Ranga's Daughter

Chapter Fifteen: The Quiet Between Bells
Freedom didn’t come with fanfare for Meenal.
It came in the form of a battered alarm clock ticking on the corner of the old shelf.
Every morning, before the sun found its way into their lane, Meenal woke up no hesitation, no complaint. The floor was cold in January, but her steps were practiced. She swept the little tiled room, careful not to wake Ranga who slept on the adjacent cot. She washed last night’s dishes in a red plastic tub, squeezing soap into a steel scrub as the water numbed her fingers.
By five-thirty, she was grinding ginger for chai, frying idlis or kneading dough for parathas. She packed two dabbasone with lunch for Ranga to carry to the tea stall, and another with a simple tiffin for herself: usually lemon rice or curd rice, wrapped tight in a cloth with a spoon inside.
By six-thirty, she’d folded her washed uniform dry from yesterday plain salwar kameez, faded but clean and hung her bag on her shoulder. Hair tied in a neat braid, forehead marked with a small bindi, she would hand Ranga his tea in a steel glass, along with his neatly folded towel and wallet.
Neither of them spoke much in the mornings.
By seven, he left for the shop. By eight, she was on the city bus, surrounded by crowds, plastic bags, hawker calls, and aunties discussing discount sarees.
Meenal sat in the fourth bench, near the window in class. Fourth semester civil structures and materials. Her handwriting was small, tidy. Her notes were always ready. No one in college knew her past. No one asked why her hands were rough from work, or why she never joined after-college outings.
She always smiled when she spoke. Not too much. Not too little.
Professors liked her. Girls respected her. Boys ignored her.
That’s how she preferred it.
By five-thirty, she was back home.
The house greeted her like an old friend silent, humble, familiar. She washed the day’s tiffin, dusted the windows, and refilled water bottles. Ranga usually returned by six. She'd serve him a cup of tea, both sitting on the floor cross-legged, talking in murmurs mostly about how business went, or what vegetables were cheap that day.
Then, she’d start dinner. Simple food rice, rasam, or chapati with curry. Always enough for two, always on time. She never let Ranga lift a finger at home. He often offered. She always refused.
After dinner, while Ranga stretched out on the cot reading an old newspaper, Meenal sat near the window with her books. Sometimes the streetlights flickered. Sometimes they went out. But she continued reading by the dim yellow light of the emergency lamp.
There was no drama. No breakthrough.
Just discipline. Silence. Purpose.
Some nights, she’d look at the moon and whisper:
"I’m not someone’s burden anymore."
And in the quiet city dark, with just the rattle of autorickshaws far away and the hum of her small fan, Meenal would close her books, fold her shawl, and lie down.
There were no screams in her dreams anymore.
Only chapters. Equations. And the quiet promise of summer.