Chapter 1
I remember the night beginning with voices.
Not loud ones meant for children to hear.
The kind of voices adults lower when children are already in the room, but forget to completely erase from the air.
There were people at home that evening.
My father, Subhrojit.
My mother, Reena.
And a few others I had seen before — familiar faces that didn’t belong to my world, but still existed inside it. A friend of my father, and a friend of my mother from the neighboring building.
I didn’t think much of it at the time.
I remember the television being louder than usual that night.
Some old Hindi songs were playing in the background while adults talked over them.
The smell of fried food had spread through the house hours ago.
Oil.
Spices.
Something smoky from the kitchen.
And underneath all of it was another smell I didn’t understand properly back then.
Sharp.
Bitter.
Heavy in the air.
Later, I learned it was alcohol.
I remember steel bowls moving across the dining table.
Ice clinking inside glasses.
The sound of chairs scraping against the floor.
Adults laughing a little too carefully at each other’s jokes.
Everything felt strangely controlled.
As if everyone inside the house was trying very hard to keep the evening normal.
Mom moved constantly between the kitchen and dining area.
Serving food.
Refilling plates.
Wiping the counter.
Listening more than speaking.
Even at that age, I think I could sense something unsettled inside her, though I didn’t understand what.
At some point, she came into the room and told us to sleep.
Me and my sister, Stuti, were sent inside before the night continued outside.
“Sleep now,” she said.
Not harsh.
Not soft either.
Final.
She adjusted the blanket around Stuti first because she always pushed it away while sleeping.
Then mine.
Her hands smelled faintly of soap, onions, and the perfume she wore only when guests came over.
I remember looking up at her for a second.
She looked distracted.
Like part of her mind was still outside the room listening to something unfinished.
Stuti curled into the pillow beside me almost immediately.
Five years old.
Still small enough to fall asleep without carrying the weight of a house inside her chest.
Mom looked at both of us quietly before leaving.
Not for comfort.
For confirmation.
Then she switched off the main light and walked out.
---
I remember trying to understand the adults from inside the bedroom that night.
Not their words.
Their moods.
Children become good at that before they understand language properly.
The laughter outside sounded strange sometimes.
Too delayed.
Too loud suddenly.
Then quiet again.
Like conversations were stopping whenever someone entered the kitchen.
Even the clinking of glasses felt sharper after a while.
At one point, I remember hearing Mom’s footsteps outside the room again.
Fast this time.
Then slower.
Then silence.
I think I opened my eyes briefly expecting her to come back inside.
But she didn’t.
The bedroom remained dark except for the faint light entering from the dining area.
Stuti slept peacefully beside me the entire time.
One arm under her cheek.
Completely unaware of whatever was happening outside.
I envied that kind of sleep for years afterward.
---
I don’t remember when sleep finally came. Only that I woke up once later that night.
Not fully.
Not like morning waking.
Just enough to notice the room again.
The fan was still moving slowly above us.
The curtains shifted slightly from the night breeze coming through the balcony.
Stuti was still asleep beside me.
Everything looked the same.
But the house felt different.
Quieter.
Heavier somehow.
I turned my head slightly.
And I saw Mom lying on the floor near the bed.
Not dramatically.
Not collapsed in a way my child brain understood as danger.
Just there.
Like she had lowered herself down and stayed.
I stared at her for a few seconds.
I think she was crying.
Quietly.
But seeing Mom cry was not something unfamiliar to me by then.
So my mind didn’t treat it like danger yet.
Only tiredness.
She wasn’t calling me.
Wasn’t looking at me.
Wasn’t moving much either.
Just lying there silently.
And strangely, seeing her there made me feel safe.
Like if Mom was still inside the room, then everything must still be okay.
Children believe presence means safety long before they understand pain.
I remember adjusting slightly under the blanket.
Then I fell asleep again.
---
I woke up a second time later that night.
This time I didn’t move much.
I only opened my eyes halfway.
The house still felt occupied somehow.
Like people were awake outside the room.
Like the night hadn’t ended yet.
I turned my head toward the bedroom door.
And I saw Mom again.
She was sitting on one of the dining chairs outside.
Straight-backed.
Still.
The dining area light was dim, but enough for me to see her silhouette clearly from the bed.
Her hair looked wet.
At least that’s what I thought at the time.
Like maybe she had washed her face.
She was speaking to someone softly.
I could hear another voice answering her, though I couldn’t properly understand the words.
There had been people in the house earlier.
Adults talking late at night didn’t feel strange to me.
So I wasn’t scared.
I remember feeling calm after seeing her there.
As long as I could see Mom somewhere inside the house, my mind believed everything was still under control.
I watched her quietly for a few seconds more.
Then I went back to sleep.
---
Years later, when I finally learned what had actually happened that night, my mind returned to those exact moments first.
Not the blood.
Not the fight.
Not even that white bandage.
Only those two images.
Mom crying quietly on the floor beside the bed.
And Mom sitting outside under dim yellow light with blood in her hair while I innocently thought she had simply washed her face.
Some memories don’t become painful immediately.
They wait patiently until understanding catches up to them.
