“I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become.”
— Maya Angelou
‘A woman who leaves her husband lives the life of a street dog. Everyone throws stones at her,’—Smriti’s mother-in-law’s words echoed in her head. It was a warning she had etched into Smriti’s mind. Despite that, Smriti had done precisely that. It was not an act of bravery, but a realisation that had dawned on her when she observed a street dog being pelted—the dog had the freedom to run away from its abusers.
In just five years, Smriti had forgotten how to travel alone, how to have her own friends, how to manage her own money, and how to speak up and fight for herself. Waiting at the airport for the hotel pickup, she had hoped it would all come back to her instantly, just like riding a bicycle.
Now, four hours later, squeezed into a car with four strange men, she was not sure anymore.
‘Let’s break for dinner,’ Ranjit, the 30-something hotel owner who had come to pick Smriti up, proposed—actually, declared—as he pulled up outside a restaurant. The three men—Ranjit’s workers, whom he had picked up along the way—climbed out of the car at once.
‘I’d like to get to the hotel,’ Smriti protested. The drive was long. It was already dark, and they were not even halfway there.
‘What’s the rush?’ Ranjit asked in a flirty tone. ‘We’re hungry, and by the time we reach Darjeeling, all restaurants will have shut.’
Smriti could not argue with that. ‘You go ahead. I’m not hungry.’
‘Eat something. It won’t ruin your figure.’
The conversation between them had rapidly shifted from a friendly introduction, ‘Where are you from?’ to a bit personal, ‘Why are you travelling alone?’ to invasive, ‘So, you left your husband?’ in just a few hours. And with it, Smriti’s comfort with the whole situation had deteriorated.
‘I said, I’m not hungry.’
‘Why are women so difficult?’ Ranjit muttered and walked away.
It was a moonless night. The mountains were draped in a sheet of darkness. Smriti’s phone buzzed with a message from her husband: ‘Where are you? As a husband, I have the right to know where my wife is!’
Smriti wondered, when did she give him this right? Or was it that, by virtue of being born a woman, she never had any rights to give?
“In childhood, a woman must remain under her father’s control, as a young woman under her husband’s, and when her husband is dead, under her sons’; a woman is never fit for independence,” says the Manusmriti—a book men-of-conscience like Dr Ambedkar burnt, but which men-of-convenience like Smriti’s husband now seek to resurrect.
‘Madam, let’s go,’ Ranjit shouted, approaching the car.
Then, climbing in, he leaned closer and whispered, ‘You angry with me?’
‘I’d like to get to the hotel.’
‘Calm down. We’re going.’
The rest of the way, Ranjit lectured Smriti. ‘Sometimes in life, things don’t work out. Doesn’t mean you have to remain stuck…’
Smriti stared out of the window, her mind numb.
It was almost midnight when they arrived. Smriti’s heart sank at the sight before her. This wasn’t a hotel but a construction site in the middle of nowhere.
Reading the shock on her face, Ranjit said casually, ‘We’re still finishing the hotel, but your room is ready. Come, I’ll show you.’
He led her down a dusty corridor reeking of cement into a room that looked more like a private bedroom than a hotel room. Smriti stepped onto the balcony.
‘Oh yes, and the view from here is outstanding. You’ll see it tomorrow morning.’
Outside, it was pitch dark. Not a light shone—not on the earth, not in the sky.
‘Where are we?’ Smriti asked, her heart plummeting. ‘Where’s Darjeeling?’
‘We’re 20 minutes from Darjeeling,’ Ranjit said smoothly. ‘I’ll take you there tomorrow morning.’
‘But I booked the hotel in Darjeeling.’
‘This is also Darjeeling,’ he countered at once. ‘Just not on Mall Road. Tomorrow, when you see it, you yourself won’t want to stay there. It’s so crowded. Compared to that, this is heaven.’
Smriti didn’t argue. She had booked the hotel haphazardly at the airport. Perhaps all this was written on the booking site, and she had not read it.
‘I’ll be in the room next door. If you need anything, just knock.’
Knock on your door? Is there no staff? What about guests? A dread crept over Smriti. She realised she could not even leave. In the last 15 minutes of the drive, they had veered onto a deserted road with no signs of human presence.
Half an hour later, Ranjit and his workers’ voices began to pierce through the thin walls.
Ranjit texted Smriti: ‘Hey, we’re having drinks in my room. Join us.’
‘I’m tired. I want to sleep,’ she replied.
‘Oh, come on,’ he wrote, adding a winking emoji.
‘I came on this trip alone because I want to be alone. Please, respect that.’
‘No one likes being alone. Come, have a drink with us,’ Ranjit pestered.
Smriti didn’t reply. Their voices got louder, more raucous, as alcohol seeped into their veins. Ranjit sent another message, then another…
She put her phone on silent, switched off the light, and pretended to be asleep.
Ranjit called her once. Twice… Thrice…
The door between them was so frail that one man could easily break through—they were four. Smriti’s heart raced, her mind painting dreadful scenarios.
He comes from a decent family, is married, and has a child. He won’t do anything stupid, she tried to calm herself by recalling what Ranjit had told her about himself. Then again, he’s also just a man. And he’s drunk.
Her phone vibrated again. It was her husband. Since she had walked out on him that morning, this was his fifth message.
After asserting his right over her, he tried blame—‘You provoked me’;
guilt—‘I have to go through all this stress because of you’;
character assassination—‘Are you with another man?’;
and now, threat—‘If I do not hear from you NOW, I’ll never let you enter my house again!’
Tears pricked Smriti’s eyes as five years of marriage came rushing back. How she had walked out on her parents to marry this man—out of the frying pan into the fire.
Back then, she couldn’t tell her parents to stop breathing down her neck. 27 years of disciplining—Smriti, don’t do this, or that, or anything else. Behave properly, stay quiet, be polite—had only ended in another five years of indoctrination—a good wife must diligently serve her husband and his family.
Ranjit’s room finally quieted after a string of calls and messages. Smriti concluded they must have passed out and eventually drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, she stepped onto the balcony. Clouds had descended on a youthful tea plantation, adorning it with glimmering pearls of mist. Her heart smiled.
‘Why didn’t you answer my calls last night?’ Ranjit asked, appearing on the neighbouring balcony, demanding an explanation as if it were his right.
‘I fell asleep,’ Smriti excused herself, as she had been taught.
‘Get ready. I’ll show you Darjeeling,’ he commanded with the air of one forgiving a fault.
Smriti didn’t want to be with Ranjit, but going with him was her best chance of getting out of the situation she had landed herself in. She agreed.
Darjeeling was bustling with shops, hotels, and people Smriti didn’t know, yet their presence gave her an enormous sense of security. Ranjit showed her around, bought her a souvenir, and, while offering her a chocolate, recited the brand’s cheesy slogan, ‘A gift for someone you love,’ making Smriti wince.
When they returned around four, he granted Smriti a few hours of solitude, but only after declaring that at seven, he’ll take her out again.
Smriti sat in meditation, seeking clarity. The past 24 hours, the last five years, her entire life rose before her as fear, loss and pain. The future appeared bleak and uncertain, yet it held her only chance of finding herself again. She watched it all. Then, when the mind fell silent, the heart spoke at once.
Two hours later, a knock came at Smriti’s door. Outside, Ranjit stood, baffled. ‘A man is asking for you.’
Smriti immediately stepped out.
‘Ma’am, I’m from Dekeling Hotel. I’ve come to fetch you,’ the man said.
Smriti gave him a light nod and wheeled her luggage out. The man placed it in the car that was sent to pick her up.
‘What’s going on?’ Ranjit asked, stunned.
‘I’m moving to another hotel.’
‘But why?’
‘Because this is not a hotel. It’s a construction site. I do not feel safe here.’
‘What do you mean? I showed you around, took care of you.’
‘Thank you for that. But I don’t want to stay here.’
Ranjit held the car door open, his face pleading for an explanation.
Smriti, seated inside, felt no remorse. ‘Step aside, or your hand will get crushed in the door.’
Letting go of the door, he stared at her as though she were an alien being, a wolf that had erupted from a sheep’s skin.
That night, the sky had cleared. Smriti sat gazing at the crescent moon, its thin silver protesting against the dark. The mall road—its buzz, the constant movement of people—comforted her.
She picked up her phone and hit send. ‘I’m filing for divorce. You’ll hear from my lawyer.’