Chapter 4: The Girl from Mumbai (4)

The apartment was dimly lit, the single bulb in the kitchen flickering weakly as Chameli and her father sat across from each other at the small wooden table. The air was heavy with the scent of turmeric and cumin from the dal she had cooked, but the meal felt hollow, like a ritual performed out of habit rather than nourishment. Chameli picked at her food, her roti crumbling under her fingers as she avoided her father's gaze. He ate in silence, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each bite required effort.

"Papa," Chameli began, her voice barely above a whisper. She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "Are we going to be okay?"

Her father paused, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully, the clink of metal against the plate echoing in the quiet room. For a moment, he didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the wall behind her as though searching for the right words. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his thoughts.

"Of course, beta," he said, his voice soft but strained. "We'll be fine. I just need a little more time. Things will get better. They have to."

Chameli frowned, her heart aching at the uncertainty in his tone. She wanted to believe him, to trust that he had a plan, but the lines on his face and the shadows under his eyes told a different story. "Papa, you keep saying that, but… what if they don't? What if things don't get better?"

Her father looked at her then, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and desperation. "Chameli, you don't need to worry about these things. You're just a child. Your only job is to study and make something of yourself. Leave the rest to me."

"But I'm not a child anymore!" she protested, her voice rising. "I see the bills on the table. I hear you on the phone, begging for more time. I know things are bad, Papa. Why won't you talk to me about it?"

Her father's face hardened, a flicker of anger crossing his features. "Because it's not your burden to carry!" he snapped, slamming his hand on the table. The plates rattled, and Chameli flinched, her eyes widening in surprise. He rarely raised his voice, and the sudden outburst startled her.

For a moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then her father exhaled sharply, running a hand through his graying hair. "I'm sorry, beta," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean to shout. It's just… I'm doing everything I can. I just need you to trust me."

Chameli looked down at her plate, her throat tight with unshed tears. She wanted to trust him, to believe that he could fix everything, but the fear in his eyes made it impossible. "I do trust you, Papa," she said quietly. "But I'm scared. I don't want to lose you too."

Her father reached across the table, his calloused hand covering hers. "You won't lose me, Chameli. I promise. No matter what happens, I'll always be here for you."

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, but the words felt hollow. She had heard promises like this before, from her father and from others, and they always seemed to crumble under the weight of reality. Still, she forced a smile, not wanting to add to his burdens. "Okay, Papa. I believe you."

They finished their meal in silence, the unspoken tension lingering between them like a third person at the table. When they were done, Chameli cleared the plates and washed the dishes, her hands moving mechanically as her mind raced. She could hear her father in the living room, his low murmurs as he spoke on the phone again. The words were indistinct, but the tone was familiar—pleading, desperate.

As she dried the last plate, she glanced at the stack of unpaid bills on the counter. Her fingers brushed against them, the paper rough under her touch. She wanted to help, to do something—anything—to ease the weight on her father's shoulders. But what could a fifteen-year-old girl do against the crushing tide of debt and despair?

She sighed, turning off the kitchen light and heading to her room. The apartment felt smaller than ever, the walls closing in around her as she climbed into bed. She lay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, her father's words echoing in her mind.

"I promise. No matter what happens, I'll always be here for you."

But as the hours passed and sleep refused to come. She stared at the cracked ceiling of her small room. The faint glow of a streetlamp filtered through the thin curtains, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits. She could hear the distant hum of the city outside. But inside the apartment, the silence was heavy, broken only by the soft creak of her father's footsteps in the living room.

She turned onto her side, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin. Sleep wouldn't come, not tonight. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one sharper and more persistent than the last. She thought of her mother, of the way her laughter used to fill the apartment like sunlight. She had been so full of life, so vibrant, until the illness took her. Chameli had been too young to understand then, too young to do anything but cling to her father and cry. Now, she wondered if her mother would have known what to do, how to fix the mess they were in.

The door to her room creaked open, and her father's silhouette appeared in the doorway. "Chameli?" he whispered, his voice soft and hesitant. "Are you awake?"

She sat up, brushing her hair out of her face. "Yes, Papa. What is it?"

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. In the dim light, she could see the lines on his face, the shadows under his eyes. He looked older than she remembered, worn down by the weight of his failures. He sat on the edge of her bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

"I just wanted to check on you," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I know things have been… difficult lately. And I want you to know that I'm doing everything I can to make it right."

Chameli reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "I know, Papa. But you don't have to do it alone. I'm here too. We'll get through this together."

He looked at her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You're so much like your mother," he said, his voice breaking. "She was strong too, always believing that things would get better. But sometimes… sometimes I wonder if I'm enough. If I can ever give you the life you deserve."

Chameli's chest tightened, and she squeezed his arm. "You are enough, Papa. You've always been enough. We don't need money or a big house. We just need each other."

He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're a good girl, Chameli. Too good for this world." He stood, brushing a hand over her hair. "Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day."

As he left the room, closing the door softly behind him, Chameli lay back down, her heart heavy. She stared at the ceiling again.