Chapter 1: The Night of Betrayal

The night my sister left for her best friend’s wedding in the hills, I felt a chill in my bones I couldn’t explain. That night, eight men shattered her trust—and our lives.

As I look back on those days, a dull ache still weighs heavy in my chest. When Meera told me she wanted to attend her classmate’s wedding—her so-called best friend—I was completely against it. That little pahadi town is infamous, you know, for all sorts of twisted wedding 'rasmein'. I’d heard enough stories from relatives and neighbours—one slip, and a girl’s izzat can be lost forever. The sense of dread just wouldn’t leave my gut.

We sat in the living room, the air thick with the smell of chai and Parle-G, when my bua leaned forward, wagging her finger: "Shaadiyon mein sab kuch hota hai, beta. Apni behen ka dhyaan rakhna." My elder cousin nodded, adding, "Wahan ki hawa hi alag hai. Don’t trust anyone blindly."

Still, Meera pleaded, her voice trembling, eyes shining with hope. "Didi, please na, we’ve been friends since school. How can I miss her big day? She promised, yaar, not even one prank!" As she said this, she tucked a toffee into my palm and adjusted my dupatta, her way of saying thanks. Sometimes, these emotional attachments run deeper than blood, I thought.

Kya karu, yaar? Maan gayi, par ek shart pe—I’m coming with you, bas. "I don’t care what your friend says," I told her. "Main bhi chalungi. You never know how people are in their own hometowns."

On the day of the shaadi, everything felt almost normal—like any desi wedding. The air was thick with the scent of mehendi, aunties compared gold sets, payal chimed, and sticky gulab jamun clung to my fingers. Laughter, bursting crackers, and gossip over chai filled the air. The groomsmen, too, behaved properly, greeting us with forced smiles. But then, in the middle of the night, a scream cut through the stillness, sharp as a knife. It echoed through the old walls.

I dashed in, heart pounding. My mind refused to accept what my eyes saw. My sister, my Meera—her dignity being torn apart. My own scream stuck in my throat. There she was, naked, tears running down her cheeks, being pinned by several men. The sight was like acid on my soul. My legs shook, but rage burned through me. I snatched a heavy wooden stool—one of those sturdy, carved ones every North Indian house has—and charged, swinging it with everything I had, desperate to pull those devils off her. Soon, others poured in, blocking the doorway. We were trapped, helpless, surrounded by their leering faces.

Then her best friend walked in, draped in red, face twisted in a smirk. She looked at us as if we were insects. Her voice was chilling in its casualness: "Arre, yeh toh yahan ki rasmein hain. Bridesmaid ko thoda adjust toh karna padta hai. Sab tradition hai, samjhi?"

She turned and looked Meera up and down, her eyes icy. "Toh kya ho gaya agar koi tumhare saath so gaya? Koi haddi toh nahi toot jayegi. Hamesha apne aap ko bahut badi samajhti ho—abhi dekhte hain kitni izzat bachti hai tumhari."

My hands trembled with anger and disgust. I clutched my dupatta so tightly my knuckles ached. It turned out, in the name of shagun and excitement, women like my sister were called to be bridesmaids only so these men could have their way. This girl, whom my sister trusted so blindly, had set a trap from the start.

I wanted to scream, to throttle someone, but all I could do was try to grab my sister and run. "Chal, Meera!" I croaked, my voice hoarse. But the so-called best friend blocked us, grinning. "What do you think, I’m stupid? Letting you out to go call the police?"

Her face twisted as she barked at the men. "Maar daalo dono ko."

That was it. I remember the blows raining down, the world spinning, pain blooming in my head, the feeling of my body breaking. I died there, bloodied, my sister’s cries echoing in my ears, unable to help her.

And then, I floated above, numb and cold, watching my own blood pool on the floor, Meera’s cries echoing in my ears—like some nightmare I couldn’t wake from. I was forced to watch as that witch locked my sister in an abandoned brick kiln behind the hills—one of those old, broken places you’d see kids dare each other to visit at dusk. Day after day, three, sometimes five men would go in to torment her, until her spirit simply… faded.