Chapter 3: Into the Lion’s Den

The noblewoman was Priya, daughter of the Additional Secretary of Finance, her poise sharpened by privilege. The Arjun she spoke of—third son of Mr. Sharma—was from a world far above mine. Priya’s pearl-studded hairpin glittered, making my heart ache.

Her petite maid, clad in a crimson silk skirt and gold bangles, eyed me with open disdain. Her gaze lingered on my simple silver anklet, its single bell tinkling—a sound lost against the rustle of Priya’s silk.

The maid snorted, hiding her smirk behind her dupatta. "Iski jaisi toh humare gaon mein bhi mil jaati hai, madam. Yeh toh naukarani bhi nahi lagti. Even the cleaning women wouldn’t want her anklet."

Priya’s posture relaxed. She patted the maid’s hand approvingly. "You have sharp eyes. Enough—my husband is waiting. Let’s go."

At her signal, two burly women grabbed my arms, their nails biting through my blouse. I bit my lip, refusing to cry out.

"What are you doing? Let me go!"

Priya’s face darkened. "Enough. My husband isn’t here, so stop putting on an act. A village girl dares show airs in front of me!"

Today truly was my unlucky day. I’d fallen picking herbs in the hills, and just after bathing, Priya arrived. Normally, I’d have a dozen insects for protection. Now, only my natal insect and a few small ones. I remembered the warnings: "Don’t live so far from people, beti. Who will hear your cry if trouble comes?"

I shouted for help, but no one came. The maid rolled up her sleeves and slapped me hard. "You two are useless! Gag her!"

One woman stuffed a foul handkerchief in my mouth, the taste of old sweat and paan making me gag. They tied my hands and dumped me into the car. My head slammed against the seat, vision blackening.

"Chalo!" The car rumbled away. I curled up, feigning unconsciousness, murmuring a prayer in my mother tongue to my natal insect, begging for protection. It squirmed uselessly in my sari fold, its power no match for their grip.

"Aunty Sunita, did we go too far?" one woman whispered, nudging me with her foot.

Sunita scoffed. "If the third sahib cared, would he keep her in a villager’s house with no maid? Look at her—coarse cotton. Even our lowest servants dress better. And—"

She lowered her voice. "I heard from those near the old madam—this mistress once damaged her body and can’t have children. Otherwise, the old madam would never allow her here."

Aunty Mala gasped. "She can’t have children?"

Sunita nodded. "The third sahib said he’d never let a mistress threaten the main wife’s position. There will never be any eldest illegitimate sons or daughters. Now he’s passed the civil service exam, the old madam is pleased, so the mistress is allowed in."

Aunty Mala snickered. "A mistress who can’t have children—what can she rely on? When she’s young, her looks. When she’s old, she’ll live worse than a maid. Banjar zameen pe koi kheti nahi hoti."

Their gossip washed over me. Four years—Arjun and Priya had been married that long. In their third year, Priya miscarried. Arjun left, broken, to travel and study. The man they described was both like and unlike my Arjun. My world shrank, as tight and suffocating as the backseat of that car.