She sat on the floor.

Not because anyone told her to.

Because sitting lower had become instinct.

The white saree wrapped around her body was stiff, creased, lifeless, worn too many days without care. It clung loosely to her frame, the pallav slipping from her shoulder every few minutes, but she didn’t bother adjusting it anymore. Her wrists were bare. No bangles. No sound.

Only her hair remained untouched.

Long. Dark. Careless.

It spilled down her back in an unbroken fall, thick strands reaching far below her waist, brushing against the backs of her thighs when she shifted. She hadn’t oiled it. Hadn’t braided it. Hadn’t even properly combed it in days. Once, people had praised it—kitne lambe baal hain. Now it was just… there. Forgotten. Like her.

Tara Thakur was twenty years old.

And she had not eaten properly in days.

She sat on the cold floor of the living room, knees drawn close, back slightly bent—not because she was told to sit that way, but because she had learned to make herself small. The house moved around her without acknowledging her existence. Utensils clanged. Footsteps passed. Conversations happened over her bowed head.

No one asked if she had eaten.

No one remembered when she last had.

Sometimes, when relatives came, someone would push a plate toward her. She would eat quietly, eyes lowered, as if food was a privilege she hadn’t earned. Sometimes that was the only meal in two days. Sometimes three.

No one kept track.

Neither did she.

Her stomach had stopped protesting days ago.

Hunger, like grief, had learned to stay silent.

Utensils clanged.
Footsteps passed.
Life continued above her bowed head.

Her mother-in-law stood near the doorway, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her like she was something unwanted that hadn’t been thrown out yet.

The silence stretched.

Then—

“Kab tak yahan baithi rahegi?” the woman snapped.

Tara flinched.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes.

Her voice came out soft. Careful. “Ji…?”

The woman scoffed. “Abhi bhi sharam baaki hai? Baithi hui hai jaise ye ghar tera ho.”

Tara lowered her gaze again. Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of her saree, bunching it unconsciously near her knees.

“I—I bas…” she tried.

“Bas kya?” her mother-in-law interrupted sharply. “Paida hote hi apne maa-baap ko kha gayi. Shaadi hue ek mahina bhi nahi hua aur mere bete ko bhi kha gayi.”

Each word was deliberate. Practiced.

“Dayan.”

The word hung heavy in the air.

Tara’s breath hitched.

“Nahi, maa ji,” she whispered, shaking her head faintly. “Aisa nahi hai…”

Before she could say anything else, rough hands grabbed her arm.

The suddenness made her gasp.

She was pulled up from the floor so abruptly that she nearly lost her balance. Her long hair fell forward over her shoulder, hiding half her face as she stumbled.

“Maa ji—” her voice broke. “Aisa mat kariye.”

She didn’t scream.

She begged quietly.

“Main kahan jaungi?” she asked, more confused than afraid.

Her mother-in-law didn’t stop dragging her.

“Kahin bhi jaa,” the woman snapped, nails digging into Tara’s skin. “Is ghar ke liye tu manhoos hai. Yahan se nikal.”

They reached the door.

Cold air rushed in.

Tara tried to grab the doorframe, fingers slipping against the wood, her strength already gone from days of hunger and shock.

“Naa jaane kis manhoos ghadi mein teri shaadi kar di,” the woman wailed loudly now, for anyone listening. “Mera bachha kha gayi.”

A small cloth bag was thrown toward her feet.

It landed open.

A few sarees.
A broken bangle.
Worn slippers.

Her devrani stood there, expression blank.

“Yeh bhi le jao,” she said flatly. “Tumhare saath tumhari manhoosiyat bhi.”

Before Tara could bend down properly—

The door slammed shut.

The bolt slid into place.

She stood there for a moment, stunned.

Then she knocked.

Once.

“Maa ji…” her voice was barely audible. “Main kahan jaungi?”

No answer.

Inside, life resumed.

Outside, she no longer existed.

Neighbours watched. Some whispered. Some turned away.

Widows weren’t meant to stay visible.

The door had shut.

The bolt had slid into place.

And just like that, the house where she had been born erased her.

Tara stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, her forehead still resting against the wood, as if it might open again if she waited long enough. It didn’t.

She stepped back slowly.

This wasn’t just the house she had been married into.

This was the house she had grown up in.
The courtyard where she had learned to walk.
The room where she had slept beside her mother as a child.
The walls that had watched her braid her hair for the first time.

Her maayka.

Her home.

She had been sent here after the wedding because her parents were gone. Because there was nowhere else for her to belong. Because this was all she had left.

And now, even this door had closed.

The realization came late.

It always did.

Her fingers curled around the thin cloth bag in her hand. It felt too light for a life. Too small for memories. She looked at it once, then looked away, ashamed of how little she was allowed to keep.

Barefoot, she started walking.

She didn’t know where she was going.

She just knew she couldn’t stay there.

The road stretched ahead of her, uneven, dusty, familiar in ways that hurt. Every step sent a dull ache up her legs, but she didn’t slow down. Pain at least reminded her she was still alive.

People passed by.

Some recognized her.
Some pretended not to.

A few whispered.

“Wahi hai na… Ratnesh ki patni.”
“Bechari.”
“Manhoos.”

The word followed her.

She pulled her saree tighter around herself, shoulders curling inward, her long hair swinging against her back with every step. It reached far below her waist, heavy and tangled, brushing her thighs as she walked. Once, her mother had sat behind her and oiled it slowly, humming under her breath.

That felt like another lifetime.

Her stomach cramped suddenly.

Sharp. Hollow.

She paused for a moment, pressing a hand to her abdomen. Hunger rose like a wave, dizzying and familiar. When had she last eaten? Yesterday? Two days ago? She couldn’t remember. Sometimes food was given. Sometimes it wasn’t.

She swallowed hard and kept walking.

No one was counting.

Not even her.

Her vision blurred briefly, tears threatening, but she blinked them back. Crying took energy. She needed whatever little she had left.

She turned a corner without thinking.

Then another.

Wherever her feet carried her, she followed.

And then—

Sound.

Soft at first.

A distant rhythm.

A bhajan.

The melody floated through the air, gentle and aching, words she had heard since childhood. Aarti bells chimed somewhere nearby, steady and familiar, like a heartbeat.

Her steps slowed.

She stopped.

For the first time since the door had closed behind her, something inside her shifted.

The sound pulled at her chest, tight and painful.

Not comfort.

Memory.

She turned toward it instinctively.

The temple came into view—old stone walls, open gates, marigolds strung carelessly near the entrance. The bhajan grew clearer with every step she took.

She didn’t bow.

She didn’t fold her hands.

She simply walked in.

Because she had nowhere else to go.

The stone floor was cool beneath her feet as she crossed the threshold. The air smelled of incense and flowers and something ancient—something unchanged.

Her legs finally gave way near a pillar.

She sank down slowly, back resting against the stone, knees pulled close. Her long hair spilled around her like a dark curtain, framing her pale face, hiding her from the world.

The bhajan continued.

People passed.

No one asked her name.

No one asked her story.

They rarely did.

She looked toward the pond behind the sanctum.

Marigolds floated on the water—some bright, some wilting. Two swans glided past, untouched, serene, as if nothing in the world could reach them.

She watched them quietly.

Her lips parted.

“Maa…” she whispered, unsure which mother she was calling for anymore. “Maa Bhawani…”

Her voice trembled.

“Maine kya galat kiya?”

The bell rang.

The song continued.

Gods, she realized slowly, were very good at listening.

They just never answered.

Tara Thakur sat there—hungry, homeless, unclaimed.

And the world moved on.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

Hi 🤍

I honestly don’t know why you guys are being so silent—
but please, please do vote and comment. Even a small reaction really encourages me to write more and write better. It genuinely means a lot.

Also, I wanted to share something interesting.
While I was writing this chapter, there was a wedding going on near my house, and the song “Dulhe Ka Sehra” was playing in the background. You know that song—usually played during weddings, vidai, emotional moments.

And somehow… it fit.

I know the lyrics are meant for a bride, but while writing Tara being thrown out of her own home, it felt like the song belonged there too. Maybe because it was her home. Maybe because this, in its own way, was a twisted kind of vidai.

I don’t know how to explain it properly, but the scene and the song just connected for me. So I thought I’d share that with you.

Thank you for reading 🤍
Please do let me know what you felt.