I froze at the door, but Father rushed to her, grabbed her wrist, and checked her pulse. It took him only a second to understand. His face crumpled and he began crying loudly. Meanwhile I stood there, staring, not moving, not breathing, unable to grasp what was happening.
Part of me already knew, yet refused to accept the truth. Another part urged me toward her. I do not even remember deciding to walk, but my feet carried me forward until I stood before Grandma's still body.
I stopped beside her and stared at her open eyes. For a moment I could not breathe. Then her hand, the hand Father had gently placed on her stomach while checking her pulse, slipped free and fell onto my feet. It should have been warm. It should have comforted me like it always did. Instead, it felt cold, colder than ice, so cold that a violent shiver ran through my entire body.
That shiver did not only shake my skin, it cracked something deep inside me. It broke the frozen denial that kept the truth away. The moment the truth struck, I collapsed to my knees and wrapped my arms around Father as tightly as I could. I cried until his shirt was soaked, until I had no strength left to hold myself up.
I cried the whole day while Father gathered the villagers and carried Grandma to the cemetery. I did not leave the house for a week. I barely ate. I barely spoke. All I could think was, "If I had not stopped him from going home, Grandma would still be alive. If I had not made him stay with me, Grandma would be sitting beside us now and we three would be laughing. If I didn't… if I didn't…"
It took almost two months before I returned to a version of my normal self. And the strange part was, after that birthday night, the nightmares stopped. The foolish version of me believed that my bad days had vanished along with Grandma and that from then on, Father and I would live happily.
It did not take long for that hope to shatter.
Soon it was the time of year when Father usually left the village. As always, he departed, but that year he returned within a week. The next day he took me with him, saying, "From today, we are never coming back to this village. When we reach the new place, your new life will begin." I did not understand what he meant, not then. But it did not take me long to learn.
We left our village and travelled to the Noida kingdom, my first time leaving home. I remember pressing my face to the window, excited by the beauty of the kingdom outside.
After visiting a few tourist spots, Father took me to a hotel on the edge of the city. It was larger than any building I had ever stayed in, all glass doors and quiet carpets that swallowed our footsteps. While signing some papers, he turned to me and said, "Our new house is very far from here. Tomorrow morning, we'll take the bus."
Those were the last words of his I remember clearly, along with the warm smile he gave me, the kind that made me feel safe no matter where we were.
That night, we slept in the hotel room. I remember the unfamiliar softness of the bed, the hum of the air conditioner, the city lights sneaking through the curtains. In the morning, Father got dressed quickly. He told me he had something important to take care of and asked me to stay inside the room until he returned.
So I waited.
At first, I sat on the bed, swinging my legs, counting the patterns on the carpet. Minutes stretched into hours. Hunger came and went. The room grew unbearably quiet. Eventually, boredom nudged me into exploring.
I opened drawers, peeked into the wardrobe, traced my fingers along unfamiliar furniture. Then I opened the fridge.
Inside were nearly a dozen bottles filled with dark liquid, their labels glossy and foreign. They looked expensive, important, like something meant only for adults. Curious, I picked one up. The glass felt cold and heavy in my hands. I imagined it would taste sweet, maybe like the fruit drinks I knew.
Before I could think better of it, I opened the bottle and drank.
It was not a sip. It was a gulp.
For a split second, it felt warm and strange on my tongue. Then the bitterness hit, sharp and violent, burning down my throat. I gagged, nearly throwing up. My hands slipped, and the bottle fell, shattering against the floor. Dark liquid splashed over my clothes, staining the fabric and the carpet.
After that, everything blurred.
My body felt too warm. My head felt light, as if it were floating away from me. Sounds grew distant, then too loud, then distant again. When a knock came at the door, it jolted straight through me like thunder.
Panicking, I rushed to the wardrobe and pulled out a dress, fumbling as I changed. My fingers felt clumsy, slow, like they did not belong to me. I staggered to the door and opened it, hoping with everything I had that it was Father.
It wasn't.
Three men stood outside. All of them looked around Father's age, dressed neatly in black suits, their shoes polished, their hair perfectly combed. One of them stepped forward. His face looked familiar. He resembled the man Father often spoke about, the friend he said he trusted the most.
He smiled and asked my name.
I told him. I also told him Father's name.
Something lit up in his eyes. His smile widened, too quickly, too brightly. "Ah," he said, almost delighted. "You're the surprise he mentioned on the phone."
And before I could make sense of his expression or his words, the drowsiness pulled me under.
My thoughts slowed, tangled, then slipped away.
I fell asleep.
When I woke up, a blinding white light stabbed into my eyes. I groaned and tried to turn away, but my body wouldn't move. Slowly, painfully, I forced my eyes open.
A man stood in front of the light. At first, I could only see his silhouette, black against the glow. As he stepped aside, his face came into focus.
It was Father.
My heart leapt. I tried to call out to him, tried to run toward him, relief flooding me all at once.
That was when I realized I couldn't move.
My wrists and ankles were tied tight. My mouth was sealed, covered so completely that even a sound couldn't escape.
And the warmth in Father's smile was gone.
A man in a black suit, identical to the one Father's so-called friend had worn, approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn. They spoke in low voices, words I couldn't hear.
Even from where I lay, bound and half numb, even as a village girl who knew nothing of power or authority, I felt it.
That man radiated something heavy. His build, his posture, the way the air around him seemed to bend, everything about him carried a kind of force my father would never willingly associate with.
And yet, Father stood beside him.
At first, that confused me. Then something far more terrifying settled in.
The father I knew, the man who once smiled at me in a hotel room and promised a new house, would never work with someone like this. But the father standing in that blinding light, the one who had not looked at me even once since I woke up, would.
The longer I watched him, the more wrong he felt. His posture was straighter, his voice firmer. For fleeting moments, it even felt as if he were the stronger one between them. Then they shook hands.
Both of them turned toward us.
That was when I finally understood where I was.
We were inside a massive metal room, dark, hollow, and cold. The walls were thick, the air stale. Around thirty, maybe thirty five girls were crammed inside with me. Different ages, some barely older than children, others old enough to be mothers. Every one of us had our wrists and ankles bound. Our mouths were sealed.
Nearly three quarters of them were still unconscious.
At that time, I didn't know such a place was called a container, used to transport goods between kingdoms. I didn't have a word for what was happening to us either.
I learned it later.
Human trafficking.
After the handshake ended, Father took a small step away from me and said, casually, as if discussing cargo, "We are also sending you a gift. I personally chose her. I hope she suits your taste."
Those words.
I tried to convince myself I had misheard him. That the distance had warped his voice. That the light had confused me.
But the other man's eyes destroyed that hope.
They swept over us slowly, deliberately, like a predator inspecting prey. Even someone as sheltered as me felt the intent behind that gaze. The girls who were awake felt it too. Some thrashed against their restraints. Some tried to scream through the plaster sealing their mouths. Others broke down, silent tears streaming down their faces.
A guard near the container door noticed the noise and threw a metal can inside. It hit the floor with a sharp clang, releasing a choking smoke that burned our throats and eyes, forcing us into stillness.
Father turned and walked away immediately after.
He passed us without a single glance in my direction.
As the doors began to close, the man with the predatory eyes looked straight at me.
Our gazes met.
He smiled.
It was not a human smile. It carried no warmth, no reassurance. It was cold, cruel, and deliberate, a smile that fed on fear and savored it.
For the first time in my life, a smile made me cry.