first tears since the roka

The security bar at the ICICI door caught my kurta and ripped it like the cloth owed it something. Three inches down my left forearm, blood spotting the deposit slip before the manager had even looked up. I stood with my jaw locked and let her call for bandages. I did not make a sound. I have been making sounds in my head for weeks but I did not make one in that branch.

Inside the bundle of Rs 500 notes, the printed currency band read Property Cell, Lonavala Builder Office — internal transfer. I asked the cashier to wait. I photographed it while Heena stood behind me. Their money moving through the same bank that froze my account for them. That is not evidence, that is insult with a corporate logo on it.

In the auto back to Andheri, holding the bandaged arm against the tote that holds a lakh twelve in cash, I cried. I did not decide to cry. It came the way rain comes when the window is already down. First tears since the engagement broke at the roka. Heena did not say anything. She just passed me a tissue from her bag and looked out at the traffic.

I filed exhibit D on speaker tonight with the women-cell officer. My voice was even. The arm throbbed under the table. I have written four exhibits in one month for a Lonavala builder I have never met. My name will be in his file in capital letters. That is the only revenge I am allowed right now.

My tabby meowed once when I climbed out onto the balcony. One meow. I have not named her and I am not going to name her because if I name her I will have one more thing to lose in this city.