Chapter 6: Scraps and Survival

I went to class by day, picked up scrap by night. At sunrise, I rode packed city buses, books hugged to my chest. After dark, I tied a dupatta over my mouth, walking alleys, filling sacks with broken bottles and cardboard. Each coin mattered.

It was faster than saving at the Sharmas—there, my wage was humiliation and leftovers. Here, the kabadiwala counted coins honestly, even if he laughed at my skinny arms, paan stains bright on his teeth. The morning azaan drifted over the rooftops as I worked, rickshaw bells ringing in the distance.

My hands bled, feet blistered, but at least I could breathe. No one here called me ‘madam’s daughter’ with poison in their voice.

But trouble finds you, even in Lucknow’s narrow lanes.

Soon, Kabir’s revenge reached my school.

It started small: a torn notebook, a rude comment. Then insults, threats, missing homework. Dead rats and lizards in my desk. Once, I was locked in a bathroom stall and doused with dirty water as I escaped. The stink clung to me all day. Girls pinched their noses, giggling. I scrubbed at the hand pump until my skin was raw.

No one admitted to it. Teachers shrugged: “Must be a prank, Ananya. Don’t make a fuss.” Justice was for the rich.

The stares at school grew colder. Whispers trailed me: “She’s that Sharma girl, na?” I became untouchable in a place meant for learning.

Rumours about my mother spread like wildfire. Someone scrawled on the blackboard in red: “Once a mistress, always a mistress.” I wiped it away, hands shaking.

Only my marks kept me in school. The principal muttered, “Only because of your marks, Ananya.” I clung to that thread.

I marked days on my calendar, each cross an act of defiance, counting down to board exams.

Until, one night after tuition, I was cornered in an alley by a gang of thugs.