Chapter 3: Sacrifice

Dad picked up Sneha, then grabbed my hand and started running.

He didn’t look back, his grip iron-tight around my wrist. The echo of his sandals against the marble floor sounded like a drumbeat. Sneha’s sobs mixed with my sister’s whimpers as we burst into the night, dodging the shadows of violence still swirling in the driveway.

My sister tried to follow, but Dad’s foot nudged her forward, urgent and trembling, as if every second counted. My sister stumbled, her tiny hands clutching the heavy lehenga, confusion clouding her face.

The chaos outside was deafening, but my father suddenly shouted, “I found the Sharma family’s daughter!”

His voice rang out, desperate and triumphant, as if he’d won a prize. In that moment, the world seemed to pause—every face turning towards us, every weapon stilled for a heartbeat.

My sister sat there, holding her jalebi. That small, lonely figure became my last memory of her.

She looked so tiny, dwarfed by the grand lehenga, her sticky fingers gripping the misshapen sweet. Firecrackers boomed somewhere far away, mocking the silence that had fallen between us forever.

I still remember she was hurt from the fall. She obediently blew on her scraped knee and reached out, wanting me to hold her.

A tear traced a path down her dust-smudged cheek. Even as blood welled on her knee, she didn’t cry—just looked at me, trusting, reaching out her little hand as if nothing had changed. As if I could fix everything, like I always did.

I cried and screamed, trying to grab her hand, but I could only watch as she faded further and further away.

My voice broke in the night, ragged and useless. Someone held me back—my father, maybe, or a stranger in the chaos. My hand stretched, fingers clawing at the air, but she was already slipping into the crowd, swallowed up by the noise and fear.