Chapter 9: Lost and Found

I left for air. The night smelled of frying onions from the neighbour’s window. The power was out, the lane black. I walked the rooftop, breathing muggy air, feeling every insult and slap press down on me.

Years of oppression had twisted my mind. Sometimes I wanted to scream or smash things—just like her. I was terrified I’d go mad, too.

Two months to board exams, and I didn’t know if I could hold on.

When I came back, the bed was empty. Her pillow was askew, the mug of water untouched. Panic seized me. I ran through every alley, every shop, checked the chaiwala’s bench where she sometimes gossiped. No sign.

The neighbours shook their heads: “Nahi dekha, beta.” Some were worried, some suspicious. She couldn’t walk—how did she vanish?

I pictured her in a gutter, or under a truck’s wheels. I nearly fainted from fear.

The constable at the thana took my report without looking up, chewing gutka, spitting into a bottle. “We’ll inform you,” he promised. I knew better.

She was nowhere. Even her curses would have been a comfort then.

I went to the Sharma bungalow, thinking maybe Kabir had taken her. I hid outside, watching as fairy lights blinked for some new celebration. Kabir arrived, talking on his phone, the prince of his palace.

I pressed myself against the compound wall, bricks digging into my back.

“Just get rid of her.” His words were ice in a steel glass. My nerves snapped. I ran up, grabbed his collar, yanked him close.

“Are you even human?” My voice was hoarse, words sharp as broken glass.

He was stunned for a second. I shoved him into the car. The sound echoed. His eyes flickered with shock, then anger.

He shoved me away, scraping my elbow on the cement. “Pagal hai kya.”

Guards grabbed me, their hands rough, faces hard. They threw me onto the street.

I screamed, “You’ll get what’s coming to you!” but the night swallowed my words.

Aunty from next door peered out, shaking her head. “Drama again,” she muttered. To them, I was just another nuisance.

I wanted to laugh, but my throat ached. I was nothing—a stain on the family name.

Suddenly, I remembered my first night in the Sharmas’ house, the dark room, hunger, and Kabir tossing me a stale roti through the window. Even cruelty, once, had a shred of attention. Did that count as kindness?

I brushed the thought away. Kindness from a Sharma? The Gomti would flood before that happened.

Back at the room, I found money under the bedding. My legs trembled as I smoothed the sheet and found a stiff envelope—five thousand rupees, crisp and smelling of talcum and fear.

It wasn’t mine. My mother had left it.

Her absence hung over the room like a shroud. Even her shadow was gone.

Where did she get the money? Dread curled in my stomach. Lucknow didn’t give gifts to girls like us. I sat on the cot, fingers tangled in my dupatta, and waited for dawn.

In Lucknow, even the walls have ears. Tonight, I knew every whisper would carry my name.