Chapter 1: The City Swallows Us

The city swallowed us whole the moment we stepped off the bus—Dad clutching his old briefcase, Mum scanning every shop sign, and me, clutching the edge of her dupatta, trying not to get lost in the crowd. The blare of horns tangled with the smell of petrol and frying samosas, and auto-rickshaws wove in and out like dragonflies. I pressed close to Mum, her dupatta soft in my fist, my heart pounding. As we threaded through the chaos, I thought of the village at dawn—the rooster’s call, the far-off temple bell, the peace of misty fields. The city was dazzling, but I missed that gentle calm already.

When we reached the old, shabby bungalow, I dug my heels into the dusty path and refused to leave. Paint peeled from the walls, moss crept up the bricks, and the iron gate let out a creak that echoed in the heat. A mango tree whispered in the corner, its leaves rustling like secrets. I sat on the veranda’s step, picking at the hem of my frock, eyes fixed on the ground—a silent, stubborn protest. My parents called, coaxed, cajoled, but I didn’t budge. Somehow, this broken house felt like home.

No amount of promises could move me. Dad offered swings in fancy parks, Mum tempted me with ice cream and new dolls. But I only wrapped my arms tighter around Mum’s leg, hiding my face, refusing even to glance at another house. Neighbours stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths as they gossiped about this city-crazy little girl. I didn’t care; for the first time, I knew exactly what I wanted.

In the end, my stubbornness won. Dad looked at Mum, shaking his head in mock defeat, and she ruffled my hair, her exasperation melting into a smile. Dad’s bargaining voice carried through the still air as he haggled with the owner. When the deal was struck, we gathered at the rusty gate for a family selfie—Mum adjusting her bindi in the phone’s reflection, Dad joking about his hair being all over the place, and me trying to get Dadi on a video call to show her the new house. As the streetlight flickered in a power cut, the old bungalow looked less like a ruin and more like a promise.

Three days later, we woke to a rude shock—a bright red Hindi ‘toot-phoot’ (demolish) symbol painted across our new compound wall. The paint was so fresh it glistened in the sticky morning air. I ran to the mark and tried to rub at it with my thumb, desperate to make it disappear, but the angry colour only smeared on my skin. Mum and Dad stood frozen, faces pale, as the neighbour’s WhatsApp group buzzed with the news. Even the chowkidar shook his head, muttering, “Yeh toh naya lafda hai, bhaiya.”

Dad stared at the wall as if hoping the letters would vanish. Mum’s bangles clinked as she covered her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, the city’s usual clatter faded into silence, as if even it was waiting to see what we’d do next. Dadi’s voice echoed in my mind, “Har nayi shuruaat mein rukawat toh aati hai.” But as I stared at the angry red letters, I wondered: Had my stubbornness broken our family’s luck?

But as Dad’s voice faded, I pressed my hand against the cold window, promising myself—I would not let this city take away our new home.