt by the coffin, waiting for Sneha to approach. She reluctantly knelt down.

She moved as if in a trance, her dupatta slipping from her head. I could see the resentment in her eyes, the weight of the act she was forced to perform.

I heard her muttering, “Om Namah Shivaya, God is here, Om Namah Shivaya.”

Her lips barely moved, the words more for her own comfort than for my sister’s soul. It was a mantra of self-preservation, not gratitude.

She wasn’t praying for my sister.

Her prayers formed a wall, keeping guilt and grief at bay. My sister’s memory remained outside, unacknowledged, unimportant.

She was reminding the heavens that she was worshipping God, not my sister.

She wanted the world, and perhaps even the gods, to know that she was untouched, pure, untainted by the sacrifice made in her name.

My sister died, but received not a shred of respect from the Sharma family.

Her name was spoken only as a footnote, her story erased before it had even begun. The rituals were hollow, the words empty, the loss invisible.