Chapter 6: At the Table—Power Shifts

In the evening, I went downstairs, the aroma of khichdi and the hum of the fridge filling the air. Sneha, hair neatly braided, anklet tinkling, sat by Rohan, laughing at his jokes—her earlier awkwardness gone. I chose a seat far away, quietly eating, every now and then catching Rohan’s glance before he looked away.

Sneha’s voice rang out, syrupy sweet. "Meera! You’re awake! You’re feeling better, na? Let me check your forehead." I resisted the urge to flinch as her cool fingers brushed my skin. After the rain, I finally understood—making Sneha angry was as good as making Rohan angry. The trauma of that night left me compliant, nodding along, just wanting peace.

The househelp aunty, setting down dishes, spoke up in a singsong tone, "Then when Meera is better, let her get rained on again. She’s too weak now—she might just die outside." The room fell silent, Sneha’s smile stiffened, and she turned on the aunty, voice saccharine but threatening. I choked on my khichdi, and Rohan slid a glass of water toward me, his pat on my head now foreign. I avoided his touch, pushing back my chair. When he tried to pick me up, I stood on my own, not wanting his help. Over his shoulder, Sneha bit her lip, glaring. I stiffened, uncertain of everything.