Chapter 2: The Net Tightens

“Ananya, have you reached college? Is your hostel room clean? Remember to use the pure cotton bedsheet I packed for you—other fabrics aren’t good for your skin.”

My mother’s voice, coming through the phone, is like an invisible net, instantly tightening around the brief freedom I just tasted.

Outside, the corridor buzzes—someone in a red kurta arguing with her father over a suitcase. I nod absently, knowing Ma will expect a photo of my neatly made bed before sunset. “Got it, Ma.”

I reply mechanically, my eyes drifting over the other three girls in the hostel room, each busy with her own things.

Meera’s plait swings as she unpacks, Priya is sticking photos on the wall, and Fatima scrolls on her phone. Their parents have left, but my mother insists on “remote guidance” for every move I make.

“By the way, about your living expenses.” Her tone suddenly turns stern.

A crow caws outside the window as if to warn me. “I’ve set up a Family UPI for you. I can see every single purchase you make.”

“There are too many temptations at university. I have to help you stay on the right track.”

My heart sinks.

A Family UPI means every rupee I spend will be reported to my mother in real time.

She’ll know what I bought, when, and for how much.

This isn’t support—it’s surveillance.

“Ma, other students—”

“Other students are other students. You are my daughter.” She cuts me off, her voice as final as a judge’s gavel. “That’s final. Remember, don’t spend even a single rupee on anything unnecessary.”

After I hang up, Priya comes over curiously. “Wah, your Ma is next level yaar, even made a Family UPI for you.”

She glances at my phone, a mix of envy and pity on her face. I force a smile.

I don’t explain the suffocating control hidden behind this so-called ‘care.’

I tuck the phone away, watching as the others laugh over silly memes. College life has officially begun—and so has a new level of my nightmare.

Every time I buy something, no matter how small, my mother’s call comes within five minutes.

The hostel corridor is always buzzing—pressure cookers whistling, aunties yelling—but her calls slice through the noise. “Ananya, did you just buy cold coffee?”

“What is this late-night kharcha? You think money grows on trees?”

“Drinks from outside aren’t healthy. Didn’t I give you those ayurvedic tea bags?”

“What’s this ₹60 charge?”

“Oh, detergent? Doesn’t the hostel have public washing machines? Why buy your own?”

“You bought a book? What book? Is it a textbook? Send me the title.”

Every day, I have to explain, justify, or even apologise for every trivial purchase.

My roommates soon notice my odd behaviour. They shop online, order food, and go out freely, while I live under my mother’s financial surveillance—even a pack of sanitary pads needs her approval.

The shame of having to ask for permission for things like pads makes my cheeks burn. I wait until the others are out, then sneak my purchases, the way someone else might sneak in a boyfriend.