“Bhoomi!” Nitin’s voice thundered through the walls.

She barely stepped into the room when the plate full of food flew past her and crashed to the floor with a loud clang.

“What is this?!” he roared.

“I… it’s food,” she stammered, trembling.

He stood, unbuckling his belt with a rage she had learned to fear. “I know it’s food,” he hissed, pointing to the spilled dal-chawal on the floor. “But this? You expect me to eat this plain garbage?”

“No… n-no… wait, I’ll make something better,” she said quickly, bending down to clean the mess—

But the moment her fingers touched the floor, the first lash cracked across her back.

“AAAH!” she screamed, clutching the spot in pain.

Before she could move, another strike landed.

Then another.

And another.

Until she was curled on the floor, sobbing, her hands folded in front of him, begging for mercy.

He knelt beside her, grabbed her hair, and yanked her face up to meet his. Her cheeks were streaked with tears.

“Next time, I’ll kill you.” His voice was low. Deadly.

“You filthy bitch.” He threw her head back with a jerk, kicked her once, and walked out of the room like nothing happened.

Bhoomi stayed on the floor—curled, broken, and crying.

Moments later, her mother-in-law, Kalpana, entered.

“What is all this?!” she scolded, as if the shattered plate and bruises were just inconvenience. “You can’t do one thing properly? Look—he left without eating! If he falls sick, it’ll be your fault.”

Bhoomi opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Why the hell are you crying now? Huh? Enough of your drama. Clean this mess!”

She turned and walked out—completely unfazed by what she had just witnessed.

Dragging herself up with shaky hands, Bhoomi picked up the plate and slowly mopped the floor. The sting in her back throbbed with every breath, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

In the kitchen, most of the food was already gone. She scraped together a few leftover vegetables and a single cold roti. Quietly, she sat down at the edge of the table, lifting her hand to take a bite—

Slap.

Her mother-in-law’s hand landed across her face, the food falling from her fingers.

“My son is hungry and you’re here filling your stomach? Do you have no shame?” Kalpana snapped. “In our time, women didn’t even look at food until their husbands had eaten. But look at you—shameless!”

She snatched the plate from the table and dumped it straight into the dustbin.

“Starve… or die. You don’t eat until my son eats.” With that, she turned and walked away.

Kalpana didn’t even look at her again.

“Now stop sitting there like a statue and go wash the clothes. The pile’s waiting,” she said flatly.

Bhoomi sat there for a second longer, staring at the dustbin where her only meal for the day had just landed. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach growled in betrayal. But she didn’t cry. Not anymore. The tears had stopped meaning anything.

She quietly made her way to the backyard, where the plastic buckets already overflowed with a mountain of clothes—her husband's shirts, her father-in-law’s sweaty vests, her mother-in-law’s sarees, her sister-in-law’s stained kurtis, her brother-in-law’s jeans, and to top it all off— used bedsheets rolled up like wet, smelly rags.

The sun was already harsh, burning into her back as she knelt on the rough cement floor. Her body screamed in protest. The belt marks across her spine hadn’t faded yet. Every bend, every lift, every scrub pulled at her skin like it was tearing open again.

She pulled the first sheet toward her. It stank—sweat, hair oil, something else she didn’t want to name. She dipped it into the soapy water and began scrubbing with both hands, her knuckles going red almost immediately. There was no machine. No help. Just a rusted washboard, a cracked bar of detergent, and a silence that rang louder than any scream.

Her hands worked like they didn’t belong to her anymore.

Dip. Scrub. Wring. Repeat.

Over and over.

No breaks. No food. No water.

Hours passed. The cement burned her knees raw. Her fingers blistered. Her head throbbed from heat and hunger. But she didn’t stop.

Because stopping meant another slap.

Another insult.

Another round of being reminded that she was unwanted.

By the time she finished, her arms were shaking, and her cotton saree was soaked through. Her braid clung to her neck. Her palms were wrinkled and raw.

She hung the last sheet over the clothesline, her arms trembling as she reached up.

Kalpana’s voice came again from inside.

“Don’t sit around like a beggar. The living room’s a mess. Clean it before guests come. And fix your face—what if someone thinks we torture you?”

Bhoomi didn’t respond. She just looked down at her hands, and then picked up the dusting cloth and began wiping the centre table.

Kalpana clicked her tongue.

“Tch… Look at that speed. When I was your age, I managed a whole house and still looked fresh like a rose. But you? MBA degree and can’t even wipe a table properly. Wah.”

Bhoomi kept her eyes on the surface.

“This is what happens when girls study too much. They forget how to be wives. Always with that dumb blank stare. Did your mother not teach you anything?”

The cloth in Bhoomi’s hand paused for half a second.

Kalpana noticed.

“Ah. Sensitive topic?” she smirked. “Poor woman. Must be ashamed seeing her daughter become this burden.”

Something hot rose in Bhoomi’s throat, but she swallowed it down.

She moved to fluff the cushions.

“Make sure the corners are sharp,” Kalpana snapped. “You don’t know who might walk in. And remember, don’t sit on the sofa after cleaning it. It’s not for you.”

Bhoomi bent to sweep the floor, her knees cracking.

Kalpana watched her for another moment, then scoffed.

“No wonder my son comes home angry. Who wouldn’t be, married to a girl like you? No spark, no manners, no figure, no charm. Just a dead face and useless hands.”

And with that, she walked away.

Bhoomi kept sweeping. Silently. Carefully. One corner at a time. As if her life depended on it. Because in this house—it did.

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Stars had already started appearing in the evening sky by the time Bhoomi finished preparing dish after dish—halwa, puri, pakode, kachori, shahi paneer, matar paneer, pulao, kheer—enough to feed an army. Her hands trembled from the heat, her head spun from exhaustion, and the dark circles under her eyes had deepened, but no one stepped foot into the kitchen to help.

“Your mother should die of shame,” Kalpana hissed from the doorway, surveying the counters with a disgusted look. “So little food after all this time? God, how unlucky my son is to have a useless wife like you.” And just like that, she turned away, her silk saree swaying behind her like a flag of superiority.

Tonight was a family gathering—one of those suffocating events dressed as celebrations. Kalpana gleamed in her saree and gold jewelry, her smile wide and practiced. Shashi, Bhoomi’s sister-in-law, matched her mother’s arrogance beat for beat. Normally, Bhoomi endured their cruelty alone. But tonight, there would be more mouths to feed, and more mouths to mock her.

More relatives.

More questions.

More whispers behind her back.

Why isn’t she pregnant yet?

Why does she look so pale, so drained?

Didn’t you hear? She spent a night with someone before marriage…

The house filled quickly. Bhoomi wrapped herself in the one saree that could hide most of the bruises—a muted cotton one, plain but long enough to cover the burns on her arms.

“Bring the snacks!” Kalpana yelled across the room as if Bhoomi were a servant.

She rushed back into the kitchen. Her body ached, her feet numb, but she grabbed the tray and moved to strain the tea. Just as she lifted the kettle, a deliberate nudge from behind knocked her elbow forward.

Boiling tea splashed down her forearm and wrist.

Bhoomi yelped in pain, the tray clattering against the counter.

“Oh God, don’t be so dramatic,” Shashi said casually, looking over her shoulder. “It wasn’t even that hot.”

Then her eyes slid down to Bhoomi’s saree—now stained, dark and wet.

“You go inside,” Shashi said, her voice dipped in sugar but sharp as glass. “I’ll serve everyone. Your saree’s already ruined. Might as well keep the rest of you out of sight.”

Bhoomi didn’t respond. Tears were already slipping down her face, warm and silent, as she turned away. She knew exactly why Shashi had done it—the tea, the spill, the fake concern—it was all so calculated.

So that the relatives would think Shashi had done all the work.

So they’d whisper that Bhoomi was arrogant, that she refused to come out, that she lacked sanskaar, that she was too proud to mingle or serve.

She nodded. Quiet. Broken. And walked back to her room.

Once inside, she peeled off the soaked saree with shaky fingers, the burn stinging like an open wound. She rinsed the fabric under cold water, blinking through tears, then reached for the small tin of cream hidden behind the mirror. The first aid box wasn’t for her. That belonged to the real family members. She wasn’t one of them. Not really. Not ever.

She applied the cream gently, flinching at every touch, then sat down on the cold floor, legs folded, face buried in her knees.

And there, in the quiet, she finally let go.

She cursed her fate.

She cursed herself.

For being born into a world where one rumor could ruin a life.

For still hoping.

For surviving when it felt easier not to.

The life she was living wasn’t life at all. It was slower than death. Crueller than death.

Her stomach churned—empty for hours—and the dizziness crept in like fog.

She lay curled on the cold marble floor, cheek pressed against the stone, her body aching, her soul quietly crumbling. Somewhere between pain and hunger, Bhoomi slipped into a dreamless, hollow sleep.

BANG! BANG!

A loud knock slammed through the silence.

Her eyes fluttered open, dizzy and disoriented. She dragged herself upright and opened the door.

Shashi stood there, arms crossed, eyes filled with mockery.

“God, how much rest do you need?” she snapped.

Bhoomi blinked slowly. “What happened?”

“The guests left. Now go clean up,” Shashi said, turning on her heel without waiting for an answer.

The drawing room was a battlefield. Plates were stacked on every surface, half-filled glasses, spilled gravy, crumpled tissues, crushed flowers, and discarded wrappers. Bhoomi said nothing. She moved like a ghost—gathering the plates, scraping leftovers, cleaning the table.

There was no food left. Again.

Only a few grains of rice and traces of sabzi stuck to one of the plates. Bhoomi sat down on the kitchen floor, picked out what little she could, and ate it in silence—licking the pots with her fingers just to feel something in her stomach.

That’s what hunger does, It strips you of shame, It reduces dignity into survival.

As she scrubbed the heavy brass pots, her ears caught the sound of the main door opening.

Nitin.

She quickly wiped her hands and rushed to the hallway—not out of love, but fear. Fear of his mood. Fear of what he might say, or worse, do.

But to her surprise, a woman was with him—mid-twenties, well-dressed, confident. Her hand was wrapped in his as they laughed softly and walked straight into his room.

He shut the door behind them.

Bhoomi stood still for a moment.

Then, she exhaled. A deep sigh of relief.

At least tonight he wouldn’t hurt her.

She returned to the kitchen, washed the last of the dishes, wiped her hands on the end of her saree, and finally—finally—sank to the floor, resting her head back against the cabinet door.

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As Nitin thrust deeper into the woman beneath him, his phone began to ring.

He groaned, pulled out halfway, and reached for the device without a shred of shame.

“Hello?” he answered, breathless but grinning. “Oye! I thought you’d never call, bro!”

The woman giggled beneath him, wrapping her arms around his waist, but he gently swatted her hand away, still focused on the call.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there tomorrow. No problem,” he said, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, a cunning smirk curling on his lips.

His eyes lit up as the voice on the other end said something. “With her?” he repeated, raising a brow. “Fine. I’ll bring her too.”

He tossed the phone to the edge of the bed, where it slid across the sheets and dropped to the floor.

The woman beneath him pulled him close again.

“Who was that?” she murmured, running her nails along his back.

Nitin’s smirk deepened. “Old friend,” he muttered.

Then he leaned in—and resumed what he was doing, harder than before.

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