My mother had come to visit from the village, but my mother-in-law suddenly said: “Go to the kitchen and have your dinner”—she was stunned by what I did next.
From the day she moved in, Nirmala behaved as if she were the mistress. She rearranged furniture, moved the puja mandir, replaced curtains, and whenever I objected, she dismissed me: “You’re the daughter-in-law. Respect your elders.”
Vikram never defended me. “She’s old, ignore her,” he’d say. So I endured the jabs, the condescension, the subtle humiliations. I told myself patience would preserve harmony.
One Saturday my mother called.
“Asha, I’ve brought vegetables from the canal farm, and some fresh fish. I’ll come tomorrow to see you and Kabir.”
I was delighted. I longed for her cooking, her laughter with my little son. I texted Vikram: “Mom’s visiting tomorrow.” He replied, “Okay.”
The next afternoon I hurried home, arms full of fruit. As I entered, the aroma of fried fish filled the air. In the living room sat my mother-in-law in silk sari and lipstick, beside her guest — Mrs. Malhotra, the president of the local women entrepreneurs’ association.
I greeted them politely, but something tugged at me. In the kitchen, I found my mother — sweat dripping, sleeves rolled, washing a mountain of dirty dishes.
