Chapter 2: Night of Knives

Suddenly, several white Innovas barged into the Sharma bungalow’s driveway. A group of men jumped out, brandishing knives, and began slashing wildly.

The headlights cut through the night, throwing long shadows over the rangoli at the doorstep. The air shattered with shouts and the screech of tires. Metal gates clanged. I saw the white kurtas of the attackers, their faces hidden by handkerchiefs. The sharp glint of blades flashed under the fairy lights, turning the peaceful colony into a battlefield. Horns blared from the main road, but inside the compound, all I heard was the chaos of violence.

I was paralysed with fear.

My breath caught in my throat, my legs refusing to move. The world slowed, every second stretching as if in a nightmare. I could smell sweat and petrol, the acrid tang of fear mixing with the sweetness still on my tongue. My ears rang, but I couldn’t scream.

I heard Sneha Sharma screaming. I wanted to grab my sister and run, but I saw my father pulling Sneha out instead.

Sneha’s shrill cries cut through the night, echoing off the bungalow’s painted walls. I reached instinctively for my sister’s hand, but my father’s arm shot out, grabbing Sneha instead. In that instant, the invisible lines between us—the lines of class, loyalty, and sacrifice—became painfully clear.

He dragged us behind the door. Ignoring the freezing cold, he stripped off my sister’s and Sneha’s sweaters and put that designer lehenga on my sister.

We huddled together in the dark foyer. My father’s hands shook as he wrestled off the sweaters, his eyes darting between us and the chaos outside. He slipped the heavy, beaded lehenga over my sister’s head, fussing with the dupatta, making sure it covered her just so, as if her life depended on it—which, I realized with a cold chill, it did. The zari threads glinted in the dim light, a world away from the faded frock my sister had worn.

Just moments before, Sneha had been showing off this lehenga to us, boasting that my father’s entire year’s salary couldn’t buy it, and not even letting us touch it.

I remembered how she’d twirled in front of the mirror, pouting and preening, her voice laced with pride and cruelty. My sister had reached out once, just to touch the fabric, and Sneha had slapped her hand away, as if the touch itself was an insult.

I didn’t understand why he dressed my sister in such an expensive outfit. I was too young to make sense of it, but I instinctively held my sister tightly.

My heart pounded as I clutched her close, the rough embroidery scratching against my fingers. The world outside roared, but inside, all I felt was the desperate warmth of family—the urge to protect what little I could.