18 years ago

It’s my birthday today.

Mumma has filled our apartment with soft decorations—ribbons curling from the ceiling, balloons in every corner, and a banner with my name drawn in her neat handwriting. She baked my favourite—blueberry cake—with my sister’s help.

I wore the pink dress she gave me, all frills and satin, like something a princess would wear.

She always said I was her princess — and this home, our little kingdom.

I didn’t know kingdoms could fall in a night.

Baba had promised he’d be home early. He said he’d bring me the best gift ever. A gift I’d never forget.

After Mumma and Di finish baking. I take my bath, slip into my dress, and wait on the couch for eight o’clock to come and go. The frosting on the cake began to melt. The candles drooped.

Maybe he’s stuck at work, I told myself. Maybe he forgot.

I must've dozed off when the apartment door creaked open. I jumped from the couch, smiling widely. “Baba! You’re here! We were waiting—

Before I could finish, he shoved me aside. I stumbled into the corner, my small hands clutching the table for balance. “Baba?”

Did…he push me?

“Simi!” my sister gasped, rushing to help me.

He staggered toward Mumma, clutching a glass bottle, his voice slurred, words dripping with venom.“One girl wasn't enough, so you had to bring another into this world?

Mumma froze. “You’re drunk again—please, not today.”

He smashed the bottle on the table. “Six years I've endured her chatter—‘Baba yeh, Baba woh’—all because of you!”

The bottle glinted in his hand like a promise of pain.

He raised it—then brought his hand down. The slap cracked through the room. Mumma fell. Blood bloomed on her forehead.

“Baba, please stop!” I cried, running toward them.

He turned, eyes red, wild, and unrecognisable. “I’ll end it tonight,” he hissed. My mother crawled to him, clutching his legs. “Please, she’s a child—”

He kicked her away, and then his hands were around my throat.

My mother and sister rushed to my rescue, their panicked pleas breaking through the chaos as they tried to pry him away.

“Stop it, please! Let her go!” Mumma’s voice cracked, her hands trembling as she tugged at his arms.

But he paid no heed.

“Papa, please!” my sister’s voice quivered, but she still tried to pull him back. He swung the bottle at her with savage force.

“Stay away!” he bellowed, his eyes blazing with madness.

He turned back to my mother, who stood frozen in shock, her eyes wide with terror. “Stay away, if you don’t want to die as she will!” he roared.

The bottle came crashing down on my head— a sickening crack. Pain exploded in my skull. Warm, sticky blood dripped down my face, blurring my vision in red.

Through the haze, I could hear my mother’s gasping sobs, Shrishti’s cries — a desperate symphony of fear and helplessness.

His grip tightened. Air vanished. I clawed at his arms, but his fingers only dug deeper into my skin.

The world blurred. “Stop…Please!” I choked out.

But he only laughed— a sound I’ll never forget. “Today, I’ll end it all.” Then came the final act of horror.

He slashed at me wildly, the broken bottle now a weapon. The jagged glass tore through the air and met my body. A searing, slicing pain ripped through my chest.

I screamed — a sound swallowed by the chaos.

Blood gushed from the wound, staining my pink dress a dark, glistening crimson. The world tilted. The ceiling swayed.

Mumma and Shrishti lunged, pulling him away with desperate strength — but it was too late.

The damage had been done. Everything went dim—the cake, the balloons, the laughter that never came.

I remember my mother’s scream. My sister’s sob.

And my father’s face—a stranger’s face—twisted with something that wasn’t love.

The monster wearing my father’s face had given me my “gift.”

The cake candles flickered out, one by one, their smoke curling like ghosts in the air. My mother’s cries echoed in my ears —and somewhere in the blur of it all, I realised my birthday wish had come true.

I had wanted Baba to remember me. I had only wanted him to hug me, to wish me, to kiss my forehead like Mumma did. To call me his little princess.

And he always would.

Because he strangled his daughter for not being a son.