Chapter 9: Violence at Home

Harish Bhaiya had a fight with the landlord, came home furious, and shouted with the door wide open, “Agreed to no rent increase for ten years, but now after just three years they want to double it, yaar!”

His voice echoed down the corridor, waking up babies and making the aunties peek through their half-open doors. He stormed in, tossing his helmet on the table, face red with anger.

“Calm down, honey, you have skills, you can make money anywhere.” Meera poured a glass of water, just brought it to Harish Bhaiya, and he threw it aside.

She tried to soothe him, voice soft as always. But he knocked the glass away, water spilling on the floor, the sound sharp and final.

“Bloody hell! I’m never renting again. I’ll be a landlord myself! Bring me our savings, I’m going to buy a shop right now—let’s see who dares mess with us!”

He paced the room, muttering curses, dreams of owning his own place firing him up. For men like Harish Bhaiya, owning property was the only way to be truly respected.

Meera didn’t move.

She stood frozen, head bowed, eyes on the stained floor.

“Go!”

His voice was a whip, cracking through the air. The sound of his anger made the neighbours flinch.

Meera closed the door, and soon after, the sound of things being smashed could be faintly heard.

There was a crash—a plate, maybe a glass. A low sob. I crouched by the wall, heart pounding. I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t turn away.

I couldn’t help but peek through the wall hole and saw Harish Bhaiya pinning Meera to the ground, slapping her.

His hand was raised, coming down again and again. Meera’s hair was everywhere, her face twisted in pain. It was brutal, ugly, the kind of violence that happens behind closed doors all across the country, but is never spoken of.

“Wretch! Where’s the money? I spent money to redeem you from the kotha—where’s the money?”

His voice cracked, years of resentment pouring out. The word ‘kotha’ was a slap all on its own, a reminder that in this world, a woman’s past can never be buried.

Meera’s hair was a mess; she didn’t dare fight back. Harish Bhaiya picked up the kitchen knife next to him and pressed it to her neck.

The knife gleamed in the dim light, a silent threat. Meera’s eyes widened, but she didn’t scream.

One slash!

The blade flashed, cutting through the air. Meera shrieked, but the knife missed, burying itself in the mattress.

Meera cried out, frozen in place like she was electrocuted. The knife hit the bed, missing her.

She collapsed, shaking, urine spreading in a dark stain on her tights. The room was thick with fear and humiliation.

A few seconds later, a stream of liquid flowed from Meera’s thigh.

The smell of ammonia filled the air. Meera curled up, sobbing, her body racked with silent convulsions.

Harish Bhaiya raised the knife again.

His arm trembled, the knife poised for another blow. For a moment, I thought he would actually do it.

I was scared stiff, quickly retreated to my room, turned on the computer, and started gaming. I was trembling all over, the screen shaking with me, thinking about how I’d rented a place where someone was getting hacked just next door—I almost admired myself.

My fingers shook so badly I could barely click the mouse. My mind raced: Should I call the police? Should I run? In the end, I did nothing—just lost myself in the blinking lights of the game, trying to drown out the world.

“Ah!” I vaguely heard Meera cry out, and then there was no more sound.

The silence that followed was heavier than any scream. I sat motionless, afraid to even breathe.

Time ticked by. I didn’t dare move or breathe; the surroundings were as silent as a graveyard.

It was as if the whole building was holding its breath, waiting for someone to break the spell.