From the day she moved in, Nirmala behaved as if she were the mistress. She rearranged furniture, moved the puja mandir, replaced curtains, and whenever I objected, she dismissed me: “You’re the daughter-in-law. Respect your elders.”
Vikram never defended me. “She’s old, ignore her,” he’d say. So I endured the jabs, the condescension, the subtle humiliations. I told myself patience would preserve harmony.
One Saturday my mother called.
“Asha, I’ve brought vegetables from the canal farm, and some fresh fish. I’ll come tomorrow to see you and Kabir.”
I was delighted. I longed for her cooking, her laughter with my little son. I texted Vikram: “Mom’s visiting tomorrow.” He replied, “Okay.”
The next afternoon I hurried home, arms full of fruit. As I entered, the aroma of fried fish filled the air. In the living room sat my mother-in-law in silk sari and lipstick, beside her guest — Mrs. Malhotra, the president of the local women entrepreneurs’ association.
I greeted them politely, but something tugged at me. In the kitchen, I found my mother — sweat dripping, sleeves rolled, washing a mountain of dirty dishes.
“Mom! Why are you doing this? Where’s the maid?” I demanded.
She smiled weakly, whispering, “I came early. She said there were guests, so I should eat in the kitchen with the maid. I thought I’d help.”
My throat burned. This woman — who mortgaged herself to buy me this house — was being told she was unworthy to sit at our table.
I wiped her hands. “Sit down, Mom. Leave this to me.”
I marched into the living room, heart pounding. The chandelier glowed, cups clinked, laughter rang — but all I felt was rage.
I looked straight at Mrs. Malhotra. “Auntie, you are our guest, but I must speak. My mother brought vegetables for her grandson. She was told to eat in the kitchen. Do you know why? Because someone decided she wasn’t decent enough to sit here.”
The room froze. Mrs. Malhotra frowned at my mother-in-law. “Nirmala, is this true?”
My mother-in-law scoffed. “Nonsense! She came in suddenly, I only asked her to rest. Asha is exaggerating.”
I laughed coldly. “Rest? In front of a sink full of dishes? You’ve insulted her for years, but today you crossed the limit. This house is in my name, bought with my hard work and my mother’s loan. If you think you own it, wake up.”
Color drained from her face:
Continued on next page//
