Chapter 15: The Night’s Decision

I was stunned for a while, finally understanding her thoughts.

The enormity of her ambition left me breathless. I realised that my mother was no ordinary woman—she was a force of nature.

My hands and feet turned cold.

Fear gripped me, sharp and sudden. I saw all the dangers, all the risks, but also the hope shining in her eyes.

I was a little afraid.

I wanted to hide, to run away, to pretend that none of this was happening. But I couldn’t look away.

Truly afraid.

The world was changing, and I didn’t know if I was strong enough to keep up.

But my chest felt hot.

Beneath the fear, something else stirred—a fierce pride, a longing to do something that mattered.

My mother sighed.

She reached out, smoothing my hair. “Don’t worry, Jiya. You are my daughter, but you are also your own person.”

She told me she really had no other intentions in bringing me here.

She insisted, “I just wanted you to know the truth, to be prepared. I never meant to burden you.”

She was just too lonely—no one could understand her, until she finally met me, a soul from the same time and space.

For years, she had carried her secret alone, unable to speak of it to anyone. I was her only confidante, the only one who could understand her pain and hope.

She said she only wanted to teach me some progressive ideas, so I wouldn’t waste my life in the future.

She wanted me to have choices, to know my worth, to be more than just another obedient daughter-in-law.

But now, it seems that’s unnecessary.

She smiled, a little sadly. “You already have a fire inside you, Jiya. I see it in your eyes.”

This is good enough.

She hugged me, her arms warm and strong. For the first time, I felt truly seen.

As for here—

“Jiya, this is what I have to do. It has nothing to do with you,” my mother said seriously.

She looked at me, her gaze steady and kind. “You are free to choose your own path. I will not force you.”

But… can it really have nothing to do with me?

I stared at the ceiling, the question echoing in my mind. How could I remain untouched by her struggle, her dream? Was it possible to live in the shadows when the light called out to me?

After returning, I hid in my little courtyard.

The garden was quiet, the marigolds nodding in the breeze. I curled up on the swing, arms wrapped around my knees, lost in thought.

I thought all night.

The hours crawled by. The night grew colder, the stars fading one by one. My mind ran in circles, never finding rest.

I wondered if maybe I should just leave it at that.

Wasn’t it enough to have survived? Why invite trouble, when safety was so close?

Just pretend I hadn’t gone there today.

I could forget it all—bury the memories, close my eyes to the world’s pain. No one would know.

Resign myself, pick a decent family and get married.

The matchmaker would find a nice boy, the ceremonies would be grand, the neighbours would praise my luck. Life would go on.

Serve my in-laws, continue the family line—just that.

I would wake before dawn, cook and clean, bear children, listen to the same old stories. My days would blur into years.

Endure it, and it will pass.

So many women before me had done it—why not me? I could grit my teeth and survive.

If my husband takes another wife, I’ll just pretend not to see.

I would look the other way, swallow the hurt, keep smiling. It was the way things had always been.

There’s no real affection anyway.

Marriage was a duty, not a romance. I could endure a loveless life, as long as I was safe.

At least I’ll be waited on, with no worries about food or drink.

Comfort, security, respectability—all the things a woman is supposed to want. I could settle for that.

Just live my life like that.

Maybe I would even convince myself I was happy. I would teach my daughters the same lessons, and the cycle would continue.

Just treat the New India of my past life as a dream—liberation and all that, it’s too far away.

I would bury my memories deep, let them fade like old photographs. India would go on, with or without me.

I’m just a weakling born in peaceful times.

I had never known real hardship, never fought for anything. I was soft, sheltered—a coward at heart.

I have no combat experience.

I had never marched, never shouted slogans, never faced the barrel of a gun. I was just a girl who liked books and embroidery.

Nor do I have the ideals and beliefs of my mother’s generation.

I admired their courage, but I couldn’t imagine matching it. My fears were bigger than my dreams.

Give up.

It would be easier to surrender, to let life carry me along.

Forget it.

I closed my eyes, wishing for sleep to take away the pain.

In a daze, I fell asleep.

My mind drifted, and dreams pulled me under.

In my dream, I really did get married like that, and even had a daughter.

The wedding was grand, the house full of music and lights. My daughter was beautiful, with bright eyes and a shy smile. I loved her fiercely.

My daughter held my hand, wanting to go out and play, but the next second, that hand was chopped off.

The dream turned dark. Blood spattered on my face, the world spinning in horror. I screamed, but no one came.

Blood splattered across my face.

The crimson drops burned like fire, staining my clothes, my skin, my soul.

I looked up, only to see my daughter’s face turn into Miss Singh’s.

Her face blurred, shifting, until it was Ritu’s eyes staring back at me. The pain in them was unbearable.

She looked at me, tears streaming down her face.

She didn’t speak, but her eyes accused me, pleading for help I couldn’t give.

Just standing there, staring at me.

I woke with a scream caught in my throat, the echo of Ritu’s eyes haunting me as dawn crept over the city.