Chapter 5: Sneha Aunty’s Fury

The media was full of news about Amma and Dad’s divorce. Amma’s best friend, Sneha, was on a business trip in Pune. When she saw the trending topic, she rushed over. They spent the day in the living room, cursing Dad.

Sneha Aunty barged in, hair flying, suitcase still in hand. She poured out two cutting chais, sliding one across the table, her bangles clinking in solidarity. The aroma of biryani and incense mixed in our flat. She made herself comfortable, voice rising above the TV.

"How did Rohan Mehra promise me?" She shook her head, slapping her palm on the table. "That man swore he’d treat you like a queen. Now look!"

"Men with ‘white moonlight’ can never be trusted. They look decent but act worse than animals."

Her words made Amma smile, the first real one in days. Even without words, Amma’s middle finger said everything.

"No man in this world is reliable. I’m so angry. Where’s Rohan Mehra? I’ll kill him."

Sneha Aunty grabbed Amma’s dupatta in mock outrage. The two women laughed, and for a second, I believed things could get better.

Amma puffed out her cheeks and raised her middle finger too.

Sneha Aunty suddenly held her head, then pointed at Amma’s collar as if spotting something. She started cursing. "That witch abused you?"

She pointed at the marks, her face dark with anger. Amma shook her head, but the truth was clear.

Sneha Aunty grew up in a home where her father beat her mother, so she avoided men like snakes. When Dad chased Amma, the hardest person to convince was her. Now, with Dad’s memory lost, he’d destroyed both my and Sneha Aunty’s trust.

Sneha Aunty’s voice softened as she hugged Amma, their bond forged from shared pain. They sat side by side, arms linked, stronger together than alone.

I ran over, climbed on the sofa, and squeezed out a few tears. "Aunty, Dad lied to me. He treats Amma badly. He bullies her."

I wiped my nose on my sleeve, feeling the weight of everything. The TV anchor droned on, but Sneha Aunty’s focus was on me.

"What? Pari, tell me everything."

Her eyes blazed with anger. Amma reached out, but I kept talking.

She was nearly steaming with rage. Amma signed frantically, "Actually, it’s not like that. Baby, you misunderstood…"

Amma gestured wildly, but Sneha Aunty stood firm, her jaw set. The TV flickered, shadows dancing on the wall.

I snuggled into Sneha Aunty’s arms, accusing Dad. "Papa is bad, Aunty. He hurts Amma. He’s not the same anymore."

My voice cracked, but Sneha Aunty nodded, grim. Amma looked like she wanted to disappear into the sofa.

Amma’s delicate body shook, trying to stop us, but Sneha Aunty was strong and carried her off, locking her in the bedroom.

She patted my head. "Pari, you stay here. No one will touch you as long as I’m around, samjhi?"

"Even if Yamraj himself comes, if anyone tries to bully you, I’ll handle them."

Her promise felt stronger than anything I’d heard in a long time. I believed her, just for a moment.

She squatted, signalling me to continue, her eyes fierce.

I said, "He whipped Amma. Once I saw red marks on her arm. She said it was an accident, that she’d bumped into something. Also, Dad hit her in the room—things inside crashed, Amma cried a lot, probably begging Dad to let her go. Dad said no, she made a mistake and had to be punished."

My voice faltered, but Sneha Aunty’s face grew harder. Amma banged on the door, desperate, but Aunty hugged me tighter.

Sneha Aunty was furious. Just then, the old landline rang. Dadi called.

The landline shrilled, freezing everyone. Sneha Aunty answered, voice all steel.

"Priya is back. Why are you still hanging around? Yesterday at the hospital, you heard what Rohan said. Don’t think about getting a paisa. All the elders are here. Bring that burden—Secretary Singh is here. According to the maid’s market price, they’ll assess your payment. If you don’t come, you won’t get a cent. Let’s go."

Sneha Aunty slammed the receiver. "Acha, toh yeh baat hai? Come, we’ll show them." Amma came out, eyes shining with pride. We all left together, shoes slapping the monsoon-wet pavement.

Sneha Aunty drove us over, Lata Mangeshkar blasting on the stereo, windows fogged, hands gripping the wheel like a warrior. I squeezed Amma’s hand. We were ready, too.

The next battle had begun.