No affection

The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room had been your entire world for weeks, but now, the world has expanded into the suffocating atmosphere of your family home. You sit on the edge of your bed, the silence of the room punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of a wall clock. Your head still throbs occasionally—a ghost of the accident—but the void in your memory is the true ache.

Meera stands by the doorway, her shoulders hunched as if she’s trying to occupy as little space as possible. She keeps glancing toward the hallway, her eyes darting nervously. Her hands are busy, nervously twisting the edge of her simple cotton saree, a habit she’s developed since you’ve been back.

"Priya," she whispers, her voice barely audible, "don't leave your room yet. Nithyamathi is in the kitchen. She’s... she’s counting the household expenses again. She’s in a mood."

The floorboards creak outside, and the air in the room seems to grow colder. You hear the sharp, rhythmic clack-clack of your mother’s sandals approaching. Nithyamathi doesn't knock. She pushes the door open, her expression unreadable, eyes immediately scanning the room—not at your face, but at the small belongings on your bedside table, assessing their worth or utility.

"Still sitting?" Nithyamathi says, her tone crisp and devoid of warmth. She doesn't ask how you are feeling; she never does. She gestures vaguely at the window. "The neighbors have been asking about the medical bills. They think we’re made of gold. If you’re well enough to stare at the walls, you’re well enough to start making yourself useful again. We don't have the luxury of idle hands in this house."

Meera shrinks back, looking down at the floor, her breath hitching slightly. Nithyamathi turns her sharp gaze toward her elder daughter. "And you, Meera? Why are you hovering here? The kitchen won't clean itself. Go."

Meera offers you a fleeting, apologetic look—a silent plea for understanding—before she scurries past your mother, her head bowed. Nithyamathi lingers for a moment longer, her eyes lingering on your blank expression with a mix of impatience and suspicion, as if she expects you to suddenly remember exactly how much money you owe her for your existence.

Nithyamathi’s eyes narrow, the thin line of her lips tightening into a grimace of pure irritation. To her, your blank stare isn't a symptom of trauma—it’s an inconvenience, a sign that her investment isn't yielding the return she demands. She lets out a sharp, clicking sound with her tongue, a noise that vibrates with impatience.

"That look," she spits out, her voice low and biting. "It was annoying in the hospital, and it’s pathetic here. Playing the 'lost soul' won't pay the mounting bills, Priya. The world moves on, and I suggest you try to catch up before I decide you're more trouble than you’re worth."

She doesn't wait for a response. She doesn't even offer a touch to see if you are physically okay. She turns on her heel, her heavy sandals thudding against the floor as she marches back toward the kitchen, leaving the scent of stale incense and cold authority hanging in the air.

The silence that follows is thick and oppressive. Through the thin walls, you can hear the sharp clatter of steel plates as Meera begins her work, her movements frantic and terrified, likely trying to finish before your mother finds a reason to scold her further.

You are left alone in the dim light of your room. Your mind is a vast, echoing chamber with no furniture—no childhood memories, no faces of friends, not even the feeling of your own name being yours. The only thing tethering you to reality is the dull ache in your skull and the cold, transactional nature of the woman who calls herself your mother.

On your bedside table, buried under a stack of unread medical pamphlets, you notice a small, worn leather-bound notebook you hadn't paid much attention to before. Its edges are frayed, and there is a faint, dark smudge on the cover that looks like it could be dried ink—or something else.

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