Chapter 4: Tension and WhatsApp Secrets

After that, I paid close attention. I found that every time on the first and fifteenth—when the shop was busiest—my sister stayed home and didn’t help.

It became a pattern. Pomfret day meant Rupa in her room, Ma hovering nearby, Dad tense and irritable. Even the neighbours seemed to know, leaving her alone. I watched, but no one explained anything.

And every time I was sent to fetch pomfret, my sister was always panting, drenched in sweat, sometimes even her hair was wet. Her skin looked tired, almost as if she was much older. Her eyes had a distant, glassy look.

She always opened the door just a crack, handed me the foam box, then locked herself back inside. The apartment smelled of incense and fish. Once, I noticed a fresh garland of marigold at her door.

Once, after I took the pomfret, I glanced curiously inside the door, and my sister snapped at me:

Her voice was sharper than usual, and her eyes flashed. She fidgeted with her dupatta, winding it around her fingers, and adjusted her hair in agitation, showing her discomfort.

“Why do you keep peeking in every day? You’re an adult—do you think it’s proper to keep looking into a woman’s bedroom?”

She scolded me, sounding more like Ma than my sister. I looked down, suddenly ashamed.

I smiled awkwardly: “I’m just curious—why do you keep the pomfret in your room? The whole place smells fishy. How do you even live there?”

I tried to make it sound like a joke, but she didn’t laugh. The question hung in the air, unanswered.

My sister’s face softened a little.

She sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. For a second, she looked like the old Rupa—the one who used to hide laddoos for me.

“At least you have some conscience. If you’re really curious, bring a girlfriend home and get married. Take over for Mom and Dad—then you’ll understand everything.”

She spoke quietly, as if the words hurt her. I heard Ma coughing in the kitchen, pretending not to listen.

“Why does it have to be a girlfriend?”

I tried to make light of it, but my voice wobbled. I suddenly realised how little I knew about my own family.

My sister shook her head, her tone meaningful: “Not just a girlfriend—it has to be marriage. Once someone knows our family’s secret, she can never be allowed to leave.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine. I thought of the women in our village, bound by traditions older than memory. I wondered what it would mean to be trapped by a secret I didn’t choose.

To be honest, I felt a little scared.

I pictured myself stuck behind the shop counter, never free again. The pomfret, the sweat, the secrecy—it all seemed too much. I wanted to run away, but my feet wouldn’t move.

For someone in their twenties like me, facing a secret that might bind me for life for the first time, what I felt most wasn’t curiosity, but fear.

I remembered horror stories told at hostel nights—about families with hidden curses, about responsibilities that suffocate. Was I just being dramatic? Or was this how all Indian sons felt when faced with their family’s truth?

I started to realise that this secret wasn’t as simple as I’d thought, and I might not be able to bear the cost of knowing it.

I thought of Rupa’s tired eyes, Ma’s silent prayers, and Dad’s fierce pride. I wondered if all the money in the world was worth what they were carrying.

Just then, my phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message.

The familiar double-tick—Neha’s name lighting up my screen. For a second, the heaviness lifted. I grabbed the phone, grateful for the distraction.

It was my girlfriend, Neha.

Her display pic was a selfie of us at Shaniwar Wada. My heart skipped a beat. She always knew how to make me smile, even on the worst days.

“I heard your parents opened a restaurant near the college and business is booming. Can I come take a look?”

She added a bunch of food emojis—fish, fire, heart. I could almost hear her playful voice, teasing me.

I wondered what secrets our family was really hiding—and whether I was brave enough to find out.