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Rohan sat on the floor opposite her. “Anuj is an idiot.”
“Will you bring me chai tomorrow?” she asked, changing the subject. “The real kind. With elaichi . Ma’s been bringing me haqd —plain, no sugar, like medicine.”
Three months ago, Vaani had been the sun of this house—laughing too loud, adding too much salt to the rajma , and dancing with the safai wali auntie during Ganesh Chaturthi. Anuj had adored her. Everyone had. Then came the rumor. An anonymous letter. A photograph taken from an angle that could mean anything or nothing: Vaani standing too close to a male colleague at a work dinner.
For the first time that night, Vaani laughed—low and real and dangerous. “That’s not practice, Chotu. That’s me rehearsing the sound of my own feet walking out.”
The door swung inward with a breath of dust and jasmine oil.
Outside, a stray firework crackled—some late Diwali straggler. In the dim light, Rohan saw the faint marks on her wrists where the bangles had rubbed raw. She saw him looking and tugged her sleeve down.