Chapter 4: Small Rebellions

When I heard the news, I sat by the window all night.

The moonlight was cold, spilling through the bars onto the cracked floor. I clutched the unfinished handkerchief to my chest and stared into the night, feeling as if a part of me had been torn away. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant barking of dogs and the soft creak of the swing in the courtyard. I blinked back tears that refused to fall. I touched my own wrist, where a friendship thread might have been, physically anchoring the loss.

I wanted to find something to remember her by, but found nothing.

I searched through my little box of treasures: a broken bangle, a faded marigold petal, a tiny wooden elephant. Nothing that belonged to her, nothing that could anchor her memory to the world. I pressed the handkerchief to my face, inhaling the faint scent of sandalwood and old books.

I wasn’t lucky enough to be reborn in a more open and prosperous era, nor to become a princess or zamindar’s daughter.

In my dreams, I had imagined palaces and carriages, but here I was—just another girl in a crowded home, my destiny shaped by the decisions of others. Sometimes I wished I could have been born in Bombay or Calcutta, in a time where women studied in colleges, rode bicycles, or acted in the cinema. But fate had planted me here, in the dust and silence.

Intrigue in the inner quarters, power struggles, talented scholars and beauties—none of it had anything to do with me.

All the stories I read or heard seemed far away. The real world was about kitchen politics, silent sacrifices, and whose voice was loudest in the morning prayers. Even the sharpest wit could be dulled by the daily grind of chores and rules.

Or rather, with the vast majority of women in this era.

We were taught to obey, to serve, to keep our dreams small and our footsteps lighter than the sparrow on the terrace. Occasionally, the older women would whisper about the outside world, but the lessons were always the same: stay within the lines drawn for you.

Rituals, and the rules of joint family and women’s duties, pressed down on us like a mountain.

Every morning began with rituals: ringing the temple bell, lighting diyas, reciting shlokas. Then the chores—washing, cooking, folding, waiting for the men to eat first. Every gesture was policed, every word measured. The weight of expectations sat on my shoulders heavier than any schoolbag.

I feared pain, and I feared death.

I was no hero. I flinched at the sight of blood, and even a harsh word could make me cry. I heard too many stories of what happened to girls who stepped out of line—each one more terrifying than the last.

I dared not think of standing out—I only wanted to survive.

My only goal was to stay safe, blend in, and hope that perhaps, by keeping my head down, life would pass by without too much pain. I folded away my ambitions with my clothes, keeping only a tiny ember alive in the corners of my heart.

Gradually, my precociousness and knowledge of etiquette won my teacher’s approval.

The pathshala teacher would smile at me, sometimes even patting my head with pride. “This girl, she’s got the brains of a pundit,” she’d tell my mother. The other girls sometimes shot me jealous looks, but more often they’d ask for help with their lessons, and I was always happy to oblige.

After all, my soul was over thirty years old, so I learnt faster than the others.

Sometimes, I’d catch myself slipping and using words or references that were out of place for a child. The teacher would frown, and I’d quickly cover up with a shy smile. I could recite poems and pick up on subtle cues, my mind sharper than my age would suggest. In my heart, I felt old beyond my years.

I diligently memorised women’s duties and precepts, even as I rolled my eyes eighty times in my heart.

The rules came thick and fast: don’t raise your voice, don’t run in the courtyard, always bow before elders, speak only when spoken to. I nodded, repeated them aloud, but inside, my mind rebelled. I’d mentally mutter, “Yeh sab kya drama hai!” and stifle a grin.

I embroidered dutifully.

Needle and thread became my companions. I stitched little flowers, my fingers growing calloused, but my thoughts wandering far. Sometimes, I’d sneak in patterns from the future—tiny airplanes or books—hidden among the jasmine and marigolds. It was my own little rebellion.

I accepted my fate dutifully.

On the outside, I was the perfect daughter: polite, hardworking, obedient. Inside, I was always plotting, waiting for some small crack of freedom. Sometimes, the only way to survive is to pretend to surrender.