Ranga's Daughter

Chapter Twenty-One: Ashes of Silence
The house was unusually quiet.
Not a bird chirped outside, nor did the wind rustle through the neem tree that usually tapped gently against the windowpanes. Meenakshi sat still in the puja room, her fingers trembling as they counted the beads of her rudraksha mala. Her lips moved silently, but no prayer came out. Tears trickled down her cheeks, soaking the edge of her cotton saree.
In the hall, her husband sat slumped on the sofa, the file of Vikram’s jail documents still open in his lap. The release photo haunted him—a boy in salwar kameez, fragile frame, eyes empty, almost feminine in despair. Not the son he once proudly raised, but a shadow that now lived only in guilt.
Across from him, their daughter sat cross-legged on the floor, holding her knees close to her chest. Her face was pale, lips quivering. The image of that photograph wouldn’t leave her either.
Finally, Meenakshi walked into the hall. Her voice cracked like dry wood.
“So this is what you both did to him.”
No one replied.
She turned to her husband first.
“You… you said he brought shame. You said his complaints were a stain on our family. You wanted him punished. And you got it. They castrated him… chemically. By court order, no less. And now he’s gone. Like ash in the wind.”
Her husband didn’t look up. His voice was hollow.
“I didn’t know… I never thought—”
“No! You didn’t think. Because he was soft. Because he didn’t yell like boys. Because he didn’t raise his hand when she—” Meenakshi turned toward their daughter, trembling with fury—“when she threw things at him. When she slapped him in front of the neighbors.”
Her daughter couldn’t meet her eyes.
“I told you he wasn’t like other boys. I told you something was different in him, something delicate. I tried to protect him in my way. But you—” she pointed to both—“you threw him to wolves.”
The girl finally looked up. Her eyes welled with tears.
“Amma, I didn’t mean… I didn’t think it would go this far. I was angry. He was always the favorite. Appa kept saying ‘look at your brother,’ ‘why don’t you study like him,’ ‘why don’t you behave like him.’ I wanted to be seen. I wanted someone to say I mattered.”
Meenakshi blinked, stunned.
“So you accused him to get attention?”
“No!” the girl burst out crying. “I mean… I twisted things. I said he hit me, that he threatened me. I thought maybe I’ll scare him. But when Appa filed that police complaint… when they took him away… Amma, I got scared. I didn’t know how to stop it.”
The room fell silent.
Even the ticking clock seemed too loud.
Meenakshi turned to her husband again.
“Your daughter lied. And you… you made sure he never came back. And now the whole world has had its way with my son. You broke him. You both did.”
Her husband tried to speak, but no words came. Finally, he stood, walked over to her, and knelt by her feet.
“Please,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve forgiveness. But she… our daughter... she has a life ahead. Don’t curse her. She’s the only one who can give us a grandchild now.”
Meenakshi stepped back. Her eyes burned with disbelief.
“So that’s what matters? That she can give you a child? That’s your closure? Our son is out there—broken, lost, humiliated—and you want me to bless her womb instead?”
The daughter wiped her face, sobbing.
“Amma… I’m sorry. I can’t live with this. I didn’t know what I was doing. I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right.”
Meenakshi didn’t respond. She walked back to the puja room and sat silently before the flickering lamp.
Her fingers touched the edge of the tulsi mala again. This time, no beads moved.
Just the silence of a mother who had nothing left to pray for.