Gold on the bruise

The kada is on the dresser now. I took it off when I got home because I couldn't stand the warmth of it — not the heat of the metal, the meaning — sitting on the exact place where a man I filed a complaint against still thinks he owns me.

Tanvi's mother asked twice if I was unwell. I performed wellness for ten minutes with a smile so wide my jaw ached and the gold pressed into a yellow-green mark I haven't photographed for the women-cell file yet. I will photograph it tomorrow before I put the kada back on for the roka. I have to wear it. It is the gift. I am the professional.

The cousin has not replied. All day. Since eleven. The first silence since August. I keep picking up the phone for the buzz that isn't there. When your enemy goes quiet, your body doesn't know whether to unclench or brace harder. Mine is doing both.

The SUV was worse than I want to admit here. A voice I didn't recognize — hired, obviously — saying "Suresh-ji sends his regards" like a floral arrangement. My hands shook so hard the auto-wallah took my phone and dialled Heena, and Heena answered on the first ring because Heena has not slept since I filed. I am being managed by people who love me and pursued by my own blood. I ranked that yesterday and I'm not un-ranking it.

Ira counted the phone lockers twice with me this afternoon because I asked and didn't explain. The pin was in my right fist all day. The clipboard has the women-cell file folded behind Tanvi's family paperwork. I am running a wedding tomorrow while hiding inside my own clipboard.