I press the rolling pin down on the dough, working it into a perfect circle, and place the chapati on the pan to cook. The chapati puffs up on the pan, swelling with air and heat, and I flip it, then place it next to the gatte ki sabji on the plate. I step into the living room, my movements rushed to serve the food hot, only to find the mat where Papa sat moments ago now empty, the imprint of his body still visible in the soft fabric.

I place the food on the bajot table, my heart knocking strangely in my chest. I call his name softly, but there's no answer. I turn off the gas in the kitchen, my thoughts moving like storm clouds, thick and heavy, and head toward his room.

Papa isn't there.

It's when I spin around to look outside, to call for him in the courtyard, that I hear it—the sound. Faint, at first, almost too low to notice. It comes from the direction of the washroom, a strange, guttural noise, not quite human. A noise you'd expect from an animal backed into a corner. My feet freeze to the floor.

I am too scared to move.

Then, a sob breaks through the strange sounds, and I recognize it. The sniffles, the quiet desperation that trails in the air. This time, there is no mistaking it—Papa is crying.

The air shifts, thick with a kind of grief that sticks in your throat. Panic wells up in me, heavy and sick. I stand still, the realization settling into my bones like the weight of a thousand secrets. I press my palms to my ears, but the sound slips through anyway, digging into me, pulling at the buried memories I've kept locked away, deep inside. Memories that have stayed dormant, hidden, in the recesses of my mind.

*****Trigger warning: scenes of child abuse ahead*****

I am suddenly five, maybe six, my arms coiled tightly around my knees, small and trembling on the kitchen floor. A housemaid, her face still clear in my mind though her name has long since slipped away, hovers over me. Her thin lips are painted in a maroon lipstick that bleeds slightly at the corners, the lines around her mouth deepening as she presses them into a hard, unforgiving line.

I'm sobbing, my small body shaking with every breath, but she pays no heed. She grabs a piece of chapati, tears off a rough morsel, and shoves it into my mouth. Her fingers, stained with the spices of the kitchen, force the bread past my teeth, folding it against my tongue. I choke on the mouthful of piece, my tears mixing with the bitter tang of fear.

'Eat, you daughter of a dog! Stop crying, this is how the world is. Eat! Better be prepared beforehand. Chew it! You'll have to shove a lot of unpleasant stuff down your mouth when you grow up. Learn from the experienced.'

She grabs my jaw, her grip iron, forcing it open as she shoves the chapati inside. I choke on it, gagging as half-chewed food spills out, dribbling down my chin, staining my vest. Tears stream from my eyes, hot and helpless. My sobs come out ragged, my voice barely a whisper through the food.

'Papa,' I cry, my throat burning.

But she doesn't stop. Her eyes narrow, her lips curl into something cruel.

'Your papa is no good,' she barks, her voice low and bitter. 'He'll marry you off to a man like mine, mark my words. That's your fate, girl. Just like mine.' She pries my mouth open again, her fingers rough as she stuffs another chunk of chapati inside, larger this time, filling my mouth until I can barely breathe. I gag, coughing, trying to spit it out, but she holds me still.

I choke.

She raises her hand, fingers ready to strike my back. The shadow of it falls across my face when suddenly Papa bursts in, dragging her out of the house with a force I hadn't known he had.

*****Trigger warning: Ends*****

That night, the sounds from the bathroom came again—soft at first, then rising, cracking like something inside him had broken loose. I sat frozen on the floor, the door just a few steps away. The urge to cry built up inside me, pressing against my ribs, but no sound came. I stood still, swallowing it down, feeling the tears retreat, sinking back into the hollow spaces inside me. His grief filled the air, heavy and raw, until there was no room left for mine.

The door clicks open, and it's as though all the warmth floods back into my limbs at once. I bolt to the kitchen, my heart hammering against my ribs. Sweat beads at my temples, and I wipe it away with the back of my sleeve, forcing myself to focus on the dough beneath my hands, rolling out chapatis, one after another.

When I bring them to him, sliding the hot chapati softly onto his plate, Papa doesn't look at me. His eyes are red, wet around the edges, and to a stranger, they might seem like the bleary eyes of a man who's had one too many drinks. But I know better. I've lived with him long enough to read the flushed nose, the damp splotches on his cheeks, the way his ears are tinged pink. He's been crying, not long ago. Maybe moments before I'd stepped into the room.

I take a breath, steadying myself. 'There's a party,' I say quietly, my voice measured. 'My friends are picking me up.'

He doesn't respond right away, his throat working as he swallows. Then he clears it, his voice rough, barely above a murmur. 'Where?'

'The Lalit.'

He looks up from his plate, raising an eyebrow, but quickly looks down again when his gaze lands on the band-aid and my chopped hair.

'Okay,' he mutters, the word thick. 'Tell them to drop you back by eleven. And... be responsible.'

'I will,' I whisper.

I've already crossed the rest of my tasks off the list, even shaved earlier this afternoon. Now, I slip into a quick bath, the mid-October air cool against my skin as I step out.

I slip into the tea-length navy blue dress Arjun sent over—probably rented. It fits snug at the bust and flares out from the waist, the fabric swishing around my legs in a way that makes me feel annoyingly elegant. The bow-like detailing on the sleeves catches my eye, and I run my fingers over the stitching, mentally noting the pattern for future sewing projects.

The phone on the bed beeps. I check and there are two messages.

Arjun: Will you be comfortable in a car? Heard from Romil that you have motion sickness.

Me: First, anything over fifteen minutes in a car and I'm a goner. Second, if you've got a less pretentious two-wheeler with a good handle to grip, I'll be fine.

I open Romil's text.

Romil: Send me a pic 😀

Me: See me in 3D 😉

He's typing. I wait biting my lip for his reply.

Romil: Just one pic. I need to mentally prepare🤞

I grin at my phone.

Me: Prepare for what? It's just a dress.

Romil: For the moment I inevitably pass out from how stunning you'll look. I need to be at least 50% functional tonight.

I laugh.

Me: Don't overhype it, Romil. I'm still the same person.

Romil: Yeah, but with a bow on the sleeves. That changes things.

Me: Oh, so you're into bows now?

Romil: Only when they're on you.

I notice that I'm smiling at the screen like an idiot.

Me: Wait, did you pick the dress and the heels? I thought Arjun got it. There was no note.

Romil: Technically, the saleswoman picked it. I just pointed at it with great authority.

I notice he conveniently sidesteps the mention of Arjun. But I let it slide.

Me: You're ridiculous.

Romil: You're ridiculously beautiful🤩

I mentally make a note to craft a return-gift suit for him. I'm already brainstorming how I'll pull off a tux with the limited formal materials I usually get. Might have to make a special trip just for that. The tricky part, though, is figuring out how to get his measurements without tipping him off. Nothing I come up with feels like it wouldn't make me sound... weirdly suggestive. Probably shouldn't say, 'Hey, mind if I just casually wrap a measuring tape around your biceps for no reason?'

I blush and I shake my head, trying to banish the absolutely-not-appropriate thoughts racing through my mind.

A notification pings on my phone, snapping me back. It's Arjun.

Arjun: I think I am somewhere else. Is this the correct address?

All the heat evaporates from my face in an instant and a new condensed feeling starts to knot in my stomach. I sigh, bracing for the inevitable explanation.

I hurry to wear the strappy silver heels. With a last glance in the bathroom mirror, I smooth down the waves of my hair. It's not perfect—still uneven and choppy—but tonight, the strands have decided to behave, framing my face like I actually meant for it to look this way. I give myself a nod, like some kind of pep talk, and whisper, 'You've got this,' before hurrying to the door, heart racing.

*****

A/N

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XOXO,
Shailey