Chapter 4: Night Messages and Old Wounds

Sleep wouldn’t come. The buzz of mosquitoes, the distant thump of dhol, and my own restless thoughts kept me awake. The ceiling fan circled lazily, mocking my inability to move forward.

I opened Ananya’s WhatsApp chat, my thumb hovering. I typed in Hinglish: ‘Yaar, kya ho gaya aaj?’ Then deleted it, tried again in pure Hindi: ‘Aaj ki baat samajh nahi aayi, Ananya…’ Nothing felt right. I wrote, erased, rewrote—angry words, pleas, questions. Each message felt like a wound.

Her indifference at the gathering gnawed at me. But then I remembered—if it were my parents, would I have done any better? Maybe she was as trapped as I was.

Just then, Ananya video-called me. Her face appeared, pale in the glow of her phone. I could hear laughter and voices in the background—a reminder that life in her house went on, with or without me.

She was probably hiding in a corner. She glanced over her shoulder, whispering as if someone might overhear. It felt strangely close, her vulnerability reaching me through the screen.

“Safely pahunch gaye?” she whispered, her voice soft, almost apologetic, as if she wanted to hold my hand through the glass.

“Bohot ajeeb lag raha hai, Ananya. Sab pehle se decide nahi tha kya? Achanak se itna paisa kyu?” My voice trembled, the trust between us stretched thin.

“Yahin chalta hai yahan. Waise bhi, humari taraf se bhi kuch milega.”

She said it as if dowry was a given, not a burden.

“Kya milega?”

“Quilts, pillows, bas aise hi.”

Her words felt so small, so trivial compared to what my family was being asked. I almost laughed, but the bitterness stuck in my throat.

I was silent. “Tumhe lagta hai yeh sab sahi hai?”

She suddenly started crying, twisting her dupatta around her fingers, biting her lip, blinking back tears. “Mere parents ne mushkil se paala hai mujhe. Shaadi ke baad main Sharma family ki ho jaungi. Apne aap ko de rahi hoon—aur kya chahiye?”

Her tears broke my heart. Every Indian girl grows up with the weight of her parents’ hopes and sacrifices.

I remembered the pandemic—my startup collapsed, I was deep in debt. I spent days eating Maggi, too sick to go to the hospital. The smell of stale noodles, the drone of bad news, the loneliness pressing on my chest.

Ananya took care of me—she’d bring kadha with tulsi and ginger, rub Vicks on my chest, her hands warm and sure, the smell lingering in the room. She’d scold me with love, “Smart mat bano, rest karo.” At night, she’d fall asleep next to me, still clutching my hand, murmuring, “Sab theek ho jayega.”

In that darkness, I’d realised: “Is ladki se shaadi karni hi hai.”

I said, “Chalo, rona band karo. Baat kar lenge.” My voice softened, protective. I wanted to shield her from her own family’s mess.

She sobbed, “Shaadi karoge na?”

I said, “Haan, Ananya.”

There was nothing else to say. For a moment, love was enough—a tiny island in a sea of chaos.

But as I ended the call, my phone pinged again—a new WhatsApp: ‘Beta, sab theek hai na?’ The world outside was watching, and the storm inside had only just begun.