Doubts, like poisonous roots, were digging into my mind day by day, choking my love for my husband.

Arjun’s phone vibrated repeatedly on the marble table, tearing apart the silence of the bedroom at midnight. The screen lit up, displaying a notification from the banking app: “Transaction successful. Amount: -25,000 INR. Message: For sister.”

I lay with my back to my husband, but my eyes were still wide open in the darkness. Twenty-five thousand rupees again. “For sister” again. This was the sixth month in a row that Arjun had done this since our marriage.

Arjun gingerly picked up the phone, glanced at me to make sure that his wife was fast asleep, then sighed heavily. He snuggled into the blanket, his arm about to wrap around my waist as usual, but I shivered slightly, shifting away. His hand froze in mid-air and then fell limply.

My name is Priya. We got married after two years of passionate love. Arjun is a technical manager of a construction company in Mumbai, has a good income, is gentle and hard-working. Everyone says I must have practiced in my previous life to marry him. But only when you lie under the blanket will you know if it has lice. The “lice” here are not bad habits, but his unreasonable generosity to his family, specifically his younger sister Meera.

Twenty-five thousand rupees. For many rich people, that might just be a dinner at a fancy restaurant. But for my husband and I, who are “working hard” to pay off the mortgage on an apartment in the suburbs of Mumbai, that is a huge sum of money. My salary is thirty thousand, his is one hundred and twenty thousand. Every month, he gives me sixty thousand for living expenses and bank loan repayments, keeps twenty thousand for pocket money, and the other twenty-five thousand… it “evaporates” to his precious younger sister in his hometown, Udaipur.

I have hinted at this many times, even argued with Arjun about it.

“Honey, we are planning to have a baby soon. We still owe more than three crores for the house rent. Why do you have to send so much money to Meera every month? Things are cheap in the countryside, how can she spend twenty-five thousand on her own?”

Every time like that, Arjun just bowed his head, his voice low and miserable:
“Meera… has special circumstances. I am the eldest brother, I have to take care of her. Don’t ask anymore, I know how to balance it.”

What are “special circumstances”? Meera is twenty-five years old this year, with all her limbs intact. At our wedding, she appeared briefly, wearing a tight scarf, a loose salwar kameez, gave the gift, hid in a corner of the room and left early. Arjun said that Meera often got sick, had an eccentric personality, and didn’t like crowded places.

But what kind of minor illness is it that every month “eats up” twenty-five thousand in medicine? Or is she addicted? Or gambling? Or is Arjun raising some “adopted sister” outside under the name of his own sister?

Doubts like poisonous roots, day by day, penetrated my mind, suffocating my love for my husband.

Part 2: The Silent Investigation

The climax was yesterday, my biological mother called, her voice trembling, saying that my father had kidney stones and needed urgent surgery, costing about fifty thousand. I rummaged through my savings accounts, and could only muster up more than twenty-five thousand. I asked Arjun, he stammered: “I just transferred it to Meera this month, I… ran out of cash.”

That sentence was the last straw. I didn’t scream, didn’t cry. I quietly borrowed enough money from friends to send back to my father, and a decision popped into my head: I had to find the truth.

I asked for three days off under the pretext of going home to take care of my father, but in reality, I took the train to my husband’s hometown in Udaipur, Rajasthan.

I had never visited my husband’s family alone since our wedding. My husband’s parents died early in a traffic accident when Arjun was eighteen, and Meera was thirteen. The two siblings depended on each other to survive. The old haveli was located deep in a small, deserted lane, surrounded by a dense garden.

I arrived at noon, the old wooden gate was half-closed. I tiptoed into the yard, my heart pounding like a thief.

The house was eerily quiet. There was no TV, no music. Only the strong smell of Ayurveda medicine filled my nose.

“Kaun hai?” – A hoarse voice, sounding like metal rubbing against each other, rang out from the inner room.

I was startled, took a deep breath:
“Main… bhabhi hoon, Meera.”

Silence. There was a long, stifling silence. Then came the clatter of wooden crutches on the stone floor. The door creaked open.

I was prepared to see a lazy sister-in-law, lying around looking at her phone, or a drug addict. But the sight before me stunned me….

Meera stood there, leaning on one crutch. She was wearing a full-sleeved salwar kameez in the hot summer afternoon. But the scary thing was her face. The right cheek was completely deformed, the skin shrunken, red and rough like dry bark. Her right eye was drooping, unable to close.

“Bhabhi, yahan kya kaam hai? Bhai kahan hai?” Meera asked, her voice cold, deliberately turning the healthy half of her face towards me, pulling the dupatta to cover the deformity.

I stammered:
“Main… kaam se ja rahi thi, raste mein aagayi. Tumhara… chehra…”

Meera smirked, a crooked smile on her pitiful face:
“Bhabhi dar gayi? Bhai ne nahi bataya? Shayad woh dar gaya ki aapko hamara parivar ghinaune lagega.”

I swallowed, trying to calm myself. So this was why she wore a veil on her wedding day. But…

“Meera, sach batao. Har mahine bhai tumhe pachis hajar rupaye bhejta hai. Tum iska kya karti ho? Tumhari bimari… itne paise ki zaroorat hai?”

Meera stared at me. Her eyes did not show any greed or guilt, but contained a deep pain and resignation.

“Bhabhi sochti hain main tumhare pati ka paisa kha rahi hoon?”

I was silent, silence meant acceptance. Meera sighed, turned and went inside:

“Andar aaiye.”
I followed her into the dark room. On the old wooden table were dozens of medicine bottles, bandages, and tubes of imported keloid cream.

“Yeh dard nashak dawai hai, aur yeh cream hai jo scars kam karti hai. Ek chhoti si tube do hajar ki aati hai, mujhe har din pure shareer par lagani padti hai. Aur physiotherapy ka kharcha, injections…”

“Pure shareer par?” – I exclaimed.

Meera said nothing. She slowly took off her dupatta and thin kameez.

I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from screaming.

It wasn’t just her face. Meera’s neck, chest, arms, and almost her entire back were a patchwork of scars. There were places where her skin was stuck together, tight and sore. The twenty-five-year-old girl’s body was torn to shreds like a burnt painting.

“Samajh gayi bhabhi?” – Meera put her shirt back on, her voice heartbreakingly calm. – “Main kaam nahi kar sakti, koi rakshas jaise chehre wale ko naukri nahi deta. Garmiyon mein, yeh scars aise khatakti hain jaise hazaron chuyian raingh rahi hoon. Sardiyon mein, chaal phat jaati hai, khoon nikal aata hai. Pachis hajar mein se, main bas bees hajar ki dawai kharidti hoon, baaki se guzara chalti hai.”

My legs went weak and I slumped down on the chair. The doubt vanished, replaced by horror and sympathy. But the biggest question remained.

“Kyun… tum aise kaise ho gayi?”

Meera looked out the window, where the old mango tree was shedding its leaves:
“Das saal pehle ki baat hai. Bhai kabhi nahi batayega.”

Just then, the familiar sound of a motorbike rang out in the yard. It was Arjun. He rushed into the house, sweating profusely, his face pale when he saw me sitting there. The neighbors must have called to let him know I was home.

“Priya! Tum… tum yahan kya kar rahi ho? Tumne mujhse jhoot bola naani ke ghar jaane ke liye?” Arjun shouted, his voice cracking with panic.

I looked up at my husband, tears welling up in my eyes: “Tumne mujhse chhupaya. Do saal se chhupaya. Kyun?”

Arjun looked at Meera, saw her head bowed in silence, he understood that I had seen everything. He let his hands hang down, leaned against the wall, and slid down to the ground like a sinner.

“Main batane se darta tha…” – Arjun covered his face and cried. – “Main darata tha ki tum ghinnaungi, ya dabav mehsoos karogi. Aur main darata tha… us din ki yaad dilane se.”

And then, in that dark house, Arjun told the story of ten years ago.

That day, their parents had just passed away, the two brothers lived depending on each other. Arjun was eighteen, Meera was thirteen. One winter night, due to an accident with the stove and oil lamp, a big fire broke out. The fire raged from the kitchen, blocking the exit of Arjun who was sleeping in the wooden attic.

“Us waqt main dhuen se behosh ho gaya. Main sochta tha main mar gaya.” – Arjun sobbed. – “Lekin Meera… woh bahar nikal gayi thi. Usne mujhe nahi aate dekha, usne ek kambal pani mein bhiga kar, aag mein vaapas kood gayi.”

Meera sat next to her, eyes dry, as if listening to someone else’s story.

“Usne mujhe dhoondh liya, kambal odh kar mujhe kandhe par uthaya. Jalta hua sheesh gir gaya… Uske peeth par.” – Arjun clenched his fists and punched the floor. – “Usne mere liye sambhala. Usne apni chhoti si peeth se jalte hue lakdi ko sambhala taki main raas nikal sakoon.”

Arjun was rescued, suffering only minor burns. Meera, the pretty thirteen-year-old girl, the best student in school, had her future destroyed by the fire. 70% of her body was burned to third and fourth degree. After more than a dozen painful skin graft surgeries, Meera kept her life, but lost her human form.

“Meri behen ka sapna tha air hostess banne ka.” – Arjun looked up at me, his red eyes full of pleading. – “Lekin mere wajah se, ab woh isi ghar mein ek bhoot ki tarah jeeti hai. Meri jaan usne bachayi. Mera shareer usne mere liye diya. Tum sochti ho main use chhod sakta hoon? Pachis hajar, ya ek lakh, ya meri poori zindagi bhi uska karz utarne ke liye kaafi nahi hai!”

Arjun’s every word was like a sledgehammer hitting my chest. What had I done? I was calculating every penny with my husband’s savior. I was jealous of the painkillers of a girl who sacrificed her youth and beauty so that I could have a healthy husband today.

I looked at Meera. She was small, huddled in a loose salwar kameez, but in my eyes at that moment, she was as great as a saint.

“Main maafi chahta hoon…” – Arjun crawled to hold my hand. – “Main jaanta hoon main tumhare saath, aur aane wale bacchon ke saath galat kar raha hoon. Lekin main nahi kar sakta…”

I pushed Arjun’s hand away. He was stunned, thinking I would get angry and leave. But no. I knelt down in front of Meera, hugging her skinny legs. For the first time, I touched my sister-in-law without feeling strange or scrutinizing.

“Main maafi chahti hoon…” – I burst into tears. – “Main galat thi Meera. Main bahut buree thi.”

Meera flinched a little in surprise, but then her rough hand timidly placed itself on my hair, patting it gently:
“Koi baat nahi bhabhi. Main aadat se hoon. Jo bhi mujhe dekhta hai, dar jaata hai.”
“Nahin! Main nahi darti!” – I looked up, tears streaming down my face. – “Tum sabse khoobsurat ho jise maine kabhi dekha hai. Tumne mere pati ko doosri zindagi di. Aur main itni swarthi, sankeern mansikta wali thi…”

Arjun watched the two most important women in his life hug each other and cry, and he cried too. The old haveli had never had so many tears, but they were tears that washed away misunderstandings and hatred.

That night, I stayed to cook. The meal was simple, just dal and aloo ki sabzi, but strangely cozy. I watched Meera eat with difficulty because her jaw was clenched, and my heart ached.

“Arjun,” I said, breaking the silence. “Agle mahine se tumhe Meera ko pachis hajar bhejne ki zaroorat nahi hai.”

Arjun dropped his chopsticks, and Meera looked up at me. The atmosphere was tense.

“You… what are you saying?” – Arjun stumbles.

I smiled, took the hand of Meera and placed it on my hand Arjun:
“We will take Meera to Mumbai, she will stay with us.”
“What?” – That’s what I thought.
“I have taken the information.” – I said quickly, my voice determined. – “There’s the National Burn Centre in Mumbai, the treatment is better than here. Meera is alone here, her medication is irregular, and she’s depressed. The house is a little small there. We’ll arrange for her to sleep on the sofa or change her room, but she’ll be under our supervision.
“But… what about the money?” – Arjun said. – “The expenses there are too high.”
“We’ll both work hard.” – I’ll start taking on extra accounting work at night. We’ll postpone planning for a baby for a year. We’ll postpone the bank loan. The most important thing is Meera’s treatment. I’ve heard there are new cosmetic surgery techniques that can help repair her face. No matter how much it costs, we’ll do it for her.”

Meera ran, still in the dark, and said:
“Sister… I… I’m becoming a burden on both of you…”
“Don’t say that.” – You saved Arjun’s life, which means my life too. Now it’s our turn to protect you. We are a family.”

100 months.

While waiting in your hospital room, I held tight to Arjun. There is a silent box looking towards the door of the surgery room. Today is the surgery to reconstruct the face of Meera. The doctor said the first dose was very good, my eyes could have healed. A portion was added.

At the moment my family is very small, I don’t have as much meat as before, I have woken up now to do more work, but I have never felt light and happy in my heart. That.

The door of the surgery room opened. The doctor came in and started smiling. I and Arjun took a sip and felt happy.

I remember the night I saw the tin message minus ten thousand rupees. At that moment, I saw that it was a lost mother. But now, I understand that these things cannot be bought with money. There are hundreds of thousands of people, there are a million people who have also given me, they are also cheap so with my love and love for them.

Meera has given up all her teenage years to keep my husband alive. and Now, I will use the rest of my life to make up for her, I will bring back the colors of her gray life. Because, that’s what you actually mean by the word “family”.