Chapter 4: Kabir's Story

But my mother-in-law was unfazed, holding her head high as she scanned the crowd.

She stood tall, her chin raised, eyes gleaming with defiance. Not even a mob could make her falter.

“Every word I say is as solid as a mountain—I never lie.”

Her voice rang out, steady as a temple drum. She had the attention of everyone, even the old men who usually dozed in the afternoons.

“Ananya has long been fooling around with someone, and that person is our village’s Scholar Kabir.”

She paused for effect, letting the name hang in the air. People gasped, some whispering in disbelief.

At this time, Rohan was just a first-year college student.

He was not yet the important man he would become—just a boy with dreams in his eyes.

Our village had only one scholar: Kabir Joshi.

The mention of his name brought a hush over the crowd. Even the children fell silent, sensing something important was about to be said.

Mention Kabir, and everyone would sigh, lamenting fate’s cruelty.

“Bichara Kabir,” they’d say. “Such promise, such tragedy.” Old men would shake their heads, women would wipe imaginary tears.

His circumstances were similar to Rohan’s—both had only a widowed mother at home.

The two families were often compared, their fortunes intertwined in the village’s collective memory.

But Kabir was a prodigy.

Everyone knew he was destined for greatness—until fate intervened.

He started reading at three and could recite the Ramayana at four.

The panditji would often invite him to the temple, showing him off to visitors. “Look at this boy! He’s blessed by Saraswati herself.”

The district’s Saraswati Vidya Mandir waived his fees, and the principal personally accepted him as a student. Everyone said Gulmohar Village was about to produce a golden boy.

Mothers pointed to him as an example to their own sons—“Be like Kabir!” they’d scold. The whole village pinned their hopes on his slender shoulders.

Unfortunately, just as the golden boy was about to take flight, his wings were broken.

It was a story told again and again—how fortune can turn in a single day.

At thirteen, Kabir topped the state scholarship exam.

The whole village celebrated, distributing sweets and lighting diyas in his honour. His name appeared in the district newspaper—the first time anyone from Gulmohar had achieved such a thing.

That same year, his mother fell ill. He went into the forest to gather herbs and was bitten by a poisonous snake—right on the tendon of his foot.

The incident shocked everyone. Even now, some blamed the evil eye, others whispered about bad luck running in the family.

The District Magistrate hired the best doctor from Lucknow, but the damage was too severe.

Despite every effort—herbs, prayers, even a special puja at the temple—nothing worked. The boy’s fate was sealed.

The brilliant young genius became a cripple.

The change was swift and heartbreaking. People avoided his gaze, unwilling to face their own helplessness.

According to the rules, the disabled could not participate in the civil service exams.

Rules were rules, and no amount of pleading could change them. The dream that once burned so bright was snuffed out in an instant.

Kabir’s path to government service was cut off.

His mother’s cries echoed through the village, a reminder of how quickly hope can become despair.

After his leg healed, villagers were surprised to see Scholar Kabir working the fields, like any other uneducated farmer—ploughing, weeding, tending crops.

He never complained, never asked for pity. With every slow, painful step, he reminded everyone of what could have been.

Because of his limp, he worked slowly and poorly, even worse than the village children.

Some laughed, others looked away in embarrassment. Only a few offered help, and Kabir always refused.

Kabir Joshi was like a shooting star across Gulmohar Village’s sky—brilliant and dazzling, yet so brief.

People still talked about the day he recited the Ramayana by heart, the way he solved sums faster than the teachers. His story became a warning, a lesson.

In the end, all that remained were a few sighs.

The echoes of his potential haunted the village. Every time someone struggled, they would say, “At least we’re not as unlucky as Kabir.”

Hearing it was Scholar Kabir, my mother’s worries vanished.

A sense of relief washed over her face. Even in the worst situations, Kabir’s name was still associated with innocence, not scandal.

Just now, seeing my mother-in-law so confident, she’d been angry, but deep down a little uneasy.

Now, the fear faded. She straightened, her confidence returning. The crowd, too, relaxed a little.

“Kamala Sharma, are you mad?”

Her voice rang out, laced with incredulity. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”

“That Kabir is as silent as a stone, never socialises with anyone.”

It was true—Kabir kept to himself, rarely speaking unless spoken to. He was more comfortable with books than with people.

“My Ananya has never had anything to do with him.”

She looked at me, her eyes pleading for confirmation. My heart clenched at her faith in me.

Mother spoke while turning to look at me.

She needed reassurance, not just for herself, but for the whole family. I tried to muster a smile, but my lips wouldn’t move.

Seeing my pale face, she staggered a few steps, her voice trembling.

The shock was too much. Her shoulders slumped, as if the world had suddenly become too heavy to bear.

“Good girl, you—you tell me, you don’t know that Kabir, right?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, full of hope and fear. I wanted to hug her, to tell her everything would be alright.

I never thought my mother-in-law would use this to ruin my reputation.

But she was ruthless—her hatred knew no bounds. She would stop at nothing to see me disgraced.

I did know Kabir Joshi.

The memory came rushing back—his shy smile, the awkward way he avoided eye contact, the quiet strength in his actions.

He had only a frail, sickly widowed mother, so to save money, he often went into the forest to gather herbs.

Their small hut stood at the edge of the village, shaded by a neem tree. Sometimes, Amma would send me with food for his mother, and I would see Kabir limping home, herbs clutched in his hand.

Thinking back, it must have been last month.

It was one of those humid days after the first rains, when the air is thick and every step feels heavy.

It had just rained. I went into the woods to pick mushrooms and happened to see Kabir fall into the pond.

The pond’s water was muddy, swollen from last night’s rain, and frogs croaked from the reeds as I waded in. He slipped on the mossy bank, his crutch flying from his grasp. I heard his cry and ran to help, my heart pounding in my chest.

As a child, I loved to play and learnt to swim from my father.

Those summer afternoons spent splashing in the river finally paid off. Without thinking, I dove into the water.

We were from the same village—how could I not save him?

In our world, letting someone drown was unthinkable—a sin as grave as breaking a promise to the gods. I knew what I had to do.

It was just after dawn. I jumped into the pond, rescued Kabir, and carried him home on my back.

My sari was soaked, clinging to my skin, but I didn’t care. Kabir shivered, his lips blue, but he managed a weak smile as we reached his house.

Kabir didn’t say much at the time.

He only thanked me once, his voice barely audible. I saw the gratitude in his eyes, though—he didn’t need words.

But later, when he heard Rohan needed money for his college entrance coaching, he secretly gave me fifty thousand rupees.

He pressed the envelope into my hands when no one was looking. “For Rohan,” he whispered, before limping away. I stood there, stunned, not knowing how to thank him.

My mother-in-law found the money, and I was young and told her everything.

She demanded to know where it came from. In my innocence, I confessed, thinking she would understand. I was wrong.

Unexpectedly, I was given a good shouting by my mother-in-law for a long time.

She called me names, her voice echoing through the house. I tried to defend myself, but she would not listen.

She called me characterless, accused me of being a wanton woman, and punished me to kneel at home for three days.

My knees ached, my pride shattered. Rohan avoided me, and the neighbours whispered behind my back.

Even Rohan gave me the cold shoulder for a long time.

He wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t speak unless absolutely necessary. The silence between us grew thicker with every passing day.

As for that money, my mother-in-law refused to return it to Kabir.

She insisted it was compensation for my ‘shameful’ behaviour. I begged her to give it back, but she refused.

She said that since I had carried Kabir on my back, he must have touched me.

Her words were like poison—twisting kindness into something ugly. I wept, but she only grew more convinced of my guilt.

Since he had touched the Sharma family’s future daughter-in-law, he should pay compensation.

To her, honour was a thing to be bought and sold. My pain meant nothing compared to the family’s reputation.