The jar I will not open

I typed Rohit's name into the DM box. I wrote: "Rohit, it's Meera. Take it down." Six words. Then I wrote a longer version about how he once told me he liked women who laughed in public, and I deleted the longer version because it sounded like I was asking him to date me again. I deleted the six words too. The DM box closed and the screenshot of his page was still open beside it. My face cropped but readable.

The kheer is still in its steel jar. Two bites and I stopped. The jar was packed last week in Jaipur, before anyone reposted Adi's clip, which means my mother stood in that kitchen and cooked for me without knowing what my week was about to do. Her note said "suhag rat ki kheer, eat before fasting." I am not fasting. I wanted the jar on the counter as proof that someone, somewhere, made something soft for me last Tuesday. I didn't open it fully because once it is gone the counter is just a counter again.

Ritu's sentence is the one I keep turning over. She said the page tagged the Shah wedding client list. Not the clip, not the headline, not even my cropped handle — the client list. That is where I live. That is what pays rent in this flat. A man in Versova is making money from a woman laughing at a wedding he wasn't invited to, and I am the one who is afraid to dial him. He has not replied to Heena's takedown. He will not. He knows what the clip does for his page.

I kicked the door alarm under the sink with my bare foot at five. I pulled it out at eight. I put it back at nine. I am not sure what I wanted it to do. Maybe beep when someone comes to my door and asks why my face is on a paid page. Maybe just sit in plastic and tell me I haven't made the worst mistake of my career yet.

I didn't look at the mirror when I washed my face. I know what I look like. I have been hearing it from a stranger's caption all day.