Chapter 1: The Broken Anklet

At the polo match, Arjun’s mallet clipped my ankle, sharp and deliberate, just so his guru’s daughter could win.

The blow had stung more than just my skin. Even now, when the memory flashed in my mind, I could feel the sharp, sudden ache, as though the echo of the mallet still pulsed beneath my skin. My anklet had snapped and scattered silver beads into the red earth of the field. For a moment, I wanted to drop to my knees and gather every bead, but the whistle had blown and nobody noticed—except the red stain on my salwar.

Half a month later, he finally came to visit our home in Lucknow.

It was a humid evening, ceiling fans swirling lazily. The front veranda smelled faintly of jasmine and incense from the evening aarti. Sweat trickled down my back, sticking my kurta to my skin, as Arjun sat ramrod straight on the old cane chair. My mother had set out a tray of nankhatai and sweet lime sharbat, untouched between us.

“Before my guru passed away, he entrusted Meera to my care.”

His voice was even, the words practised. Outside, I could hear the distant honking of a scooter and the soft scolding of a sabziwala by the gate. Arjun’s posture was upright, almost military, as though every syllable was an oath.

“I only have sibling-like feelings for her—please don’t overthink it.”

He looked at me, gaze as steady as a prayer lamp—unwavering, but giving nothing away.

I pressed my lips together, feeling the old ache twist inside me. Why did he always speak as if my feelings were just another household chore to be managed?

I nodded quietly, saying nothing.

I busied myself with the tray, straightening the nankhatai, pretending interest in the pattern of the doily beneath. My dupatta slipped off my shoulder; I adjusted it, fingers trembling, determined not to betray anything on my face. A fly buzzed near the halwa bowl. I kept my eyes on the table.

He didn’t know.

How could he? He did not notice the half-empty cup, the way my knuckles whitened as I gripped my chai. He never noticed the things that didn’t fit into his neat world of rules and duty.

That day, when I returned home, I agreed to the marriage proposal from the Sinha family.

Mummy had been elated, calling my Bua ji with the news before I had even changed out of my stained salwar. The neighbourhood aunties would soon know; I could imagine the news travelling on the wings of WhatsApp messages and across kitchen windows.