He Said Not Yet

The envelope smelled like the farmhouse before I even opened it. Cardamom and hay. The same way the long table smelled when I sat there and felt safe. My hands already knew what was inside.

It was my face. Printed on plain paper, like a school project. Bandra. The night I thought nobody saw. Someone cropped me close to Dhruv and glued the worst sentence anyone has ever stuck to my photograph. 'Your planner's hostess takes private appointments from Delhi builders.' In typed, paste-on letters. Like a ransom note for a person I used to be.

I called my brother at eight because I wanted him to say go to the police tonight. He was quiet for a long time. Then 'not yet.' Not yet. My brother, who has put men in jail for less than this. I read the caption back to him twice, very slowly, like a child doing homework. He did not interrupt me. That silence is the scariest thing my brother has ever done to me.

Heena called back at nine. She caught on the word trusted. Three years. That's how long one of two women I have toasted at her own engagement has been earning this. I made Heena say the name first. She wouldn't. I think she already knew and I think she doesn't want to say it out loud either.

I took a full-length selfie at some point — casuals, in my own house, like it was a Tuesday. I don't even know who that picture was for. I think I needed one image today where nothing was being done to me.