Chapter 2: Promises and Prison Walls

When it came time for the entrance test for junior high, Meera easily got into the best school in Lucknow, topping the entrance list.

Her name appeared first in the Hindustan Times education supplement—relatives called from as far as Kanpur to congratulate us. My mother’s eyes shone with pride, even as she worried about the new challenges ahead.

But that school was too far from home—she would have to stay in the hostel—and my parents didn’t want her to go.

The idea of their daughter living in a hostel—so far, so independent—bothered them more than they admitted. "Betiyan ghar mein hi achhi lagti hain," my grandmother muttered.

Their reason was that it would be inconvenient for her to take care of me.

Every family function, the aunties would gossip: "Who will look after Arjun if Meera leaves? Ladka toh abhi bachcha hai!" It seemed as if my needs would always outweigh hers.

“If you go, we won’t give you any money,” Dad sneered. “If you’re so capable, earn it yourself.”

Papa’s voice thundered over the clatter of pressure cooker whistles, his newspaper trembling in his hands. The smell of burnt dal filled the kitchen as Amma banged utensils, refusing to look at Meera.

Meera didn’t argue. She just went back to her room, lay quietly, not eating or talking. After a few days, she was as weak as a dying person.

She retreated into herself, refusing even her favourite kheer. Her eyes grew dull, and the air in her room felt cold, as if the summer heat couldn’t reach her.

I was anxious, but my parents were cold and indifferent, ignoring everything. “Who are you trying to scare? So stubborn at such a young age—what will you be like in the future?”

Ma busied herself in the kitchen, banging utensils loudly, while Papa read the paper, unmoved. My pleas fell on uncaring ears.

In the end, I brought water to Meera’s lips, but she still wouldn’t drink.

I tried everything—telling her jokes, bringing her comics, even crying at her bedside. She only stared blankly at the ceiling, as if floating far away.

I touched her hair, then knelt in front of my parents, begging them to let Meera have her wish.

My knees ached on the cold terrazzo floor. I joined my hands, pleading, "Mummy, Papa, please maan jao. Didi ke bina ghar khali lagega."

My parents refused. “You really care about her. If she goes to that school, she’ll only come back on weekends. How will she take care of you?”

Their voices were sharp, their faces pinched with worry about everything except Meera’s happiness. "Yeh sab mooh lagaane ki baatein hain," Papa grumbled.

I said I didn’t need taking care of—I just wanted Meera to be happy.

With tears streaking my face, I tried to explain, "Didi ke bina main bhi theek se nahi padh paunga. Usko khush rehne do, na."

If they didn’t agree, I would go on a hunger strike with her.

I banged my fist on the table, declaring, “Agar Meera nahi gayi, toh main bhi khana nahi khaunga!” My mother’s eyes widened, and Papa looked up, startled by my determination.

In the end, my dad sighed. “Fine, let her go, but don’t regret it.”

He tried to sound stern, but I could see the worry hiding in his eyes. Still, the decision was made, and the air seemed to lighten instantly.

When I ran back to Meera’s room to tell her, the emptiness in her eyes instantly lit up.

Her face crumpled, and for the first time in days, I saw hope flicker in her expression. She clung to my hand as if it was the only anchor in her world.

She hugged my head like a cat and sobbed with all her pent-up grievances.

I held her tight, feeling her tears soak my collar. The sound of her crying was soft and desperate, the kind that comes only after holding in too much for too long.

After Meera started junior high, she was away five days a week, and I would habitually call out “Didi,” only to hear empty echoes at home.

The house felt too big and too silent. Even the cook said, “Sahab, chhoti memsaab ke bina ghar suna suna lagta hai.” I wandered from room to room, waiting for the sound of her bicycle in the driveway.

When she came home on weekends, she looked relaxed and happy, as if leaving home had recharged her.

She’d arrive with her duffel bag, hair loose, stories tumbling out about hostel life and new friends. Her laughter filled the rooms, and for a while, our house felt alive again.

Once, I saw her chatting animatedly with classmates, but when she turned around, her face instantly went cold and blank. When she stood at the door, she even had to take a deep breath before pushing it open.

I watched her from the stairwell, noticing the way her smile disappeared at the threshold, replaced by a careful, practiced calm. It was as if she wore a mask just for our parents.

I knew she wasn’t happy at home. My parents never considered her feelings. I always tried to mediate, but whether it was my parents or Meera’s personality, they were both much stronger than me—there wasn’t much I could do.

I tried to lighten the mood—cracking jokes at dinner, sneaking sweets into her bag—but the tension in the house was a stubborn shadow that refused to leave.

Later, when we reached ninth standard, my studies became more and more difficult, and my parents wouldn’t accept it. They forced Meera to transfer to my school.

Dad called it “for the family’s convenience,” ignoring the storm brewing in Meera’s eyes. Even the neighbours gossiped about it, but no one dared question my father’s decision.

“That way you can help him at school too,” my dad said confidently. “You can’t just care about your own marks. You’re too selfish.”

His words, meant to be practical, only deepened the wounds. I saw the hurt flicker across Meera’s face, but she stayed silent, as always.

I felt guilty but couldn’t resist my parents.

Every night, I stared at the ceiling, wishing I had the courage to stand up for her, but all I could do was apologize in whispers she never heard.

They made Meera transfer, forcing her to change schools during the busiest year of junior high.

Even her friends seemed shocked. Her hostel warden sent her off with a tearful hug, pressing a small gift into her palm. I could see the reluctance in Meera’s eyes as she packed up her room.

Meera moved back home.

Her old room was dusted and aired out, but it felt colder than before. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed harsher, the silence heavier.

That familiar silence and obedience returned to her face, and those moments of happiness with her peers disappeared.

Her laughter faded, replaced by a cautious, subdued smile. Even Ma noticed, clucking her tongue and muttering about how “girls get spoilt in hostels.”

She went to school with me in the morning—it was only a ten-minute walk down our colony road.

Every morning, the lane buzzed with the noise of vegetable vendors and newspaper boys, the scent of wet earth rising as we walked side by side. Yet, between us, there was a tension I couldn’t name.

She was gloomy, so I could only tell jokes along the way.

I’d nudge her, trying to make her smile—"Didi, suno toh… ek joke sunoge?" Sometimes, she’d smile faintly, but mostly she just walked ahead, lost in her own world.

In the alley, Meera suddenly, without warning, kicked the wall hard.

The sound echoed, startling a stray dog nearby. For a second, I just stared—my gentle, reserved Didi suddenly unleashing all her frustration in one violent act.

She was always quiet and reserved, so this startled me.

Even my heart jumped—Meera was never one for drama. The force behind her action made me realise just how much she was holding inside.

That kick felt like it landed on my heart.

I swallowed, a dull ache rising in my chest. I wanted to say something, anything, but the words got stuck in my throat.

She let out a cry of pain.

The sound was sharp, raw—so different from her usual calm. I rushed to her side, worried and panicked.

I rushed over—it turned out she had kicked so suddenly she hadn’t noticed a brick sticking out. Her ankle was scraped, revealing a pink strip of flesh, bleeding.

Blood trickled down her ankle, staining her white socks. She tried to hide it, but the pain made her wince.

I hurried over, took out my water bottle and poured water on the wound, then used tissues to roughly bandage her.

My hands shook as I dabbed at the blood, apologizing over and over. "Didi, sorry, sorry. Yeh sab meri wajah se hua na?"

“It probably needs to be disinfected. The school clinic should have supplies. Let’s go quickly.” I was already taller than Meera, so I easily supported her.

I slung her arm over my shoulder, helping her limp down the lane. A few aunties watched from their balconies, whispering behind their dupattas, but I ignored them.

Suddenly, a tear fell on my hand.

The drop was warm, unexpected. I looked up to see Meera’s face crumpling, her lips pressed tightly together.

Meera lowered her head, said nothing, just letting tears fall from her chin.

She bit her lower lip, trying to hide her sobs. The pain wasn’t just in her ankle—it was everywhere, leaking out at last.

My throat felt painfully dry.

It felt like something sharp had lodged itself in my chest, making it hard to breathe, to speak.

“Sorry,” I said, my voice trembling.

It was barely more than a whisper. The guilt was suffocating.

Meera shook her head, rubbed her eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

Her voice was hoarse, but steady. She forced a small smile, the kind meant to reassure me, not herself.

She gave me a weak smile, as if convincing herself. “It’s not your fault.”

Her eyes shone with tears, but she squared her shoulders, pushing down her sadness.

She pushed away my hand and limped forward.

I watched her stubbornly move ahead, refusing help, her head held high despite the pain. I trailed behind, feeling useless.

Watching her frail back, I felt a heavy stone pressing on my heart, making it hard to breathe.

The morning sun threw her shadow long on the road, and I wished, for the first time, that I could take away even a fraction of her hurt.