Chapter 5: The Society’s Judgement

4

The next morning, after breakfast, Arjun told me he was taking me to the police station.

He announced it while folding the newspaper, his tea untouched. I clung to his leg, tears pouring down my cheeks.

I hugged his leg and wailed, “Papa, I don’t want to go! I can’t leave you!”

My cries echoed in the stairwell. Amma once said, “Don’t be afraid to cry if you’re hurting, beta.”

The pretty aunty from across the hall came out just then.

She was carrying a thali of marigold flowers for puja when she spotted us.

Seeing me sobbing, she hurried over and wrapped me in a warm hug. “What’s wrong, beta? Kya hua?”

She smelled of sandalwood and her hug was soft, almost like Amma’s. I buried my face in her saree, hiccupping.

I cried so hard I could barely breathe. “Pa-papa wants to take...me to the police station...”

My words came out in bursts between sobs, but aunty patted my back, murmuring, “Arre, bachcha, don’t cry. Kuch nahi hoga.”

The pretty aunty turned to Arjun, furious. “Arjun, you can’t scare a child like this! She’ll be traumatised!”

She glared at Arjun, one hand on her hip, the other shielding me. The whole corridor seemed to rally behind her.

“Papa, papa...”

My grip tightened on her saree, desperate not to be sent away.

Seeing me sob, the pretty aunty pressed a warm hand to my head, muttering a quick "Nazar na lage" before shooting Arjun a sharp look. “Don’t cry, beta. Aunty’s here. I won’t let your papa take you to the police station.”

She wiped my tears with the end of her pallu, tsking at Arjun. I sniffled, looking up at her gratefully.

Aunty called out to her neighbour, “Rekha, zara ek garam doodh le aao aur shawl bhi. Bacchi kaanp rahi hai!” In moments, a neighbour appeared with a steaming glass of milk and a thick, faded shawl, draping it around my shoulders.

Arjun: “...”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, lost for words.

He was about to explain.

He took a step forward, his hands raised as if surrendering, but aunty’s glare silenced him.

“Arjun, your daughter looks just like you.” The pretty aunty pinched my cheek, sighing. “Her eyes and nose are just like yours. No wonder she’s so cute—she’s got the best of her parents!”

She looked between us, clearly pleased. The society’s WhatsApp group would buzz tonight.

Arjun frowned.

He ran a hand through his hair, lost in thought. His gaze lingered on my face, softer than before.

He looked at me, searching my eyes for something—maybe a memory, maybe hope.

He didn’t try to send me away again.

A small smile tugged at my lips. For the first time, I felt maybe I belonged here.

Through the study’s half-open door, I heard him talking on the phone.

I tiptoed closer, curiosity bubbling. The smell of filter coffee drifted from the kitchen, mixing with the low hum of voices.

“Kunal, I need your help for a DNA test.”

He spoke softly, like sharing a secret.

“Haan? When did you get a kid? Whose child is it?”

The other voice was teasing, full of mischief—like an old college friend.

“Meera Sharma’s.”

He hesitated, as if the name was a wound.

“Her?” The voice sighed. “Why are you tangled up with her again? She turned her back on you, used you, and now suddenly there’s a child?”

The words stung, echoing the judgement Amma faced even after death.

“Is hair with roots okay?”

“It’s fine, but Arjun, don’t get your hopes up too high. Meera Sharma was married...”

The line crackled, but I could feel the weight of Kunal’s warning. Outside, the city woke up: autos honked, children played cricket in the courtyard, and the scent of someone’s sambar drifted up the stairs. Inside, for the first time, I felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, this house could be home. But outside the window, a crow cawed—reminding me that in our stories, even hope comes with a warning.