Chapter 5: Helmet, Haldi, and a New Kind of Mother

“Priya beta, did something good happen today?”

Priya’s mother handed me a helmet. She wasn’t wearing makeup, had on a pair of worn slippers and a black shawl. She looked a bit thin and pale, but her eyes were especially gentle as she looked at me.

There was a faint hint of coconut oil in her hair and a red bindi faded from the day’s sweat. She adjusted her dupatta before tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. Her fingers smelled faintly of haldi, and as she tucked the dupatta over my shoulder, the world slowed down, just for this small act of care.

“Yeah, it’s just that a problem I couldn’t solve before was suddenly solved.”

My voice quivered, trying to sound like Priya. She didn’t notice, just smiled warmly, like all the world’s kindness in one glance.

I answered as I tried to put on the helmet. Not being used to it, I got the strap stuck inside. Priya’s mother immediately stopped the scooty and personally helped me with the helmet.

Her fingers were gentle, nimble from years of handling hot rotis and stubborn zippers. She tightened the strap, not a hint of annoyance.

Not only did she not scold me, she affectionately pinched the tip of my nose. “Why are you like a little kid? Sit properly.”

Her touch lingered, the kind that makes you want to cry for reasons you can’t explain. I blinked rapidly, pretending to watch the traffic.

I obediently sat on the scooty, and the tip of my nose, touched by her, suddenly felt a little sore.

I sniffed, blaming the pollution, but my heart thudded in my chest. I hadn’t felt this safe in years.

Since I was ten, I’d been living alone.

My mother was always busy, flying all over the world. She never picked me up from school, and never allowed me to waste time acting spoiled.

My only companions were the houseplants and the silent portraits in the hallway. Even the cook would keep to herself, never making eye contact.

We hadn’t touched in years. Our conversations were like those between a boss and an employee: she gave orders, I carried them out. If I did well, she transferred money; if not, there was punishment.

The punishments came in the form of silence, cold meals, or a message from the accountant to ‘consider your actions’. Love was measured in rupees, not hugs.

Thinking of those punishments, I shivered. The fear etched into my bones spread through my body.

No amount of money could erase that chill. Even at night, under the AC, I’d wake up sweating, dreading her next order.

I quickly comforted myself: Don’t be afraid. You’re Priya now, not Rhea. You won’t die.

I repeated it like a mantra, clutching the edge of my skirt. The hum of the scooty engine was the only lullaby I needed.