The Sharma household breathed in and out to the rhythm of subjugation. It was a living thing, the air thick with the ghosts of yesterday’s spices—turmeric and cumin—and the fresher, sharper scent of Aradhya’s fear. She moved through the morning’s chores in the washing area, her hands submerged in soapy water that did little to soothe the fire beneath her skin. The welts from her husband’s belt were a cartographer’s cruel map across her back and arms, each new ridge a landmark of her failure. Last night’s punishment sang with a vicious sting as she scrubbed the family’s life into the fabric of their clothes: Papa’s starched kurtas, Veer ji’s crisp shirts, Priya’s silken sarees, Anandi’s delicate blouses.