Chapter 3: Dreams and Losses

In the first few years, I sometimes imagined myself as the heroine of those historical romance tales before falling asleep.

Lying on a straw mat, listening to the distant clanging of the temple bell and my grandmother’s snores, I would pretend I was a princess, or at least a clever minister’s daughter, solving palace intrigues. In the flicker of the lantern’s light, I’d drift into dreams woven from Amar Chitra Katha stories and the bedtime tales Dadi whispered, where clever girls always found a way out.

But soon, the feudal era revealed its harshness and cruelty without mercy.

Reality, however, was as harsh as the summer loo wind that seared the skin. The cries of the neighbourhood washerwoman, the cracked heels of the maids, the way women’s laughter died quickly if a man entered the room—it was all a reminder of the boundaries that hemmed us in, more real than any fort wall.

When I was seven, my mother sent me to a girls’ pathshala.

The pathshala was little more than a shaded verandah near the ghat, with mats for sitting and a strict teacher in a starched cotton saree. The chalk dust lingered in the air, and sometimes a goat wandered in, nosing at our brass tiffins before being shooed away by the teacher’s stick. My mother packed my brass tiffin with aloo paratha and a piece of jaggery, and kissed my forehead before sending me off. “Learn well, beti. Your mind is your own,” she’d say, tucking a stray hair behind my ear.

Going with me was MLA Singh’s ten-year-old daughter.

Singh Sahab’s daughter, Ritu, wore her hair parted in the middle, oiled and shining, with little silver pins holding back stray wisps. Her anklets chimed when she walked. She was older, confident, and somehow always drew the teacher’s praise, even as the rest of us scrambled to keep up.

I loved the handkerchiefs she embroidered the most. I pestered her for one with jasmine, then another with gulmohar flowers.

Those handkerchiefs were things of beauty, with tiny stitches that seemed almost magical. The jasmine buds seemed to have a scent of their own, and I’d sometimes sniff them, earning a scolding from the teacher for not paying attention. I would beg her for another, promising her my share of sweets at lunch.

She treated me like a clingy little sister and always agreed with a smile.

No matter how much I nagged, she would just shake her head, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and say, “Arrey, you’ll spoil me with all your flattery, Jiya.” Sometimes she’d pat my head or tuck my hair behind my ear with the same care as my mother.

Blushing, she’d tell me not to be naughty, to learn embroidery properly, since I’d have to make my own wedding trousseau one day.

“Don’t just pull at threads, Jiya! Learn properly, or who will make your wedding saree?” she’d say, her face turning as pink as the roses in her basket. “Or will you come running to me even after you’re married?” she teased, making the other girls giggle.

I’d tug at her braid, teasing her for being shy.

She’d squeal, swatting my hand away, her cheeks puffing out in a mock sulk. “One day I’ll tell your mother, you wait!” she’d threaten, but her smile always gave her away.

She’d get so annoyed she’d throw a paper ball at me.

I’d duck, sticking out my tongue at her, and the others would join in, the classroom erupting into laughter until the teacher’s sharp clap brought us to order. “Bas, enough!” the teacher would say, but even she couldn’t hide a smile.

Before leaving school, we promised to embroider the jasmine pattern together the next day.

She pressed her little finger to mine in a secret promise. “Tomorrow, we’ll finish the jasmine, and you’ll see, it will be the prettiest,” she whispered, her eyes shining with excitement. I nodded, clutching my half-finished cloth as if it was a treasure.

But after that day, I never saw her again.

The next morning, her place on the mat was empty. Her basket sat untouched by the door, and her laughter was missing from the air. Even the teacher’s voice was softer that day.

I missed her, wanted to ask if she’d finished those two handkerchiefs.

I turned over my own, tracing the half-done flowers, wondering if her skilled fingers had finished them somewhere else. I kept hoping she’d walk in any moment, scolding me for being slow.

I went to ask the teacher, but the teacher only looked grave and said nothing.

When I asked, the teacher’s face tightened, and she looked away, busying herself with the attendance register. The air seemed heavier, the corners of the room darker. Something unsaid hovered in the space between us.

I wanted to find her, but after coming here, I realised all I could see was this square patch of sky.

Our house was surrounded by high walls and thick neem trees. I’d sometimes climb onto the veranda ledge, craning my neck for a glimpse of her, but all I got was the harsh sun and the endless sky, mocking my helplessness.

Later, I overheard the ayahs and old women gossiping, and finally learnt the truth.

Women in this house gossiped over chai and murmured secrets while sorting lentils. One day, I heard them whispering in the kitchen, voices lowered and glancing over their shoulders. “Arrey, walls have ears in this house,” one whispered, echoing a common Indian caution. I pressed my ear to the door to listen. She had twisted her ankle getting out of the palki that day, and accidentally fell into the arms of the nearby stable boy. The boy instinctively reached out to steady her.

One of the maids said, “Bas, it was an accident. He just caught her so she wouldn’t fall. But what can you do, people talk.” Another added, “In this house, even breathing too loudly can get a girl in trouble.”

But someone saw.

It was always someone’s business to notice, to report. The neighbour’s boy, ever eager to curry favour, had seen everything. He ran to tell the family, his own eyes shining at the prospect of drama.

MLA Singh, fearing she had brought shame to the family, had someone cut off her hand that very night.

The news made my stomach churn. That night, hidden beneath the quilt, I heard it all: how MLA Singh, enraged by rumours, had her punished so harshly, making her an example for all. The old women shook their heads. “In this house, betis must walk as if walking on broken glass,” one whispered, her voice trembling. The pressure cooker hissed in the background, drowning out the worst of their words. The air in our home was thick with fear for weeks after.