The kitchen was a room of shadows and silence, where the only sound Aradhya ever made was the scrape of the knife against the cutting board. This morning, the blade slipped. Blood bloomed on her thumb, dark and thick, mingling with the onions she was meant to slice into the dal. The sting of the cut mirrored the purpling welts lacing her arms—a gift from Vijay's belt the night before. She flinched, her breath catching, and pressed a hand to her ribs, as if she could hold the ache of her body and her soul in place. I'm still here, she thought, the words a mantra she repeated as the room's weight settled. I'm still here... breaking.

In the dining hall, the family sat like gods in judgment. The mahogany table gleamed under the morning light, but to Aradhya, it was a throne of thorns. She set the chai down with trembling hands, their stutters a sin that drew Meena's voice like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Meena said nothing at first, only leaned forward, her mehndi-painted fingers curling like talons. Then, with the smooth cruelty of someone who'd practiced her venom, she said, "Shuffle like a beaten dog, dasi." Her lip curled. "Tell them what you are. Go on."

Aradhya's body went rigid. The room fell still, save for the clatter of Veer's teacup as he set it down. Priya's lips twitched with a grin; Anandi's laugh was a soft, smothered thing. Ramesh, her father-in-law, merely watched, his silence a verdict. Vijay's silence was worse. He sat at the edge of the table, his eyes flicking to Veer and Anandi's shared glance, to Ramesh and Meena's comfortable touch, and back to her.

Meena didn't stop. "A barren curse. A blight on our honor." Her voice sharpened, a needle to Aradhya's chest. "How long until this disgrace dies of shame, beta?"

The chai cup trembled in Aradhya's grip. She forced a nod, her throat tight, her mind a cacophony of shame, failure, nothing. She served the chai, her hands moving with mechanical precision, her eyes avoiding Vijay. She didn't dare meet his gaze. Not when he'd called her a "barren, useless thing" last night, his voice low and cold, not when he'd spat the words like they left a bad taste in his mouth.

The demands began. Ramesh needed his watch polished. Veer's socks were "soiled." Priya's shawl needed mending. Meena's prayer book vanished from its shelf. The chores bled into one another, a tide of tasks that threatened to drown her. Her fingers blistered from hot iron, her bruises throbbed from the weight of Vijay's fists. Each command was a hammer to her spine. I tried. I tried, she thought as she nearly dropped Ramesh's cup. But I'm not enough. I never was enough.

When Vijay finally spoke, it was the wrong thing to hear. "Enough," he said, his voice raw. "She's not a machine."

The room froze. Aradhya's pulse roared in her ears, a flicker of hope sparking in her chest. But then he turned to her, his face a tempest of anger and something that might've been guilt. "I wanted a wife I could love," he said, his words a whip. "But I'm stuck with you."

Meena laughed, a serpent's hiss. "Love her? Please. She's a disgrace. A childless shame. And now, my dear, we've a solution." She leaned closer, her voice smug. "A girl from the Rajput lineage. Fertile. Chaste. Worthwhile."

The words shattered Aradhya. The air left her lungs. She stumbled back, her body colliding with a shelf. Chards of the diya jar clattered to the floor. The family chuckled, their laughter a chorus of delight as if they'd not heard a better joke. They're going to replace me, she thought, a dawning horror. They'll throw me out like broken pottery.

That night, as the house settled into its usual rhythms of silence and cruelty, Aradhya stood alone in the kitchen. The embers of the diya glowed faintly in the courtyard behind her, their light a dim echo of the fire that had once filled her. She pressed her palm to the burn on her back, the pain grounding her. I'm not a machine, she thought, Vijay's words twisting in her gut. I'm not nothing. I'm still here.

Outside, rain began to fall. The first drops sizzled against the hot embers she left behind.