Chapter 25

That night, Sharini returned home to find her parents moving about silently, carrying out chores without as much as a glance in her direction. Her grandmother was the only person to acknowledge her arrival.

Outside, crackers were already going out in full swing, fireworks lighting up the night sky, quite the contrast to the tension within the walls. Sharini didn’t question it.

She greeted her parents with a small, practiced smile and went to wash up.

She changed into comfortable clothes, and walked into the kitchen, lifting a few lids, peering into vessels, hoping to find something she didn’t have to ask for.

“Sharini,” her mother called from the pooja room.

“Haan ma.”

“Come help me with this,”

A pile of new clothes lay waiting. The two got to work without much of an exchange, pressing small streaks of kumkumam onto each piece, folding and stacking them in front of the mirror. Fruits, sweets and savories were arranged neatly on the small teapoy by the side.

“Laegiyam vaangitu vandhiya ma?” father’s voice drifted through the foyer.

“I left it on the table. Check there.”

“Seri da“.

That was all. The house had settled back into its quiet. It wasn’t long before they finished the arrangements and went to bed without discussion.

Sharini hadn’t eaten. Nobody asked if she did.

The next morning, Sharini woke to the clash of worlds, the booming sounds of saravedis from the streets and Kandha sashti kavacham playing from her father’s old radio.

She lay still for a moment, staring at the familiar stretch of the room.

Making sure there wasn’t anyone around, she pulled the blanket over her head and reached for her phone.

Among a bunch of wishes from friends and colleagues, there was one unread message from Sheetal. She clicked to open it, to find a picture of the other clad in a gold and pink sharara, hair curled loosely around her shoulders, kohl-lined eyes curving into little crescents as she smiled. She was holding a hand over the flame of a small lamp on the pooja room slab of their shared apartment.

The caption on the picture read, “Happy Deepavali, Sharu!!! Off to the office now. Call me later ❤️😘”

She smiled faintly, typed a quick reply and tossed the phone aside before she could linger on the picture any longer.

When she stepped into the hall, her mother was already sweeping the corner tiles, a towel tucked into her waist.

“Happy Deepavali, ma”, she said, only to get an accusatory stare in response.

“Is this the time you get up?“, her mother said, not unkindly, but with that undertone that always sounded like a blame. “Go take a bath and come soon.” There was a pause. “Also, see what is taking your father so long, I asked him to help with the chuntey like forever ago.”

The brushing of the broom against the floor got a little aggressive, as did her words.

“Your grandmother just took one bowl full of oil for herself, exactly from the bottle I’ve kept aside for the pooja. Acting like she doesn’t know anything. If that vessel comes back into the pooja room, I don’t know what I will do…” her mother’s lamenting voice faded just a little as Sharini sighed and walked away to the tap, splashed some cold water onto her face.

She could already feel it. The slow brewing of a storm.

Her father sat by the window, rubbing oil through his hair, the smell of Navarathna filling the room. “Good morning da kanna. Happy Deepavali”, he greeted his daughter cheerfully, as Sharini smiled and walked closer, to take a seat on his lap. She knew she was old enough to not be doing these, but she loved receiving her father’s affection, whenever she could. The old man gently nuzzled his nose against her cheek and patted her head. “Go take a bath. Before that, can you help your mother in the kitchen a little bit, Sharini ma? She started bickering with me early in the morning about no one helping her. If I go in there, it will start again. I don’t want to have another ruined festival. Don’t be angry with me, please? Can you?”

He spoke, rather pleaded with his daughter, while continuing to slowly massage his own scalp.

Sharini gave him a look that said, “Please don’t speak loud”, and walked back to the kitchen, plugged the mixer in and turned on the switch. “Did he send you now? Why can’t he come?” her mother questioned, which Sharini ignored. The mixer roared to life between them, drowning out whatever her mother muttered next. Sharini kept her eyes on the chutney jar, pretending not to hear the bitterness settling into the room again.

In the afternoon, things started to settle. The TV was playing the same old Rajinikath movie that everyone knew all the dialogues of, but nobody is actively watching. Muthuraman sat on his dedicated easy chair, snacking on a hot vadai, scrutinizing and calling out the excessive peppers in them.

He watched as dishes and plates were arranged on the table, each plate coming down in a slow bang. He refrained from commenting. Nirmala had to serve lunch individually to her family members, that too after multiple calls, her mother-in-law waiting for a specific minute on the clock, her husband picking a random hour after spending hours in prayer, her daughter choosing to indulge herself with that idiot phone rather than the kootu, poriyal and payasam she had so painstakingly prepared.

Sharini stayed sprawled near the hall doorway, half-listening to the television while scrolling through her phone.

In the kitchen, vessels clinked relentlessly.

Her mother had been on her feet since dawn. Cooking, frying, serving, cleaning. Even now, long after everyone had eaten, she moved around the sink with the same rigid energy, scrubbing down counters that were already clean.

The smell of dish soap mixed unpleasantly with the lingering scent of ghee and fireworks.

Then came the sound of the back door opening.

Sharini looked up.

Her grandmother walked in slowly, carrying a small steel bowl covered with another plate.

Nirmala turned immediately.

“What is that?”

“Just some leftover daal from akka’s house,” the old woman said casually. “She told me to keep the vessel safely and return it later.”

Something flickered across Nirmala’s face.

“I just cleaned everything,” she muttered, turning back to the sink.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

The old woman placed the bowl near the washed vessels anyway and walked away.

Nirmala stared at it for a long second.

Then, under her breath, “Of course. Why would they wash their own vessel? There’s a servant here anyway.”

“What did you say?” Muthuraman asked from the hall, voice sharpening immediately.

Nirmala didn’t turn around. “Nothing.”

“You think I didn’t hear? You said it exactly when I walked past.”

Sharini’s stomach tightened.

“Amma…” she warned softly.

But Nirmala laughed once under her breath, humourless.

“What? Am I wrong? Every festival it’s the same thing. Cook here, clean here, wash for everyone here.”

“They’re family,” he snapped.

“And what am I?”

“You always have something to say,” he barked, getting up from the chair. “Always a complaint. The whole world is wrong except you. Akka just tried to help you with the cooking, isn’t it? That’s why she sent it over to us.”

Nirmala turned then, wiping wet hands harshly against her saree.

“Oh yes, of course. I should be grateful. What would I do if your family didn’t leave their leftovers here for me to clean?”

Muthuraman’s expression darkened almost instantly.

“See? This is exactly what I mean,” he said, voice rising. “Every single thing becomes an insult to you. One vessel also you can’t take without creating drama.”

“One vessel?” Nirmala let out a short laugh that sounded dangerously close to breaking. “It’s never one vessel. Never one thing. Twenty-five years of this house running on my back and still I have to hear how generous your family is.”

Sharini slowly lowered her phone onto the floor beside her.

Outside, another string of crackers exploded violently, the sound rattling through the windows.

“You think I don’t see what’s happening here?” Muthuraman thundered. “Day and night you keep poisoning this house. Amma said this, akka did that, somebody touched oil, somebody moved a lid, somebody took a lemon… how long will this go on?”

“If they stopped treating me like I’m some stupid, oblivious, unpaid help, maybe it wouldn’t,” Nirmala shot back.

His jaw clenched.

“Think before you speak. My mother is old. Where is your respect?”

“And I am what?” she demanded suddenly, voice cracking louder now. “What am I? You think I am still fine after everything?”

The room fell still for half a second.

Even Sharini’s grandmother paused near the doorway.

Nirmala stepped forward before anyone could respond, years of restraint bleeding into every word.

“When we had nothing, where were all these people? When we were counting coins to buy rice? When I was pregnant and still going to work because your salary disappeared into that house before it even reached our hands?” Her breathing had started shaking now. “You remember those days or not? Or only your mother’s suffering matters to you?”

“Don’t start talking nonsense—“

“Nonsense?” she repeated. “Who built this life after we were thrown out? My job paid for this house. My jewellery went into loans. My health went into this family. Everything I had— gone.”

“Enough,” he warned.

But Nirmala had crossed into that dangerous place where the words no longer stopped.

“You still won’t see it. Even now. Even after everything they’ve done, you’ll stand there defending them while I look like the villain for noticing patterns with my own eyes.”

“They are my family!”

“And we aren’t?”

The silence after that felt ugly.

Sharini got up carefully. “Amma… Appa… please. It’s Deepavali. Don’t do this today.”

Her father glared at her, breathing heavy, eyes bloodshot. “You always take her side.”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side!” she said, voice shaking. “You both keep saying the same things, over and over. What’s left to prove?”

Her mother turned to her, eyes wet. “You don’t know, ma. You don’t see how he talks to me when no one’s here..”

“And you,” her father barked, “don’t tell her things to make her hate me!”

Sharini felt the old dread rise in her throat. She tried to step in. “Appa, please. It’s Deepavali. Just…just stop for today.”

He turned to her, eyes still burning. “Ask your mother to stop talking first.”

Her mother looked away. “You don’t stop even when I don’t talk,” she murmured.

“Once this girl’s married off, that’s it,” her father thundered, the veins in his neck drawn like wires. “My duty’s done. Then you can all live however you want. I’ll go wherever I have to.”

“Isn’t it easy for you?” her mother said, her tone neither shout nor whisper. “To wash your hands clean and escape like that? I can’t do that, you know. I’ve already used up all my life serving this family. Every piece of my health, my time, gone. You? you still get to walk away.”

He scoffed, somewhere between disbelief and guilt, and that’s when the room seemed to tilt again, words starting to overlap, the air splitting into jagged edges.

Sharini’s mother clutched the end of her saree tighter. “You only love your mother and your sisters, not us. Not me. Not even your own children unless they agree with you. You think we’re your enemies?”

“Enough!” he bellowed, pushing the chair away so violently it scraped the floor. “I can’t live like this anymore!”

Muthuraman dragged a hand over his face and turned away, already breathing harder. He started walking toward the bedroom.

Nirmala followed immediately.

“See? Run away again. That’s what you always do.”

“I’m leaving because if I keep talking now, I’ll say something worse.”

“You already have! For years!”

“Enough, Nirmala.”

“No, you listen to me today.”

Sharini hurried after them as he entered the bedroom and tried shutting the door.

Nirmala caught it before it closed fully.

“Muthuraman!”

“Leave me alone!”

“For what? So you can disappear again? So I should search the streets for you like a madwoman?”

“I said leave it!” His voice cracked suddenly, louder than before, and for one frightening moment Sharini saw something collapse behind his anger.

He grabbed the towel hanging near the cupboard and pressed it hard against his face, breathing unevenly.

“Appa…” Sharini whispered cautiously.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” he said hoarsely.

Nirmala’s expression changed instantly. The anger remained, but fear pushed through it just as fast.

“Don’t start this again,” she said, moving toward him. “Please. Don’t do this nonsense.”

He jerked away from her touch.

The towel slipped from his shoulder into his hands, twisting tight unconsciously between his fists.

“You’ll only stop when I die, isn’t it?” he muttered.

“Appa!” Sharini moved forward immediately.

Everything after that happened too quickly.

Nirmala tried pulling the towel away from him at the same moment he shoved past both of them toward the table near the cot. Something metallic clattered.

The scissors.

Sharini’s blood ran cold.

“Appa, no!”

He grabbed them with trembling fingers. Exhausted. Like a man trying to outrun his own head. His hands moved fast, trying to slash where he can.

Nirmala screamed.

Sharini lunged first.

The scissors scraped against his thigh before she caught his wrist hard enough to make them fall.

They hit the floor with a sharp clang.

For one horrible second nobody moved.

Then Sharini saw the thin line of red blooming through the white veshti.

“Appa!”

“It’s nothing,” he snapped immediately, trying to wiggle away from his daughter’s hold, though his breathing had gone ragged.

Nirmala stared at the blood like the ground had opened beneath her. Her voice came out emotionless. “This is all you know, isn’t it?”

“You all made me like this,” he said weakly, eyes refusing to meet either of theirs. “Nobody lets me breathe in this house.”

Nirmala scoffed. “No one is trying to kill you!” she cried back, tears finally spilling freely now. “I just wanted you to understand… once in your life, understand what I’m saying—“

“And you never stop!” he shouted suddenly, voice cracking apart. “You never stop talking until I lose my mind!”

The words echoed through the room.

Then silence.

Outside, children were laughing somewhere in the street.

A fresh round of fireworks burst across the sky. Bright. Loud. Carefree.

Inside the room, Sharini stood between her parents with shaking hands and a bloodstained towel, feeling once again like a child trying to hold together a collapsing house with nothing but her bare palms.

Sharini pressed her hand against the small wound, shaking uncontrollably. “You’re bleeding! Stop moving!”

“It’s nothing,” he said hoarsely, pushing her hand away. “You all wanted just this. You’ll be happy now.”

She cried, “Why do you do this every time something goes wrong? You scare us, and then what? You think this solves anything?”

He didn’t reply. He was at the limit. He had to go away. Her pulled on a random shirt, picked his phone, and keys, all the while Nirmala tried to stop him. He shook her hands off of him and stormed out of the house banging the door shut.

People from the next door peeked out to see what the commotion is about.

Sharini remained rooted where she stood, the world around her turning distant and muffled. Like some horrible dream repeating its course.

The same door to stare at. The same fear. The same dreadful waiting that had haunted her childhood.

Her mother pacing the streets with a phone pressed to her ear. Endless calls going unanswered. Horrible possibilities spoken aloud until they carved themselves into Sharini’s mind.

A lorry on the highway.

A body near the sea.

A man who said he couldn’t live like this anymore.

The grandmother going on about her day like nothing happened, or nothing affects her.

Until the man of the house would return late at night or sometimes a day later like nothing happened. Move around the soulless house like a machine.

Her mother sat on the cot, face blank, staring into the middle distance. No one had moved. No one had cried since.

That night, Sharini couldn’t sleep.

The crackers had died down. The streetlights flickered outside. She sat at the window, phone in hand, typing and deleting messages to Sheetal she didn’t send.

I wish you were here. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared.

From the next room came her mother’s voice, faint, half-asleep, talking to herself. “Maybe it’s me,” she mumbled, barely audible. “If I go, maybe it will all stop. Maybe he’ll be fine then.”

Sharini turned slowly, her heart sinking, eyes filling up. She wanted to get up, to walk in there and shake her, tell her not to say such things. But she just sat there instead, frozen, hollow, afraid of shattering whatever fragile silence was left.