The House Keeps My Shape

I crossed that threshold understanding the rules and hating them before the door had even closed behind me. Dev can call it order, but I felt the walls tighten around every woman in the house. He wanted my grief-looking face at his table and Leela’s hands working beside me, unequal but silent. I kept smiling because that is what gets paid for.

Taking the water jug was reckless. I knew it. I also knew Dev was watching, and some cruel part of me wanted him to see Leela refuse the humiliation of carrying everything alone. For a few seconds, I stopped being Kabir’s paid widow and became the woman who had entered another family’s grief with her livelihood in my hands. Helping Leela did not make me brave. It made me jealous of my own courage.

I noticed the food kept for the kitchen. I could have eaten it. Instead, I cleared the plates beside her, saying nothing because saying, “They are keeping you outside even now,” would have sounded exactly like the family member I was pretending to be. I wanted to ask what questions she must never answer. I also wanted to promise we would find another way without making her trust me merely because I was new and desperate.

The spare phone felt heavier than a phone should. I put it in my bag where Dev could not see, and the secrecy made me sick with its familiarity. One unguarded call could become evidence that I had entered his house with a purpose beyond the role. I kept charging it anyway, listening for footsteps as if I expected my own conscience to arrive uninvited.