"Reema ko saath le ja," Papa had insisted last night when Devraj’s mother called to inform us about the shopping trip. "Ladki akeli nahi ja sakti. Koi toh saath hona chahiye."
(Take Reema with you. A girl shouldn't go alone. Someone should be with her.)
His voice had been firm, almost anxious, the way it gets when he is trying to sound authoritative but is really just trying to protect me. In our village, distance is measured not in kilometers but in safety—how far a girl can walk before someone starts asking questions, how far a family’s honor can stretch before it tears.
Reema is my cousin—Mummy’s sister’s daughter. Twenty-two, unmarried, and already spoken of in hushed tones by relatives as “achhi ladki hai, par shaadi ka kuch pata nahi.” She works as a teacher in the small government school one village over, and though she earns little, she carries herself with a confidence that I’ve always envied.

She arrives early in the morning, carrying a small cotton bag and wearing her best salwar kameez, the one with the faded pink flowers. Her face is glowing—part excitement, part curiosity.
Her hug crushes the air out of me.