They never said her name.

Not the aunt who raised her, not the uncle who ignored her, and certainly not the cousin whose eyes stripped her of her dignity every time she bent to pick up the firewood.

She was oye when there was dirt on the veranda.

Gandi ladki when her blouse stuck to her chest from sweat.

Chudail when the roti burned or she looked too beautiful for her own good.

And she was beautiful. In the way wildflowers bloom through cracks in cement. Quiet, unbothered, but impossible to ignore.

Skin the color of fresh tamarind.

Lips full, always bitten raw.

Eyes like smudged kohl—heavy with unshed tears, darker with silent rage.

But beauty, in a house like this, was a curse.

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Meher woke before the rooster crowed.

Always barefoot. Always careful not to wake the others.

She wrapped her old, faded dupatta around her chest—tight, like armor—and moved like a whisper through the cracked mud flooring of her aunt’s house.

She didn’t belong here.

She never had.

Her mother died screaming in childbirth. Her father drank himself to debt and disgrace before hanging from the mango tree behind the schoolyard. That’s how Meher arrived here—unwanted, unnoticed, unpaid. A ghost with a beating heart.

Every morning began with the jhadu—thorn-brushed, harsh against her calloused palms. She swept dust that never stayed away, cow dung that reeked of rot, and silence that stuck to her like a second skin.

Then came the boiling of the milk, the kneading of dough, the scrubbing of the verandah tiles on her knees until they bled.

Then the bathroom—the one her cousin used after pissing all over the rim.

Then her uncle’s towel. His tea. His spit. His grunts.

And only then—if no one screamed her name—did she eat. Cold chapati. Leftover rice. No pickle. No oil. Just her fingers and the wall she sat beside.

That wall had heard her cry more than any human ever had.

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"Your blouse is sticking," her aunt snapped once, watching Meher stir the dal with sweat beading between her breasts.

"Stop walking around like a fucking mujra girl. Shameless."

Meher lowered her eyes and tightened her dupatta across her chest, but nothing helped.

The fabric clung when wet. The blouse was two years too tight. Her body had changed without her permission.

Curves had bloomed where silence once lived. Hips rounded. Breasts ripened. Her skin glowed despite being hidden from the sun.

And men looked. All of them. Even the old ones.

Especially her cousin.

Ravi was twenty-four. Jobless. Ruthless. He once shoved her against the grain sacks when no one was home. Told her her smell made him hard. Said it like a compliment.

She bit his hand and ran. That was the first time. There were more.

Every look he gave her was undressing. Every step closer was a threat.

She told her aunt.

Her aunt slapped her.

"He's your brother. You dirty bitch."

So Meher learned to disappear in corners. Keep her blouse buttoned even when it scratched her skin. Walk without making her anklets chime. Sleep with a knife under the straw mat, even if it was small.

It didn’t matter. Fear clung to her skin like oil.

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One night, as Meher stood by the well, drawing water after everyone had gone to sleep, she felt him again—Ravi.

The breath behind her neck. That familiar, sickening chuckle.

"You think I don’t know when you’re alone, Meher?" he whispered, the sound thick with filth. His hand was already rubbing himself through his lungi, the cloth tented with growing hunger.

She froze, the rope burning in her clenched fists as her knuckles turned white.

"You look ripe enough to fuck," he growled, stepping closer. His hand gripped her waist, tight and punishing. "I’ll be the first. Before some rich bastard smells your cunt and claims it."

She tried to pull away, panic surging through her chest—but he shoved her against the stone wall of the well, pressing his hard length against the curve of her ass.

"Fuck… keep squirming like that and I swear I’ll fuck you right here, under the goddamn moon."

She went still, terrified. Her body locked, but her soul screamed. His hand slid up her side, roughly cupping her breast and squeezing it through the tight fabric, fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise. His hips rutted against her backside, dry humping her with shameless grunts.

Her eyes stung as silent sobs slipped from her lips. She held on to the rope like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth, biting down the cries that threatened to break free.

Then—

"Lala… Ravi beta? Kaha ho tum?"

Her aunt’s voice rang faintly through the night.

Ravi hissed under his breath, yanked himself away from her, but not before grabbing the hem of her tight blouse and snapping it back against her skin with a vicious sting.

The slap of the fabric echoed in the air.

"Don’t think you’ve escaped me," he spat, voice low and venomous. "That cunt… that tight little ass—I'll be the one to fuck it raw before I sell you off to the highest bidder."

And with that, he disappeared into the shadows.

Meher stood still, shaking. Her skin crawled with disgust. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, broken breaths as she heard her aunt muttering something distant—asking where her father-in-law’s medicine had been placed. But Meher could barely hear anything beyond the pounding of her own humiliation.

She bent to retrieve the rope, pulled up the now-filled pot of water with trembling arms. She wanted to scratch her skin until it bled, to claw every inch he touched, but she couldn’t afford the luxury of cleaning herself. She had only one old saree. One blouse that barely fit—too tight, too torn, the same one that still clung to her like a cursed second skin.

If she soaked it, the fabric would cling tighter, make her chest more visible—and her aunt’s vile words would only grow crueler.

So she lifted the heavy pot, held it to her waist, and walked back toward the house, barefoot on sharp stones, her dignity bleeding invisibly with every step.

She placed the pot in the kitchen, wiped her wet palms against the mud floor, and walked back to the only space that belonged to her—the floor next to the front door.

No cot. No pillow. No blanket.

Just a torn straw mat she rolled out like a corpse cloth.

She laid down, curled into a fetal position, arms hugging her knees, her bones aching under the thin fabric.

"Kaash… main bhi maa aur baba ke saath mar gayi hoti..." she whispered to herself, her voice too broken to be a cry.

(This would’ve been better… if I’d died with my mother and father.)

It wasn’t the first time she wished for death. Every night, before she closed her eyes, her only prayer was not to wake up in the morning. To disappear. To stop existing in a world that only touched her to hurt her.

“Mujhse aur nahi hoga... mere koi bhi nahi hai… toh main kyu zinda hoon? Kya nathe hai iss duniya se?”

(I can’t do this anymore… I have no one… then why the hell am I still alive? What tie still binds me to this world?)

Tears spilled silently from her beautiful dark brown eyes, slipping down her temples and soaking into the mat. Her lips quivered as she bit down hard—desperate not to make a sound, even in grief. Even her sorrow had learned to be silent.

Her arms wrapped tighter around herself. She clenched her thighs, trying to erase the feel of Ravi’s filth from between her legs. But the shame… it lingered. Crawled over her skin like insects in the dark.

Eventually, her exhausted body gave in, and her eyes fluttered shut—dragging her into a dreamless, empty slumber.

But what she didn’t know…

Was that from behind the tall neem tree across the courtyard, a shadow had been watching her the entire time. Fist clenched around the end of the rope she had dropped. Eyes burning. Chest heaving with unspoken rage.

The person's jaw was tight. Their blood boiled.

She had been theirs from the moment they saw her.

And yet tonight, they’d stood there—hidden, chained by rules they no longer cared to follow—and watched her be touched by hands that had no right.

Not again. Not ever again.

They had made a mistake by waiting.

But not anymore.

Soon.

She would be his.

Not in silence.

Not in secret.

They’d make sure every inch of her body knew what it meant to be claimed.

Not violated.

Worshipped.

Owned.

Marked.

Soon.

Just not tonight.

Not yet.

At least.