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Aaravika
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Morning broke, but it didn’t feel like light. It felt like suffocation, the kind that crawls up your throat and grips your chest. My cheek throbbed, the ghost of yesterday’s slap marking me with shame I didn’t earn. His anger lingered, clinging to my skin like a curse. I touched the bruise, my fingers brushing over the sting as if I could rub it away. I couldn’t. You can’t erase what you’re born to endure.

The silence in the house was a predator, stalking every corner, every breath. This wasn’t a home; it was a battlefield, and I was always caught in the crossfire. Even the walls had grown used to my father’s voice cutting through them like a blade. Today, I wanted to escape—to college, to anywhere—but freedom was a dream I’d learned not to trust.

I dressed in soft pink, the Anarkali flowing like a promise of gentleness I didn’t believe in. My fingers fixed the bindi on my forehead. It never stayed, not for long, but fixing it had become a ritual. Like my life—a constant act of putting things in place only to watch them fall apart again.

When I stepped into the dining room, the air shifted, heavy with judgment. Shreya and Shravya’s eyes followed me, their silence sharper than their usual taunts. My aunt, of course, couldn’t resist. Her words were venom wrapped in mockery. “Our little princess has arrived. Shall we offer her a throne at the table?”

I swallowed the retort burning on my tongue. Words wouldn’t save me here. They’d only fan the flames.

Parth, my anchor in this storm, whispered as I sat down. “Are you okay, didi?”

I nodded, but my heart screamed no. I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t anything at all—just a shell trying to hold itself together. I picked at my food, each bite tasteless against the knot in my stomach. My mother’s eyes found mine, soft and worried. She saw the mark on my cheek, and guilt flickered in her gaze. I wanted her to fight for me. To say something. But even she knew better than to cross him.

And then his voice came, sharp and commanding. “Take a leave from college today. Guests are coming over.”

My spoon clattered onto the plate. “Why?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

He didn’t look at me as he spoke, each word a blow to my chest. “They’re coming to discuss your marriage proposal. I’ve already agreed.”

The world stopped. My breath hitched, my pulse roaring in my ears. Marriage? He had already agreed. My voice wavered as I protested, desperation threading through my words. “I’m not ready for marriage. I’m still studying. I need to focus on my career—”

“Enough!” His voice cut through mine like a whip. My body tensed, my mind screaming at me to stop, to stay silent. I glanced at my mother, searching for an ally, but she lowered her gaze.

“This isn’t about you,” he said coldly, his tone as unyielding as stone. “This is about the family. Profit. Power.”

Profit. Power. Was that all I was to him? A transaction? A pawn? My cheek throbbed again, and I felt the fight in me waver, the memory of his anger still fresh. But something in me—something stubborn and wild—refused to bow completely.

“But—”

He slammed his hand against the table, the sound reverberating through the room. “I said enough!”

The room fell silent, the air thick with fear. My aunt smirked from her seat, feeding off the tension like it was her morning chai. “You should be grateful,” she said, her voice dripping with mock concern. “Stop being selfish. Adjust. It’s just marriage.”

“Then why not marry off your daughters?” I shot back, my voice shaking but fierce.

Shreya and Shravya gasped, their faces turning red with indignation. “Why are you dragging us into this?”

I didn’t stay to hear the rest. My feet carried me upstairs before the tears could fall, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to break free.

Once in my room, the storm inside me exploded. I threw pillows, books, anything within reach, as if destroying the room would destroy the helplessness consuming me. But it didn’t. The walls didn’t shatter. The pain didn’t leave. My chest tightened, the edges of my vision darkening until I couldn’t breathe. And then the world went black.

When I woke, I was cradled in my mother’s lap. Her hands ran through my hair, her touch soft but powerless. Parth sat beside her, his hands trembling as he handed her my medicine.

“You’re safe,” they whispered. But I wasn’t. Safety didn’t exist in this house, not for me.

Mom’s voice broke through the haze. “It’s a contract marriage,” she said quietly, as if saying it softer would make it hurt less. “Ten months. After that, it’ll end. But until then, everything must look real. The rituals, the marriage… it’ll all happen in Rajasthan.”

Her words were like ice water, shocking and cruel. A contract. A deal. Ten months of pretending, of being someone else’s possession.

“Why me?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. I already knew.

My father had always seen me as a tool, a means to his ends. I was a daughter in name only, a pawn in his game of power and pride.

I closed my eyes, the mark on my cheek burning like a brand.

RadheKrishna, I prayed silently, show me a way out. But the silence that followed was as suffocating as his command. And I knew then—escape wasn’t an option. Here, I was a lamb bound for the altar, and there was no one to save me.

Voices floated from downstairs, their rhythm sharp, purposeful—a summons to a battlefield dressed as a living room. I sat still, a bird trapped in the shadow of its cage, wishing the bars would vanish but knowing they never would. My father stormed into the room, his presence suffocating, his gaze colder than a winter night. He wasn’t a man; he was the architect of my imprisonment.

“Get her ready,” he barked.

The command sucked the air from the room. My mother moved mechanically, holding out a saree in trembling hands. Her lips quivered, forming words she dared to whisper. “Agar yeh sirf ek formality hai, toh itna tam-jhaam kyon?”

("If this is just a formality, why so much fuss?")

His response cut through her hesitation like a blade. “Mujhe sawaal mat karo. Voh sirf ek businessman nahi hai… samjhi? Ek mafia bhi hai voh.”
("Don’t question me. He’s not just a businessman… he’s a Mafia.")

My heart stumbled over the revelation, and I gripped the edge of the bed as his voice turned to stone. “Yeh mat bhoolna. Agar ek bhi galti ki toh phir voh tumhari akhri galti hogi.”
("Don’t forget this. If you make even one mistake, it will be your last.")

The words clung to the air like the scent of burning incense, suffocating and inescapable. He didn’t wait for a reply. He never did. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving silence as heavy as a monsoon cloud.

I couldn’t breathe. Mafia. I wasn’t walking into a marriage; I was being delivered to a monster. The air in the room felt thick, drowning me, and before I could steady myself, Parth peeked in. He wore a smile meant to reassure, but his eyes betrayed his unease.

“Didi, bas dhyan rakhna,” he said softly. “Yeh log…”
("Just… be careful. These people…")

I threw a pillow at him, too frustrated to find better release. He dodged it with a nervous laugh but didn’t leave without giving me one last look that screamed, Please survive.

When he was gone, my mother knelt before me, arranging the saree like an artist working on a canvas. Her hands were careful, almost reverent, as if the fabric could shield me from the chaos outside. She touched the faint mark on my cheek from yesterday’s slap, her fingers trembling as she applied powder to conceal it. She didn’t speak, but her eyes did: I’m sorry I can’t protect you.

A maid entered, murmuring something about my father calling her, and my mother left, her absence deepening the chasm of dread.

Then, like a gust of wind breaking through the storm, Shruti walked in. My best friend, my refuge. Her arms wrapped around me, her warmth a balm against the cold terror that had settled in my chest.

“Yeh kaise ho gaya, yaar?” she whispered. “Tum aur… is tarah ki shaadi?”
("How did this even happen? You, in a marriage like this?")

I laughed bitterly, a sound more like a sob. “Mujhe khud nahi pata,” I said, my voice cracking. “Sirf das mahine ke liye hai… par kaise guzrenge, woh bhi nahi pata.”

("I don’t even know myself. It’s just ten months… but I don’t know how I’ll get through them.")

Shruti’s face twisted in sympathy. “Aur voh ladka? Kaun hai?”
("And that guy? Who is he?")

I froze, my mind conjuring the possibilities. Mafia. The word alone brought images I didn’t want. What if he was the kind of man who saw mistakes as punishable by death? My imagination spiraled. I could see it: me spilling tea on his shirt, his cold smile as he ordered my disappearance. Bride vanishes mysteriously—family says husband was a Mafia kingpin.

Shruti shook my arm. “Tu kya soch rahi hai?”
("What are you thinking?")

I blinked, swallowing hard. “Wahi jo tum soch rahi ho,” I admitted.
("The same thing you are.")

She sighed, squeezing my hand. “Himmat rakh. Tum waise bhi himmat wali ho. Yeh bhi nikaal legi.”
("Stay strong. You’re brave. You’ll get through this too.")

But her words, while kind, couldn’t chase the fear away. I was walking into a fire with no way of knowing if I’d come out alive—or whole.

A knock at the door shattered the moment. Parth’s voice came through, hesitant. “Didi, neeche bula rahe hain.”
("They’re calling you downstairs.")

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