Chapter 1: The Digital Grip

All my expenses go through Ma’s Family UPI—whatever I buy, her phone pings, and then the questions start.

Even the small act of scanning a QR code in the crowded bazaar or ordering Maggi after midnight is shadowed by the silent threat of her call. Even from Lucknow, Ma’s digital grip squeezes tighter than her old steel tiffin—always there, never letting go, just like the sharp scent of mustard oil from our kitchen back home.

Right now, I’m staring at the receipt for my latest order: a special packaging service from a 24-hour chemist. My heart hammers so hard, I feel almost empty.

Outside, the corridor echoes with the clang of someone’s bucket. A distant pressure cooker whistles, sharp and familiar. The sodium streetlights throw an orange glow into my tiny hostel room. My hand shakes, the blue light from my phone making my skin ghostly. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, as if that could settle the chaos inside me.

Right on cue, my phone vibrates.

The familiar ringtone—"Kabhi Kabhi Mere Dil Mein"—cuts through the night air. I barely dare to breathe as I swipe to answer.

“What did you buy?” Her voice is as cold and sharp as broken glass.

In the background, I catch the faint hiss of her pressure cooker letting off steam. I watch the blue dot inch closer on the delivery app. "Um... just a late-night snack, Ma."

There’s a pause. From the earpiece comes the unmistakable sound of a teacup shattering. The crash makes my stomach twist. I picture Ma in the kitchen, her hands clenched around the handle, steam fogging her glasses.

“Return it.”

I steady myself against the doorknob and let out a soft laugh.

A laugh that tastes like rebellion. “Too late.”

“He’s knocking on my door.”

From the other side, I hear the thump of her slippers on the marble floor, a distant yet familiar sound.