Tara's POV (Age 18)

I was eighteen now, and any day, my vidaai could happen. I should be happy—at least, that's what I kept telling myself. But no matter how much I tried, there was this sinking feeling in my heart, like something was wrong. As if something bad was about to happen.

Shaking off the uneasy thoughts, I turned toward Baba. He was preparing to visit Karan baba's house to discuss my vidaai.

He placed a gentle hand on my head and said, "Tara beta, mai ja raha hoon tumhari vidaai ki baat karne. Ab jaldi hi tum apne ghar ki ho jaogi. Mai tumhe saath le jaata, lekin mujhe gaav ke kaam se phir bahar jana hai aur do din baad hi lautunga. Isliye apna aur apni maa ka dhyan rakhna, samjhi?"

("Tara, my child, I am going to discuss your vidaai. Soon, you will belong to your rightful home. I would have taken you along, but I have to leave the village again for some work and will only return in two days. So take care of yourself and your mother, alright?")

I simply nodded, forcing a smile. "Ji, Baba. Aap chinta mat kijiye, aaram se jaiye."

("Yes, Baba. Don't worry, travel safely.")

He smiled at my words and left. I turned toward Maa, who gave me a reassuring smile, as if telling me everything would be alright.

The day passed by as usual, but in the afternoon, Siya arrived. The moment I saw her, I ran to her excitedly.

"Siya! Tu aa gayi! Itni der kaise laga di?"

("Siya! You're finally here! What took you so long?")

But something was different about her today. She didn't respond with her usual bright smile. Her face looked troubled, her eyes lost in thought. A strange uneasiness surrounded her.

Sensing her distress, I quickly told Maa that Siya and I were going to my room. Once inside, I handed her some water. She took a few slow sips before looking at me and whispering, "Kusum..."

Hearing that name, my brows furrowed.

Kusum?

She was our childhood friend—of course, not as close as Siya and me, but she was always a part of our group. We had all studied together until the fourth standard. But when she turned fifteen, she left for her sasural, and after that, she was never the same.

She used to be mischievous and full of life, always laughing, always finding ways to tease us. But after her vidaai, her laughter disappeared. She became quiet, distant, as if the very essence of who she was had been stolen.

I was still lost in these thoughts when Siya spoke again.

"Kusum ne apni jaan le li, Tara."

("Kusum took her own life, Tara.")

Shock slammed into me.

"Ye... ye kya keh rahi hai, Siya? Kusum aisa kyun karegi?"

("What... what are you saying, Siya? Why would Kusum do that?")

Siya held my hands tightly, her own trembling. She made me sit beside her and began explaining everything—things I could barely believe.

After her vidaai, everything seemed fine at first. But then, her in-laws began pressuring her for a child. She was still young, barely sixteen, and the village vaid ji (traditional doctor) had warned that it might take time for her to conceive.

Her husband, unwilling to wait, left for the city to find work. He promised to return soon. But he never did.

Three years passed.

Three years of loneliness. Three  years of insults from her in-laws, who called her banjh (infertile).

And then, one day, her husband returned.

But he wasn't alone.

He had married another woman in the city. A woman who was already carrying his child.

When he arrived back in the village, he didn't come home to Kusum as a husband should. Instead, he walked through the doors with his new wife and child in his arms, declaring that Kusum was worthless, incapable of bearing a child, and therefore, no longer his wife.

Her in-laws welcomed the new bride, showering her with love and gifts, while Kusum was thrown out.

Helpless, she ran back to her parents, hoping to find comfort.

Instead, she was met with anger.

Her father hit her, her mother called her a disgrace. They blamed her, saying she was not a good wife, that it was her fault her husband had left her.

With nowhere else to turn, Kusum sought justice from the panchayat.

But the villagers did not see her as a victim.

They called her manhoos (unlucky).

They called her kulata (a woman of loose morals).

They said she had brought shame to their village.

And so, the panchayat delivered its verdict.

She was to be thrown out of the village.

With no home, no support, and no dignity left, Kusum made one final choice.

She walked to the village well.

And jumped.

Ending her life.

Siya finished speaking, her voice shaking, her eyes red. My mind was spinning, unable to process the cruelty of it all.

"Par panchayat aisa faisla kaise le sakta hai? Ye toh galat hai, Siya! Ye toh anyay hai! Nahi, mai baba se baat karungi. Baba kuch karenge!"

("But how could the panchayat make such a decision? This is wrong, Siya! This is injustice! No, I will speak to Baba. He will do something!")

But Siya's next words shattered something inside me.

"Tara... yeh faisla tumhare baba ne hi diya tha."

("Tara... this decision was made by your baba.")

I froze.

I felt the ground slip from beneath me.

No.

No, this couldn't be true.

"Siya, tum jhooth keh rahi ho. Baba aisa nahi kar sakte."

("Siya, you're lying. Baba would never do this.")

But she shook her head.

"Mai jhooth nahi keh rahi, Tara. Tumhare baba ne hi ye faisla diya tha. Aur..."

She hesitated.

"Aur kya, Siya?" I whispered.

She swallowed hard before continuing.

"Kusum ki laash... use antim sanskar nahi diya gaya. Gaav walon ne use jangal mein phenk diya. Keh rahe the... woh kulata thi. Is gaav ke liye manhoos thi."

("Kusum's body... she wasn't even given a funeral. The villagers threw her into the wild. They said... she was a disgrace. That she was unlucky for this village.")

A deep, unbearable pain clawed at my heart.

"Siya... kya sach mein Kusum galat thi?"

("Siya... was Kusum really at fault?")

Siya looked at me with tired eyes and said,

"Tara, jab tak hum iss samaj se bandhe hain, tab tak jo bhi ho jaye, galti hamesha aurat ki hoti hai."

("Tara, as long as we are bound by this society, no matter what happens, it will always be the woman's fault.")

She pulled me into a hug, whispering,

"Hum galat nahi hain, Tara. Ye samaj galat hai. Hamari galti bas itni hai ki hum isse samaj se bandhe hue h aur chah kar bhi isse tod nahi sakte."

("We are not wrong, Tara. This society is. Our only mistake is that we are bound to it, whether we want to be or not.")

I held onto her tightly, unable to say anything.

Because, for the first time in my life, I realized—

I had been born into a cage.