Chapter 2: The Family Tribunal

My heart clenched as I heard my husband’s elder brother: "Mummy, bas karo na. Where’s Neha?"

I pictured Rajeev’s worried face, always trying to be the peacemaker, even when there was nothing left to salvage.

Mother-in-law sobbed, her voice full of grievance: "I know Neha doesn’t like fatty meat, so I bought chicken breast just for her. Got up at four in the morning, rolled wrappers by hand, chopped the filling, wrapped each momo myself. After all that, my hands frozen, I didn’t even eat breakfast. But she didn’t eat a single one—just threw them away! What did I do wrong? Why does she hate me so much? Even if I’ve offended her, what did the momos do to deserve this?"

Each word landed like a slap, especially the part about her waking up at four. The guilt stuck in my throat—her shuffling in the kitchen before sunrise, hands red and rough, sacrificing sleep for her thankless bahu. The drama was real, but so was the sting.

Big brother sounded genuinely distressed: "Don’t be upset, Mummy. Where’s Neha? I’ll talk to her."

In Indian families, siding with your wife is a risky move. I wondered if Rajeev would try, or just join the chorus.

Before mother-in-law could answer, little sister-in-law’s voice rang out: "Neha, bahar aa na! Batao sabke saamne, kyun kiya aisa?"

Ritu’s voice cut through the flat—sharp, insistent, full-on drama. I pictured her with her hand on her hip, eyebrows drawn in fury, chin jutting forward.

Big brother scolded: "How can you call your bhabhi by name?"

There’s always someone insisting on proper titles, even in a brawl.

"Arrey!" Ritu snapped. "Does she even deserve to be called bhabhi? My mother’s never been bullied like this. She thinks she can do anything! Neha, aa jao!"

You could hear the head-nodding, the rolling of eyes. The tension dialled up a notch.

Her footsteps stormed toward the kitchen—chappals slapping against the floor, making my skin prickle. Her shadow loomed closer, the kitchen shrinking around me.

Her husband tried to pull her back: "Yaar, relax. We’re here to sort things out, not to fight."

Poor fellow, always the peacemaker, caught between two tempests.

Bhabhi tried too: "Neha is busy in the kitchen, let her come out on her own."

There’s always that one sensible voice—soft, polite, and destined to be ignored.

Ritu raised her voice, eyes flashing: "Busy with what? My mother does everything—cooks, cleans, takes care of the house—what’s Neha busy with? She should come out and apologise!"

Her cheeks reddened, her voice rising like a pressure cooker about to blow.

Big brother snapped: "That’s enough from you!"

He slapped his palm on the table. The thud made even the neighbour’s dog bark.

Ritu shot back: "Why shouldn’t I speak? She bullies my mother, and I’m supposed to treat her like some devi?"

Her words were trembling with self-righteousness, the air thick with old resentments.

"Even if she’s wrong, she’s your bhabhi. If there’s a problem, wait for second brother to come home and sort it."

A heavy silence fell, broken only by a glass clinking somewhere.

Ritu sneered: "You really think Arjun will protect Mumma? He’s totally joru ka ghulam. If he cared, would he let Neha walk all over her?"

She spat out ‘joru ka ghulam’ with relish, the phrase hanging heavy in the room.

"Enough," big brother said. "Everyone sit. I’ll call Neha out."

He raised his hand like a schoolteacher. No one moved.

Big brother came into the kitchen and called to me: "Neha, come out and explain why you threw the momos in the bin."

His face was grim, voice flat, like a principal about to scold a student.

If it’s a blessing, it’s not a problem; if it’s a problem, you can’t avoid it. Since I was caught, I could only face it.

I thought of my mother’s words—‘Bas chup raho, beta, sab theek ho jayega.’ But that memory offered no comfort now. I straightened my kurta, tucked my hair, wiped my hands on my apron. My palms were sweaty, my heart pounding. I braced myself and stepped into the living room.

The smell of agarbatti mixed with the sweat of too many people in too small a space. Someone’s phone blared a Bhojpuri ringtone before being hastily silenced. My hands shook as I poured the chutney, almost dropping the bowl. My eyes met everyone else’s—TV on, ceiling fan spinning, Ritu arms crossed, eyes blazing. Even Bhabhi looked uncomfortable, adjusting her dupatta, glancing down at her feet as if she wanted to say something but stayed silent.

Ritu jabbed her finger at me, bangles jangling. "Neha, batao, what has my mother ever done to you?

"You were pampered at your parents’ house, can’t even cook.

"Second brother’s job is special, he’s never home.

"My mother felt sorry for you, so she’s lived here ever since you married in.

"She cooks, sweeps, mops, washes your clothes—she even washes your undergarments!

"She practically worships you!

"Isn’t that enough? What right do you have to humiliate her like this?"

Each line hit harder than the last. I clutched my dupatta, looking at the floor, wishing I could melt away.