Chapter 7: The Lost Voice

When I was eight, I played in the park with Kabir. That’s when we ran into child traffickers.

They grabbed Kabir and ran. I chased them, screaming for help.

The smell of wet earth after the first monsoon rain filled the park, and somewhere in the distance, a chaiwala’s bell clanged. My throat burned as I yelled, dust stinging my eyes. All I saw was Kabir’s small hand reaching for me, both of us terrified.

They took us to an unfinished building—grey cement, dark corners, the kind you only see in crime shows. It stank of urine and stale food. My heart thudded like a tabla, palms sweating.

No one came when we screamed.

But I was just a girl—not worth much, so they didn’t tie me up tightly.

I found a piece of broken glass—cold, sticky—and cut my ropes. My hands shook, skin stinging.

While they went for food, I freed Arjun too.

But as soon as we reached the stairs, we were caught.

Arjun fell, hurting his leg, but I pulled him up, refusing to leave him.

We ran into the street—traffic everywhere, rickshaws and bikes honking, the air thick with petrol and the smell of frying samosas from a thelawala.

One trafficker was hit by a car. He flew, landing right in front of me.

I screamed. Arjun, though scared, covered my eyes tight.

“Meera, main hoon.”

His voice shook, but it was all I had. Even now, I dream of that moment—the scream stuck in my throat, the world spinning.

After that, I never spoke again.

Arjun knew. In a way, he was part of why I lost my voice.

His parents always said our family was their benefactor for life.

But he repaid kindness with betrayal.