Anuradha's new home was not a place of comfort.
It was a house of rules, of watchful eyes, of endless chores.
Her mother-in-law, Kalyani, lay bedridden with a fractured leg and a weak heart. Her husband, Anand Kumar, and his younger brother, Agastya, went to school every morning, their satchels bouncing against their backs as they disappeared down the lane.
Anuradha stood at the threshold and watched them. Longing tugged at her heart. How she wished she could go too.
For a little while, she found comfort in Agastya. He was closer to her age, only a boy of ten. Sometimes, they played games together. Sometimes, she sat beside him while he studied. In those fleeting moments, she felt like a child again — laughing, free, almost herself.
But the bond did not last. Savitri, her grandmother-in-law, noticed. The games ended. The laughter ended. Anuradha was pulled into the kitchen, and childhood slipped further from her grasp.
One afternoon, gathering every ounce of courage, she whispered, "Amma… can I also study? Just like them?"
Savitri's eyes turned cold.
"You are not a boy," she snapped. "Why do you need school? A girl's school is her kitchen. You must learn to cook and clean, not waste time with books."
The words struck like a heavy door slamming shut. From that day, her books were taken away. Her hands were forced into housework.
Mistakes were met with scoldings, harsh words, even beatings. She learned to sweep the courtyard, fetch water, wash clothes, cook rice, and serve meals.
Outside, children in neat uniforms laughed their way to school. Inside, Anuradha scrubbed utensils until her hands ached.
Her husband, Anand Kumar, stayed distant, buried in his studies, rarely sparing her a glance. Her father-in-law, Venkatesh Rao, remained silent, never interfering. And Kalyani's sharp tongue and sharper eyes made sure Anuradha never forgot — she was unwanted.
Only Savitri gave her a touch of peace. At night, when the house grew quiet, Anuradha would sit at her bedside, massaging her tired legs. In return, she received stories — tales of gods, goddesses, and forgotten traditions. In those moments, she felt warmth. She felt seen.
But daylight was cruel. By morning, she was no more than a servant. Even food reminded her of her place. She always ate last, only after everyone else. Sometimes scraps. Sometimes nothing at all.
Her days blurred into one another — waking before sunrise, cooking, cleaning, fetching water, and serving. Only when the household was satisfied did she take what was left for herself.
There was no contact with her own family. No letters. No visits. No reminders of the home she had once belonged to.
And when Kalyani recovered from her illness, life did not become easier. It became harder.