Chapter 7: Broken Promises

I don’t know how long I cried. Then I heard Sneha’s father’s voice outside.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, accompanied by the low rumble of conversation. I wiped my eyes and listened, curiosity battling with grief.

He spoke gently, “Beta, how could Papa let you marry that poor boy? Your uncle made great contributions. Papa is just putting on a show for everyone.”

His tone was oily, full of false warmth. I imagined him patting Sneha’s shoulder, coaxing her to play along, reassuring her that her world would remain untouched by our tragedy.

Sneha sobbed, “How long do we have to keep acting? What if they don’t agree?”

Her voice trembled, thick with tears and confusion. She wanted reassurance that the lines between us would never truly blur.

Her father laughed, “There’s a country called America, the greatest in the world. When Papa earns enough, our whole family will move there. Even if they don’t agree, it won’t matter. By then, you’ll already be an American.”

His laugh echoed in the tiled corridor. “Wahan sab kuch naya hoga, beti. Yeh sab choti-moti baatein peeche reh jaayengi.” The dream of escape hung in the air, glimmering and hollow.

I hid in the bathroom stall, grinding my teeth.

Rage simmered inside me, hot and poisonous. I pressed my palm to my mouth to keep from sobbing out loud, my teeth biting down until I tasted blood. All the while, their words looped in my head: America, future, show, servant.

My dad was in the banquet hall, drinking and dreaming of a glorious future.

I imagined him surrounded by men in suits, laughing at jokes he didn’t understand, raising glasses of whisky to a future paved with other people’s suffering. He had already traded everything for the Sharmas’ acceptance.

But he didn’t know that, in the Sharma family’s eyes, we really were just servants.

No matter how many times he bowed or thanked them, no matter how many sacrifices he made, our place was already set—below their feet, forever looking up.