The Twisted Knots

15.

Amidst the family gathering, my dad explained Mr. Singhania's marriage proposal with unwavering excitement. "Imagine, Tara, being married into such a big and influential family. It would be so beneficial for us," he exclaimed, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "We have a food business, but with this alliance, we could delve into the hotel industry. Plus, we'd have substantial support if things ever went south."

I couldn't share his enthusiasm. Kartik and my mother exchanged glances while I remained silent. Kartik broke the tension, asking, "What do you think, didi? After all, it's you who has to spend your whole life with Yash. Do you want to?"

Before I could respond, my father interjected, dismissing my choice, "Why are you asking her? She is going to marry Yash. She has no other option."

"Why don't I have a say in this when I'm the one getting married?" I whispered, unable to suppress my growing frustration.

Dad's expression darkened, and he began making his way toward me. Kartik stepped in between, attempting to diffuse the tension. Dad pushed him aside and grabbed my cheek forcefully. My mother pleaded for him to stop, but he paid no heed.

"You should be thankful to me," Dad asserted, his voice filled with a sinister edge. "I took you and your mother in when you lost her father at a really young age. Otherwise, both of you would be lying in the streets or worse, in a brothel."

Tears welled up in my eyes; it was a narrative I had heard far too often. My father had cheated on his first wife because she couldn't give him a son. After her death, he married my mother, who had no choice but to accept, as she had no means to support herself after my father passed away. The weight of his words and the history they carried pressed heavily on my shoulders.

The room reeked of stale alcohol as my father, in a drunken stupor, confronted me in a heated argument about the forceful marriage he intended for me.

"Why won't you let me make my own choices, Dad?" I pleaded, my voice tinged with frustration.

His eyes, clouded by alcohol, glared at me. "You're a woman, Tara. Women should listen to men. It's how things work."

"That's not how things should work, Dad. I deserve to decide my own fate," I insisted, desperation seeping into my words.

He laughed bitterly, taking another swig from his bottle. "You don't know anything about the real world. I'm doing what's best for you, and you should be grateful."

I shook my head, tears welling up. "This isn't about gratitude. It's about my life, my choices."

His tone turned venomous. "You think you can just defy me? A woman's place is to obey, not question."

I couldn't hold back the anger. "I won't conform to your outdated beliefs, Dad. I deserve better than being forced into a marriage I don't want."

His drunken slurs continued, hurling hurtful words about how women should behave and how their lives should be dictated by men. The argument escalated into a clash of values, each word cutting deeper into the strained relationship between us.

The air crackled with tension as the deafening crashes of broken objects reverberated through our house. My father's fury erupted like a storm, hurling things, destroying the fragile peace that had once clung to the walls of our home. It was an explosion of frustration, and the collateral damage was far more than just shattered belongings.

In the midst of the chaos, my father declared, with a venomous certainty, that I would marry Yash, leaving me with no other choice. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, settling into the very foundation of my being.

I found myself sitting on the staircase, the steps cold beneath me, tears streaming down my face. It wasn't about Yash – he was kind, gentle, the polar opposite of the tempest outside. No, it was the way my father perceived me, the notion that I had no say in my own destiny.

I never knew the face of my real father, and the vacuum left by his absence was filled with the emptiness of misunderstanding. I longed for a connection, a relationship that echoed the warmth shared by others. But my father, in his turbulent reality, shattered that dream early on.

Amid the wreckage, Kartik and my mother hurried to my side, offering words of comfort, attempting to console a heart torn between family ties and a yearning for autonomy. Their presence was a fragile shelter in the storm, and yet, it felt like a respite.

Gathering what little strength remained within me, I rose from the stairs and made my way to my room. Closing the door behind me, I sought refuge in solitude, collapsing onto my bed. The dam burst, and I cried – not for the impending marriage, nor for the shattered objects strewn across the floor, but for the chasm that separated my father and me.

The phone in my hand vibrated with urgency, its persistent ringing cutting through the muffled sobs. I ignored it, unwilling to face the outside world, letting the calls and text messages fall on deaf ears. The room echoed with my cries, an intimate symphony of grief and frustration.

As the night wore on, the fatigue of emotions weighed heavily on my eyelids, and I succumbed to a fitful sleep.

The turmoil of the evening left a raw ache in my heart, a void that no amount of sleep could heal. The echoes of brokenness lingered, both in the wreckage of our home and in the fractured relationships that defined our family.