Chapter 3: Humiliation and Heartbreak

The day after, news of Mumbai’s golden boy kissing the Sharma family’s daughter exploded across the city. I saw Amma’s eyes silently turn red. Sometimes, I really wish she could speak, so she could curse people out with me.

The kitchen TV blared, replaying the same grainy footage. Even the chaiwala outside shook his head, muttering, "Yeh toh hadh ho gayi." Amma sat on the divan, shoulders trembling. I made lemon water, pressing it into her hands, but she just stared at the ice, lost. I sat beside her, biting back tears.

Since that night, Dad rarely came home. Then came the car accident, the memory loss, and suddenly Amma and I were forgotten. In the hospital, dirty words rained down on Amma. Dad was stone-faced.

People from the colony stared openly—the fish-seller’s daughter, thrown away by her rich husband. Aunties gossiped behind their hands. Amma walked faster, her grip on my hand sweaty. At home, she cried only when she thought I was asleep, muffling her sobs into her pillow.

Before, when Dadi called Amma a hen who couldn’t give a son, Dad flipped the dinner table and took us home. How could things be like this now? I wanted to cry. Dad and Amma were going to get divorced. I’d better stay with Amma. She can’t speak; she’ll be bullied.

I remembered Dad shouting, "I’d rather leave this house than let anyone insult my wife!" His voice had thundered, silencing everyone. Now, that hall was filled only with whispers and cold stares.

"Bhaiya Rohan." Priya took in all our shame. After watching long enough, she stepped in. Dad gave a faint "hmm."

Her voice was syrupy sweet. She perched at the edge of Dad’s bed, adjusting her dupatta with perfect poise. Dadi beamed, as if the real daughter-in-law had come home.

Second Chacha’s family arrived. Their spoiled son was carried in, flailing. He spotted the cake on the bedside table. "I want cake! I want cake!" It was the cake Dad bought for me yesterday. I brought it for him.

The smell of cheap bakery cream filled the room, mixing with antiseptic and Dadi’s lavender talc. The brat grabbed the box, sticky hands on the lid, his mother pretending not to see.

He went to grab the cake. I looked at Dad, pleading. He looked indifferent, raised a finger, and pinched his brow impatiently. "Let him eat it."

His words were sharp, final. I glanced at Amma, hoping for help, but she stared at her feet, toes curling in her old chappals.

I folded my arms in a huff. "I don’t want to. Dad, I hate you."

My voice cracked, but I stood tall. The Mehra family burst into laughter, voices bouncing off the walls. It felt like a hundred needles pricking my skin.

They all laughed, as if it was the best joke. "No one likes you anyway."

Priya chimed in, "This cake is dirty. Aunty will take you to buy a better one."

She flicked invisible dust from her sari, lips curled in a patronizing smile. The brat grinned at her, chocolate frosting on his teeth.

He raised his chin and said, "Okay." Then he smashed my cake on the ground, chin high. "Eat up, you trash dog."

For a second, I heard nothing—just the thud of my own heartbeat and the distant, relentless rain against the hospital glass. The cake splattered across the marble, cream and sponge mixing with dirt. I clenched my fists, hot tears burning my eyes.

It seemed the Mehra family never saw me. I was the fish-seller’s daughter—and a girl, at that. But this, I couldn’t take. I rushed over and slapped him. My hand flew before I could stop it—Amma would have scolded me, but I couldn’t let it go.

My palm stung, but I didn’t care. The room froze, all eyes on me. My heart pounded, but Amma’s silent, proud nod made me brave.

Second Chacha’s face turned dark, and he kicked at me. "You little witch."

His shoe missed by an inch. The adults screamed, voices shrill. For a second, I thought the house would collapse from the noise.

In the past, only Dad protected us. Now he’d forgotten. My body felt light, but the pain never came. Secretary Singh quickly lifted me and placed me in Amma’s arms. Dad’s voice came, angry but cold. "Noisy. Throw out the unrelated people."

Secretary Singh’s arms were steady, aftershave comforting. He murmured, "It’s okay, Pari beta," as he set me down. Amma hugged me tight, her heart beating fast against my cheek.

He meant me and Amma. Amma didn’t cry, just held my hand. When we got downstairs, we realized it was raining. Hateful weather.

The rain was relentless, drumming on the porch. I watched the city lights blur, as if Mumbai was crying with us. Amma held her dupatta over my head, shielding me. Our little blue umbrella flipped inside out, and for a moment, we laughed at its stubbornness.

But the storm outside was nothing compared to the one in our hearts.