Coffee and a clipboard

She brought me coffee. Pista-green. A ten-rupee cut on a three-lakh roka, and she walked into my kitchen like she was paying respects.

I took the cup. I sipped. I let her sit in the silence for exactly as long as a person's stomach takes to remember how to breathe. Then I made her say it again, and I wrote every word on the back of the Taj Lands End clipboard — the one I use for the actual roka, not a rehearsal, the one with Tanvi's seating chart on the front. Her handwriting looked innocent. That is the worst part. Aarav wants someone with "more Maharashtrian wedding experience." As if Maharashtrian is a degree. As if pista-green is a credential. As if I have not been inside these Maharashtrian weddings with a clipboard longer than Niharika has been alive.

I sat at the counter and I did not raise my voice once. I want that recorded. I felt the humiliation land in my stomach and I held my face still like it was a guest I owed something to. Inside I was ranking everyone in that sentence — Aarav, Niharika, Tanvi, the uncle, the bride, the family — and I was cruel about every single one of them in a language I will not put on paper.

The 2pm call was the first honest thing I did all day. New SIM, one voicemail, no names. If Aarav is being briefed, the file walks to Heena's printer tonight. I left it open. The ambiguity is the only kindness I am willing to extend to people who test me.

By 6pm Tanvi rang and I said final, signed, locked, on my phone — and that was the first sentence this month that did not cost me a fist. I want to frame it.