Chapter 2: Priya Returns

Priya returned to India last month. Before that, nobody in Mumbai’s circles had much respect for my parents. Their story was just too odd: the golden boy of Mumbai’s high society chasing after a fishmonger’s daughter, making a scene that shook the city. Outsiders thought he was just fooling around. But shockingly, Dad kept at it for years—until he brought Amma into the family. Still, the sighs and gossip never stopped.

Every time I visited Dadi’s house, there were whispers in the kitchen—masalas being ground for Sunday chicken curry, gossip mixed in just as thick. Aunties would glance at me, then Amma, tut-tutting under their breath. Once, I heard someone say, "She’ll never fit in, poor thing. That too a mute—what will people say at weddings?"

I’d heard Priya’s name a hundred times from the elders. All of them said Dad should have married her and had a smart, beautiful child. Unlike me, the monkey of the family. In their eyes, Priya was a pari—stunning and perfect. Last time she visited, she really was dazzling.

Her return was like the first rain in May—sudden, and impossible to ignore. She swept into the bungalow in silk saris, her hair always flawless. When she entered a room, even the family cat seemed to stand at attention.

My mom is like a quiet champa flower; Priya is a rose—flamboyant, aggressive, contemptuous, and rude. After she came back, she visited; Dadi led her upstairs. She broke Amma’s favorite vase. I ran over—saw her do it on purpose. I shouted, "This is my home, get out!"

My voice shook, but my feet didn’t move from the cold tile. The blue pottery shards sparkled at my feet. Amma was behind me, silent but strong. Priya’s laugh rang sharp, bouncing off the high ceilings.

She crouched down, her smile never reaching her eyes. "Very soon, it won’t be."

Her dupatta fluttered as she leaned in, her perfume sickly sweet. Her confidence was unsettling—like she already owned everything.

Her tone was so sure. I didn’t understand. "What are you really here for?"

I tried to sound grown up, but my voice was small. Amma stood in the doorway, silent, her eyes burning with questions she couldn’t ask.

She whispered so only I could hear: "To steal your dad."

Her words were soft, but stung like a slap. I looked for any sign of kindness, but she was all sharpness and ambition. The silence between us was thick with secrets.

I didn’t believe her. Dad loved Amma so much, he would have given his life for her. They were affectionate—always hugging and holding hands. Amma’s clothes were plain, but Dad called her a goddess, even in an old cotton saree. No matter how busy, he never stayed out overnight.

Sometimes I’d watch from the staircase as they shared chai—his head in her lap, her fingers combing his hair, glass bangles chiming softly. Dad would look at her like she was the only woman alive. Nothing could come between them.

Priya patted my head. "Little trash bug, just watch. Tonight, your dad won’t want you anymore."

She swayed out, hips swinging. I called Dad on my smartwatch. He doted on me, laughing, "Tomorrow is your mom’s birthday. After work, I’ll start my vacation tonight."

His voice, warm and teasing, made me forget Priya’s shadow. I grinned, heart light. Amma smiled, eyes shining. We both believed him—how could he ever forget us?

I was relieved. Priya really was a strange witch. She asked if I knew what ‘white moonlight’ and ‘childhood sweetheart’ meant. I didn’t want to know. But that night, Dad didn’t come home. I called—no answer.

Rain came in sheets, drumming on our windows. Amma waited at the door long after the milkman’s last round, her shadow shrinking under the flickering tube light. I curled up in bed, watching my smartwatch light up and fade, hope slipping away each time. The silence was louder than the thunder outside.

Outside, the city was awake, but inside our house, everything had changed.