Riss @migmatco14 - Twitter Profile

15 days ago

My father let out a delighted grunt from behind the newspaper. “So the mistress tried to blackmail them?” I asked. “Something like that.” My mother, who had endured enough in her own married life to despise women who side with patriarchy until it turns on them, said flatly, “Good.” And in a way, it was. Not because I found joy in other women’s ruin. But because women like Shreya often imagine they are outsmarting the system when really they are merely volunteering to be used by it—until the day the system finds a better vessel. For months, Shreya had accepted being treated like a sacred incubator because the attention, status, and comfort suited her. She had watched them demean me, and she had remained. Maybe she even enjoyed winning. But a game built on male heirs and family pride eventually devours every player. That was the lesson none of us could escape. A month later, Raghav came to Kanpur. He did not warn me. I was returning from Tara’s vaccination appointment, tired and sticky, and carrying three bags plus a half-asleep baby when I saw him standing outside my parents’ gate. For a second, I genuinely thought I was imagining him. He looked thinner. Less polished. His shirt was wrinkled, his beard uneven, his eyes ringed with exhaustion. The old me—the me from a year earlier—would have seen pain and rushed to understand it. The new me saw consequences. He took one step forward. “Ananya…” I shifted Tara higher on my shoulder. “What are you doing here?” “I needed to see you.” “No, you wanted to see me. Very different thing.” His face flinched. “Can we talk?” “About what? Your mistress? Your mother? The family heir who wasn’t? Or the wife you discarded until everything else collapsed?” He lowered his eyes. The gesture would once have softened me. Now, it only reminded me of that family meeting in Lucknow—when he lowered his head instead of defending me. “I deserve that,” he said. “You keep saying that as if it earns you something.” A flicker of pain crossed his face. I unlocked the gate but didn’t invite him in. From the veranda, my mother had already appeared, arms crossed, lips thin, clearly ready to use the broom as a constitutional weapon if necessary. Raghav looked at Tara. “May I… see her?” I hesitated. Not because I feared he would hurt her. Because I feared my own heart would tremble at the sight of him looking at his child. I did not want any trembling left where he was concerned. Still, Tara was his daughter. And unlike his mother, I would not make parenthood conditional on sex, pride, or revenge. I adjusted the blanket and turned her slightly so he could see her face. He stared. For a moment, all his words disappeared. Tara yawned in her sleep, her tiny mouth making a perfect O, then frowned dramatically as if already judging the world. Something in his expression cracked. “She looks like you,” he whispered. “Yes,” I said. “Lucky for her.” He almost smiled, then stopped himself, perhaps aware that he no longer had the right to share tenderness with me casually. “I made a mess of everything,” he said. I was too tired to perform anger theatrically. So I answered plainly. “No. You made choices. A mess is an accident.” He took that in. Then he said, “I want to be part of her life.” The old reflex rose inside me—the reflex to negotiate, to mediate, to arrange gentleness around a man’s late remorse so no one feels too ashamed. I killed it where it stood. “You may be part of her life,” I said, “if you understand something very clearly.” He straightened slightly, hopeful. “You will never again enter my life as a husband. That door is closed. Whatever role you have now will be as her father only, and under my conditions.” His face fell, though I don’t know what he had expected. Maybe men like him truly believe women remain emotionally available forever, like rooms left unlocked in old houses. “What conditions?” he asked.

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Riss

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