Chapter 8: Night Fights and Silent Tears

Two in the morning.

The entire colony was silent, except for a stray dog barking at the moon. The ceiling fan clicked in rhythm with my heartbeat.

I heard the sound of the door lock turning in the living room. Priya’s mother quietly got out of bed.

Her saree rustled as she padded across the cold floor, careful not to wake us. I pulled the blanket over my head but left a tiny gap to hear.

I was a light sleeper and woke up drowsily, just in time to hear a man’s angry roar outside the door:

“She’s just a girl! Isn’t fifteen rupees enough for a meal? Why does she need more lunch money?”

His voice thundered through the thin plywood. My heart raced, wishing I could disappear.

“Priya loves sabzi. These days a single sabzi costs seven or eight rupees. Sometimes she needs to buy stationery too, so it really isn’t enough.”

Her mother’s voice was steady, but I could hear the exhaustion—years of arguments had sanded down her hope.

“If she spends money like this, she might as well quit school and go astray early.”

I flinched. The words hit like a slap. ‘Bigda hua baccha’, the worst thing a parent can say.

The house fell silent. My heart thudded wildly.

Even the clock’s ticking seemed to accuse me. I pressed my palms together, silently praying for it to end.

Go astray early… Could he mean that?

My mind reeled. Did he think so little of his own child? I tried to recall if my own mother had ever said something so cruel.

I couldn’t believe something so vicious could come from a father’s mouth.

It was as if the entire mohalla was listening, weighing every word.

“Listen, three years ago you asked me to quit my job and have a second child, promising five thousand a month for household expenses. Two years ago, you said you were under pressure and cut it to thirty-five hundred. This year you only give me two thousand a month. Then just make it thirty-five hundred, and I’ll add the extra lunch money for our daughter.”

Her voice shook now, a mix of anger and resignation. She was fighting not just for Priya, but for her own dignity.

With a bang, like a steel plate falling, Priya’s father exploded: “You three—mother and daughters—do nothing but ask me for money every day! You can’t even give me a son. Why should I spend thirty-five hundred to support you? For that money, I could raise a goat and it would give milk!”

He spat out the words, and I felt them sear into my skin. Even in the dark, I could picture his face—red, jaw clenched, eyes refusing to meet anyone’s.

Another suffocating silence.

The night air was heavy, pressing down on all of us. I hugged the pillow tighter, wishing I could make myself invisible.

I thought, after being humiliated like this, Priya’s mother would definitely bring up divorce.

Aunty downstairs would surely gossip about it by morning—‘Mrs. Gupta is leaving her husband!’ But nothing came.

But she said nothing, just came back to the room, disappointed.

She lay down beside me, her breath shaky. In the dark, I heard her stifle a sob, then another. My own tears fell silently, mingling with hers.

I quickly shut my eyes. She didn’t notice I was pretending to sleep. She tucked me in and sat beside me, silently crying.

Her hand hovered over my hair, trembling. I wanted to sit up and hug her, but I didn’t know if Priya ever did that.

At that moment, I suddenly understood why Priya so desperately wanted a rich mother.

It wasn’t greed—it was exhaustion. A hunger for security, for a life where you didn’t have to fight for every rupee. Maybe I’d have wished for the same, if I were her.

I finally understood why Priya always waited for her mother, and why some girls never tell.