Chapter 5: The Turtle and the Battle Won

At the dining table, she found fault with everything. “Sabzi mein namak nahi, roti kacchi, meat too tough—trying to break my teeth? You made fried fish just to annoy me? Four people, eight dishes—wasteful!”

She tried to put the mutton and fried fish into the fridge, hands hovering over the plates. Saasu maa tensed, ready to snatch them back.

"Put it down. Didn’t you hear? You don’t listen to nice words. Sheru, go!"

The mention of Sheru made her jump. She dropped the plates, muttering curses.

With Sheru’s presence, she didn’t dare cause trouble at night. She kept one wary eye on him, flinching whenever he wagged his tail. For the first time, the house felt peaceful, even if just for a night.

That night, as we lay in bed, my husband clung to me, tears soaking my shoulder. “Priya, why did you only come now? If only I’d met you earlier. Yaar, wife, I love you.” I stroked his hair, promising silently to always protect him.

For the first time in weeks, I slept soundly, the old lady’s shadow unable to follow me into my dreams.

In the morning, my husband went to feed Sheru. He called, whistled, searched every corner—balcony, under sofa, behind the fridge. Nothing. My heart began to race.

He turned to me, eyes red. “What do we do, Priya? Sheru is gone.”

I rushed to his side, clutching his arm. My own eyes stung. As he spoke, realisation dawned. He ran to the kitchen, found a puddle of blood. The sight made my stomach twist. In the dustbin—black hairs, just like Sheru’s.

Furious, he confronted the old lady: “Bas, ab aur nahi! Admit it! Did you kill Sheru?”

She smirked, unfazed. “Arey, badtameez! Dadi se aise baat karta hai? Koi sharam hai ki nahi? I cooked for you early, now I’m the villain?”

He pointed an accusing finger. “You stewed my rabbit before!”

Neighbours murmured, colony uncles craned their necks. The old lady grabbed saasu maa, daring her to contradict. “You say—you got up before me. Did you see me kill the dog?”

“N-no.” Saasu maa’s voice trembled, eyes filling with tears. I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Forget it, not a big deal. Let’s eat first, we’ll look for him after."

“That’s right. Our bahu is the sensible one,” the old lady said, sly glint in her eye. At the table, she ladled me a bowl of meat soup, pressing it into my hands. The aroma rose, rich and meaty. My stomach churned.

"Bahu, you’re sensible. A beast is a beast. Even if you raise it for years, it’s never more important than people."

Her words were sweet poison. I forced a nod, not trusting my voice. “Dadi is always right,” I murmured, the words catching in my throat like thorns.

She leaned back, satisfied, eyes glinting. Only after I drank the bowl did she bare her teeth in a wolfish grin. “Arrey wah, bahu ne sab kuch pee liya. Maza aa gaya! The soup tastes good, doesn’t it?”

"Very fresh," I said, forcing a smile, the taste of betrayal on my tongue.

She crowed, clapping her hands. “Meat from a little beast raised on expensive pedigree is really fresh!”

My husband slammed his bowl to the floor, eyes blazing. “I knew it! It was you!”

She smiled, unrepentant. “Badtameez, shut up! How dare you talk back? Itching for a beating?”

I placed a calming hand on his arm, silently begging him not to stoop to her level.

She turned to me, eyes drilling holes. “And you! Relying on your dog. Without that desi dog, what are you? That face is a curse for husbands; only a blind fool would want you.”

She rattled off rules—how to dress, talk, behave. I let her words wash over me, tuning them out like a bad song.

Getting carried away, she even told me to become the granddaughter of the turtle she’d raised for forty years. She shuffled off, returning with an empty turtle bowl. “This turtle is your new dadi. Show some respect!”

I nodded obediently, folding my hands and bowing low. Then I hesitated, glancing at my husband, silently asking for support. He nodded back, eyes steady. I rinsed a turtle shell from the soup, dried it, and set it gently in her hands. “Yeh lijiye, dadi. Aapki god-grandmother, ab aapke paas waapas aa gayi.”

The old lady stared at the shell, mouth opening and closing like a fish. For a moment, the house was silent—except for the distant honking of rickshaws and the faint chime of temple bells.

Outside, the temple bells rang for evening aarti. Inside, I stood tall, knowing this was just the first battle won. But as the pressure cooker hissed in the kitchen, I knew—this house would never be the same again.