V
Miranti, Jakarta, 2024

Of all the surprises life had thrown her way, Miranti had never expected to see Nabanita again. Not like this. Not in the eyes of her daughter.

Miranti had long since grown accustomed to the silence of an empty house after her sons married and moved out. It felt like the walls themselves had begun to close in on her. Deciding she couldn’t bear the solitude, she mentioned renting out a room to her husband, who shrugged in indifference. ‘Do whatever you want’, he had said, his voice hollow, as though the words were instinctual. But for Miranti, instinct had always been about survival, about choosing between ‘flight or fight’.

Her mind often returned to her childhood, to the cruelty she had endured at school for being Muslim. One teacher had even refused to shake her hand, calling her ‘dirty’ for it. She had learned early what it felt like to be an outcast; how unforgiving and senseless the world could be. The only one who had ever stood by her, who had offered a hand of friendship, was Nabanita. In a world of callousness, Nabanita had unknowingly been the warmth that gave Miranti the courage to face each day.

Her reverie was broken when her son called. She told him about her plans to rent a room, and he promised to find a tenant. ‘Someone who knows how to clean and pay annually,’ Miranti requested. ‘And no children. I can’t stand the noise.’ The sound of children’s laughter and shouting had become unbearable to her, a harsh reminder of her own father’s volatility. She realized, with a pang, that she had become more like him than she cared to admit.

The new tenant arrived, and Miranti immediately sensed something familiar about her. She was an Indian woman, with a quiet demeanor that drew Miranti in. At first, Miranti couldn’t place her, but when the door opened again, she saw the girl’s family, she saw… Nabanita.

Nabanita.

The same warmth in her eyes, the same comforting smile that once had been a healing source for Miranti’s wounds. It was unmistakable.

***

Agnihotri sat at his desk, the pile of documents before him growing higher by the minute. His mind, still clouded by the unresolved questions surrounding the case, struggled to focus. The most puzzling element, however, were the letters. What was their true significance? Could they offer the key to unravelling the mystery of the crime, or were they simply a woman’s cathartic release?

He picked up the next letter, scanning the lines in search of any clue he might have missed before. There it was - June 22, 2024. The date seemed to carry a weight of its own, and Agnihotri felt a sudden sense of urgency. The words might hold the truth, or at least, lead him closer to it.

Without further hesitation, he opened it and began to read.

Nabanita,

I am trying hard not to chuckle when you say that you know I don’t mean to poison him. Oh, I wish you knew how much I wanted that. I mean it. I want to see him losing his power slowly before my eyes. I want him not to be able to say words like ‘anjing’ (dog) or ‘goblok’ (dumb) at me again. I want him to know what it’s like to lose control over his own life, to experience helplessness.

‘Anger issues’ sounds so harmless compared to what he’s done to me. The first time he slammed the door because he lost a bidding at work, I felt sorry for the door. And felt sorry for him. My overly trained empathy made it easy to dismiss the feeling of discomfort within me. He’s busy, he’s stressed out, he’s worked so hard. The moment he slapped my right cheek because I told him I felt ill and couldn’t go to his office party, I froze and went to bed. He never apologized. I just woke up with flowers on my bedside, and a card saying, ‘I love you’.

I learned to live my life both in fear and on a mission to make everything seem alright. Every time I pray, I wish for him to have long business trips, so I don’t have to experience his presence again. But I used to feel so ungrateful too. He’s a wealthy man who gave me a good life (material-wise, at least), and I never had to lift a finger to get money. I can do whatever I want (under his circumstances). I’ve seen my friends with financial problems, with husbands covering up debts, ending up losing their homes. So gratefulness is something I learned to do whenever I felt like giving up.

Once, a long time ago, I told him that maybe we should go to a marriage counselor or at least an ustadz (an Islamic teacher). He spit his coffee at me and left. In this household, words have no currency anymore.

I really, really wish I had a job, or something to make of myself, Nabanita. I felt like a fool if I were to live a comfortable life, since I had no work experience. My husband told me that he can make enough money for a village, so why bother seeking a writing job that won’t even pay for his dinner? You knew how much I wanted to be a writer, Nabanita. He knew too.

My husband was, still is, a smart man. He never hurt me in places that others could see. Wearing my hijab whenever I go outside, no one would see the bald spots on my head because it’s often pulled by him. No one would see the bruises on my neck, back, and upper arms, because my body’s fully clothed. No one would see them but me.

So, now, looking at his weakened body and face, I can’t help but wonder. Would I be able to obtain freedom if he died? Would I be able to look into his eyes after he drank his tea-flavoured poison and said, ‘Mati, anjing’(die, you dog)?

Astaghfirullah, this letter is becoming so evil, Nabanita! Please forgive me. As you said, maybe I am just trying to seek temporary relief. So now it’s your turn, Nabanita. Seek your temporary relief. I will be here, reading and sitting with you.

Miranti

VI 
Nabanita, Kolkata, 1994 

 
Nabanita had always feared failure, but never had it felt so heavy, so suffocating. She couldn’t help but wonder if failing this exam would result in consequences beyond her control. Would her father kill her? Or worse, would he kill her mother too? These thoughts echoed in her mind like a haunting refrain, a constant reminder of the suffocating pressure she lived under.  

‘Daughters are made by the father and ruined by the mother.’ The thought consumed her. Her father’s cruel words seemed to take on a life of their own, gnawing at her insides. She couldn’t escape them. They twisted in her mind like an ever-tightening noose. The weight of it all bore down on her, and she feared for both herself and her mother, dreading the moment when the consequences of her failure would come to fruition. It wasn’t the first time she’d found herself caught in the cruel grip of her father’s oppressive expectations.  

One particular memory had always remained seared into her consciousness, an experience from her childhood that felt both distant and painfully vivid. It was afternoon, and her father had dangled her from the terrace, his grip tightening around her ankles as he held her over the edge.  

‘Your mother’s bad blood will see the end of you, Naba. But your father will not let that happen. Feel it? Can you feel it? The bad blood rising to your head? If I drop you, it will pour out of your head. Maybe then you’ll get smarter, be my kind of daughter.’ 
 
The fear had surged through her like an electric shock, making her spine stiffen and her body tense in terror. Her head felt detached from her body, floating in the vastness of the sky, as if suspended in time. She imagined her body falling, plummeting into the abyss below. But the terror didn’t end there. Her mind drifted, pulled by an invisible force, and soon she found herself surrounded by clouds - soft, comforting clouds, like a pillow under her head. As the teardrop escaped her eye and fell into the cloud, she snapped back into reality, feeling the weight of her body and the cold grip of her father’s hands once again. A scream erupted from her throat, though no one was there to hear her. The sky seemed to echo her cries, thunder crashing in the distance as if it too mourned her pain.  

That night, as she lay in bed, the hallucinations returned with a vengeance. Her mind twisted again, and she saw herself standing before her father, his face grim as always. Her mother approached, carrying a plate of basanti pulao—the yellow rice that is her favourite. She had always felt safe in her mother’s presence, but now even that was warped by fear. As her father scooped a spoonful of the rice and offered it to her, Nabanita turned to her mother for reassurance. But at that moment, her mother’s voice screamed in terror. ‘Don’t eat!’ 

Before Nabanita could react, her father’s hand moved violently, and her mother’s head was severed in an instant. The gory scene unfolded before her eyes, blood splattering across her father’s face as it poured down on Nabanita herself. The shock of it made her body tremble, and her pulse raced. She screamed in horror, the image still burning in her mind. As the nightmare came to an end, she found herself staring at her mother, who stood before her, unharmed. Her father, too, was there, without a trace of blood on his face. She was disoriented, lost in a haze of panic. Her mother shook her hard, pulling her from the reverie and back into reality. But the memories, those haunting memories, remained, growing like an infection in her mind. This episode would soon be forgotten, brushed aside like a bad dream. But Nabanita’s anxiety disorder went undiagnosed, untreated. Year after year, she endured the silence of her suffering, hiding behind fake stomach pains during school counselling sessions, escaping to the restroom, away from prying eyes. She feared the doctors would see the cracks in her mind and cast her aside. Her father, however, took a perverse satisfaction in her distress. Every time she broke out in a cold sweat, he smiled. It was his power, his control. He revelled in her fear, in the way it manifested physically. It fed his ego.  

But now, standing before her parents with the dreaded report card in hand, Nabanita was bracing herself for the inevitable punishment. She had failed. And her father’s wrath was bound to be swift and severe. When she announced the news, her father’s reaction was unexpected. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t hit her. Instead, he simply stood up and addressed her mother.  

‘Find a groom who will marry a 12th fail. Do it in three months, or be prepared to do her kriya karam.’ 
 
Kriya karam. The death rites. It was as if, in her father’s eyes, she was already dead. And that punishment being written off as worthless for failing in school was just the beginning of a long and cruel journey. Hadn’t women always been nothing more than pawns in a game they didn’t understand? Wasn’t this always her father’s plan? To find a way to rid himself of the responsibility of having a daughter? To strip her of everything - her future, her hope, her dignity? Nabanita felt herself unravelling in the face of it all, unable to find the answers she sought. She was left alone in her confusion, trying to understand the origin of the hatred that bound her to her father, but all she found was a tangled web of pain and resentment.  

Three months passed, and just as her father had commanded, her mother found a match. A Brahmin, upper-caste man, seven years older than Nabanita. He was well-settled, wealthy, and the only son of a zamindar family. Debashish Chatterjee, tall and handsome, with a broad moustache and dark wavy hair. The match was made, and the marriage was arranged.  

On the day of the wedding, Nabanita felt a fleeting sense of happiness. For the first time in a long while, she felt that perhaps failing school wasn’t so terrible after all. Perhaps this marriage could be the escape she longed for, a chance to find a new life. But little did she know that it would be her own nightmare in disguise. On the night of their wedding, Debashish, in his arrogance, reminded himself of a bet he’d made with his friends, about how many times he would “prove his manhood” before dawn. Seven was the number to beat.

To Nabanita, the night carried a sacred weight, a promise of new beginnings. To her husband, it was a contest to win. He smiled, not with affection, but with triumph. The smile of a man who thought possession was love. Nabanita met his eyes only once, and something in her stomach twisted. The gentleness she had hoped for was nowhere in sight; there was only the cold glint of ownership.

Nabanita’s heart sank. She was trapped once again. What had started as an intimate betrayal slowly morphed into something far worse.  

The abuse, which began behind closed doors, soon crept into every corner of their lives. It was no longer limited to the bedroom. It extended to dinner, to their morning tea, to the weekends. It was a constant, gnawing presence in her life, growing more insidious with each passing day. But always, it remained hidden from the public eye. No one could ever know. The Chatterjees were a family with a reputation to uphold.  

It was in the midst of this hell that Nabanita’s panic attacks returned, more violent than ever before. One night, she felt the trembling in her fingers, and a smile tugged at her lips. It was the only thing that remained familiar, the only thing that hadn’t forgotten her. But she knew it wouldn’t be long before even this comfort would betray her.  

And so, in the midst of it all, her hallucinations took her to a place she had not been in years. She found herself back in Miranti’s house, hiding behind a Rafflesia Arnoldi, a flower as enormous as it was beautiful. In this surreal vision, she saw Miranti, the woman who had once been her closest friend, offering her the same comfort she had once given her. But now, it is different. Miranti scoffed, and Nabanita’s anger flared. Then, in an instant, Miranti’s face morphed into her husband’s. The transformation was too much to bear. Nabanita screamed, and the family rushed in, alarmed by her erratic behaviour. Her eyes were wild, her movements erratic. She was no longer the woman they once knew. Without hesitation, her family called the family doctor. It was time. Time for Nabanita to be admitted to the mental asylum—the very one the Chatterjee family had a hand in running. No one would question her admission. No one would suspect a thing. The doctor diagnosed Nabanita with schizophrenia. And so, Nabanita’s nightmare deepened. 

***

 
Agnihotri reads out the next letter written to Miranti by Nabanita, dated  August 12, 2024.  

Dear Miranti, 

Is marriage something where the woman is reborn as her own weaker self? I thought it must have been the case for me, but sadly, my dear Miranti, I can see it’s the same for you. Maybe it’s the same for every woman. Who knows? Will it be the same for my daughter as well?  

Only time will tell. They say the third time’s the charm. Maybe she will be the lucky charm. She is the one who survived while my first two didn’t. They couldn’t take the strength of my husband’s kick in the seventh month. But Rema kicked back harder. She survived. I survived.  

My husband is loved by all. So when I fail to love him or when I see no love for me in his eyes, I feel I am the one at fault. He is a great father though. A doting father. But do you think one can be a good father if he is not a good husband? I feel so guilty to have these questions spinning in a whirligig inside my head, but I wish I could shake them off. Miranti, I never thought you would write me such a letter telling me about the amount of pain you have been enduring over these years. Reading your letter I feel this sense of rage towards your husband. Please don’t be angry when I say this. The thing is, when I read your letter, oftentimes I imagine a young Miranti speaking with me. That is the last vivid memory I have of you. I remember how you were always ready to fight the world against the world, the bullies in school and ‘the one at home’. I was scared and in awe of your audacity. I hope you find that courage within you and fight for your happiness. Because, between the two of us, you have always been the fighter.  

There is a secret I have been keeping from you. Not really a secret because you know it. You used to know everything about me. I miss that. I will tell you what I want to tell you when I meet you. If I meet you that is. For me, if my husband decides to take me along to Indonesia next year, only then will I be going. He decides everything. Home never felt safe. Before marriage or after marriage. But I never thought I could feel more unsafe somewhere else too.  

I will tell you when we meet and try to find my temporary relief. But I doubt if I will ever find any relief or not.  

Naby 

***

That day, after reading Nabanita’s letter, Miranti couldn’t hold onto the curiosity or the concern about the ‘secret’ Nabanita merely touched upon. She wanted to know. She knew she just had to carefully learn it from Nabanita’s daughter.  
 
That night, she invited Rema to sit with her and have dinner. She tried cooking the pulao for the first time and wanted to impress Rema with her Indian cooking skills.  
 
‘How are your parents, Rema? Is everything well with them?’ 
 
‘Yes, I just finished a video call with my father.’ 
 
‘Oh, how about your mother?’  
 
‘Yeah, not her. I will speak with her later. She is a little unwell.’ 
 
‘Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. What happened?’ 
 
‘Nothing. She is just running a fever.’ 

Miranti wondered if Rema was telling the truth. Then she suddenly remembered about the hallucination episode Nabanita had told her in confidence during recess in school. How she had imagined floating in the cloud when her father had dangled her from the terrace. But it was one time. She never mentioned it again.   
 

VII 
Rema, Jakarta, 2024 

Inspector Agnihotri arranges a video call with Nabanita's daughter, Rema, in collaboration with the Indonesian police. The recorded conversation aims to piece together the puzzle of Nabanita’s tumultuous life, her strained relationship with her abusive husband, her fragile mental health, and the mystery surrounding the murder. As the call begins, the tension is palpable. 

‘Did you know about your father being abusive toward your mother?’ Agnihotri asks, his voice steady but probing. 

Rema shifts uncomfortably in her chair, her fingers nervously tapping on the edge of the table. She knew what her father had done. The beatings had been frequent, calculated, and sometimes seemingly without reason. But what haunted Rema more was the belief that she had been conditioned to see her mother as the cause of it all. 

She had always been told that her mother’s mental instability, her ‘madness,’ was the reason for the abuse. As a child, Rema had accepted it unquestioningly. But now, sitting in front of the inspector, she wasn’t sure where the truth ended and where the lies she had been fed began. 

‘Yes,’ Rema replied softly, her voice distant, almost mechanical. 

‘Have you ever seen him hit her?’ Agnihotri pressed. 

Rema nodded again. ‘Yes.’ 

‘When was the first time you saw it?’ 

‘On my 10th birthday,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly as the memory resurfaced. 

She paused, her gaze drifting toward the floor, as if seeing the events of that day unfold before her again. ‘But Maa was a madwoman. So Baba had to control her that way. She ruined my birthday party by setting my cycle on fire.’ 

Rema's words carry the weight of years of conditioning. Her mother’s anxiety and hallucinations, which had spiralled out of control, were a source of shame for the family. But what made it worse was that Debashish, her father never hesitated to turn the blame on her mother, hiding behind his anger to manipulate and control the narrative. 

It was just before the cake-cutting ceremony that the true extent of her father’s cruelty had become apparent. On that day, Nabanita had been wearing a blouse that revealed the faint outline of her bra, an innocuous thing that set Debashish off. He had pinned her to the wall of their bedroom, fury burning in his eyes. 

‘If you want to be a prostitute,’ he spat, ‘go stand by the door of your father’s house. But in my house, I will not spare the life of someone who tries to tarnish the honour of my family.’ 

With those words, he tore the blouse off Nabanita’s body, taking the ragged fabric in his hand and using it to choke her. His grip was brutal, and as Nabanita gasped for breath, Debashish spat in her face. He only released her once he had delivered his punishment, leaving her collapsed on the floor, her body trembling in fear. 

While Debashish joined the family for the cake-cutting ceremony, Nabanita’s mind descended into madness. Her hallucinations twisted reality, and in that moment, she imagined a devil sitting on Rema’s brand-new cycle, beckoning her daughter to join him. In a frantic panic, Nabanita ran outside, screaming at Rema to stay away from the ‘devil’. 

But as she chased her, something shifted. Rema turned around, and Nabanita realized, horrified that it wasn’t her daughter at all. It was the spectre of her own childhood, her own twisted memories haunting her. 

Desperate to protect the child who wasn’t there, Nabanita ran to the kitchen, grabbed the kerosene and a matchbox, and set the imagined devil on fire. She then tried to pull the little girl away from the flames, whispering to her in a desperate chant, ‘You are safe, you are safe, you are safe.’ 

Rema falls silent, her eyes glaze over as the memory takes hold of her. ‘After that, Baba sent Maa to the asylum. She needed treatment for her mental illness. But he was worried about what people would think if they found out the truth, that his wife was “mad.” So, it was kept a secret. I don't think my mother ever loved either of us. She was always lost in her own world.’ 

The room grows heavy with silence as Rema’s words hang in the air. Inspector Agnihotri and the Indonesian police exchange a look, noting the complexities of Nabanita’s life. The contradictions between what Rema had been told and what she now understood about her mother seemed to spiral in on themselves. 

The interrogation is over, and the team releases Rema. Agnihotri, however, had more pressing questions. He needed answers, and the next step was clear. He called his partner, requesting permission to interrogate the prime suspect in the murder: Nabanita, now admitted to a mental asylum. 

Meanwhile, in Indonesia, the police begins their investigation of Miranti. Every thread of truth would need to be carefully untangled if they are to find the answers they are looking for.