Chapter 5: The Rented Room

After leaving the Sharma family, I found a tiny room on the edge of Lucknow, thanks to Ammaji—an old woman who loved strays, and strays like me. She knew someone who knew someone. In this city, that’s all that matters.

The room was barely enough for a cot, with a shared toilet and peeling blue walls. Flies buzzed, the air stank of sewage. Bhojpuri songs blared until midnight. Still, it was mine.

It was harsh, but I could manage. Before the Sharmas, I’d slept under torn mosquito nets, waking with red bumps on my face. At least here, no one called me names or made me polish shoes.

But my mother couldn’t bear it. One morning, in pain, she slapped me, insisting she wanted to go back to being Mrs. Sharma. The slap rang out, sending the neighbour’s cat fleeing. Her eyes blazed with a pride that pain couldn’t kill.

I touched my stinging cheek and said, “Fine, go crawl back yourself.”

My voice was cold as Lucknow’s winter. I turned away, blinking back tears, busying myself with watery tea on the one gas burner.

She didn’t know the mansion already had a new mistress—thin, sharp-eyed, draped in silk, walking like she owned every brick. My mother, broken on our cot, still believed in fairy tales.

She’d had ten years of luxury. That was enough. Some people get a lifetime, some a decade. Maybe that was more than most.

She tried to hit me again, but I dodged. The cup she threw missed my head and smashed on the floor.

I hated her, but I couldn’t abandon her. Nani’s last words echoed: “Beta, apni maa ko kabhi chhodna mat.” Gritting my teeth, I swept up the shards, blood and blood.