Chapter 7: The Knife and the SUV

I barely escaped. I ran until my breath burned, the shouts fading into rickshaw horns and the distant clang of temple bells.

At the alley’s mouth, I saw it—Kabir’s white SUV under a flickering light. He leaned against the bonnet, arms folded, watching as if waiting for a show.

He looked like a king in his kingdom, untouchable.

I shoved the small vegetable knife from my bag into his hand, pressing the blade to my own chest. It was still sticky from onions. “Don’t you want me dead? Go on—kill me right here.”

My voice cracked, startling even the stray dog nearby.

A small crowd gathered, but nobody stepped in. In Lucknow, madness is just more masala for the neighbours.

My mother’s curses, her sobs, her helplessness—they ate at me every night. My hands shook all the time now.

Maybe my mother did drive the first wife to her death. Maybe she deserved her fate.

But what about me? What had I done wrong?

The question echoed, unanswered, like the muezzin’s call in the night air.

Kabir’s eyes were so dark, they frightened me. He flung my hand away, the knife clattering on the cement near his shoe.

His voice was low, almost a growl. “Ananya, don’t dirty my hands.”

He said it as if even my blood was beneath him. My knees wobbled, but I refused to let him see me cry.