The morning light filtered weakly through the lace curtains of the old Sharma household, casting long shadows across the wooden floors that had been polished countless times over the decades. It was the day after Amit and Priya’s wedding, a celebration that had stretched late into the night with laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses. The house, usually quiet and orderly, still carried the faint scent of marigold garlands and the rich aroma of the feast prepared the previous evening. Mrs. Sharma, a woman in her late fifties with silver strands beginning to weave through her dark hair, had risen before dawn as was her habit. She had always taken pride in maintaining a spotless home, believing that cleanliness reflected the dignity of a family.
After the rituals had concluded and the guests had departed, Mrs. Sharma had tidied up the living room, sweeping away fallen flower petals and stacking empty plates. Exhaustion had finally claimed her around midnight, and she had retired to her room, leaving the newlyweds to settle into theirs. Amit, her only son, had looked radiant in his groom’s attire, and Priya, the bride from a neighboring town, had seemed shy yet graceful in her red lehenga. Mrs. Sharma had gone to bed with a heart full of hope for the future.
But the next morning, at precisely five o’clock, she was up again. The house felt dusty from the previous day’s activities—oil stains from the cooking, scattered rice grains from the ceremonies, and the general disarray left behind by the festivities. She moved methodically through the kitchen, wiping counters, scrubbing utensils, and mopping the floors with vigorous strokes. Her back began to ache by seven, a familiar twinge from years of hard work, yet she pushed on. By nine, the downstairs sparkled once more, but there was still no sign of movement from the upper floor where the couple’s room was located.
Mrs. Sharma paused at the base of the narrow staircase, wiping her hands on her sari. “Bahu,” she called out gently at first, her voice carrying the warmth expected of a new mother-in-law. “Bahu o bahu, come down and help with the cooking. Breakfast won’t make itself.” She waited, listening for footsteps or the creak of the bed. Silence. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking ten o’clock. Her patience, already stretched thin by the physical labor and the lingering fatigue from the wedding, began to fray.
She called again, louder this time. “Daughter-in-law, get up! It’s already late.” Still nothing. Mrs. Sharma’s legs throbbed from bending and climbing earlier, and the thought of trudging up and down the stairs multiple times filled her with irritation. In her younger days, she had risen at dawn without complaint, learning the rhythms of household management from her own mother-in-law. How could this new bride, fresh from the wedding mandap, sleep so soundly while the house waited?
Grumbling under her breath about the lack of etiquette in modern girls, Mrs. Sharma glanced around the kitchen and spotted an old wooden stick leaning in the corner—a remnant from when they used to stir large pots during festivals. It was sturdy, meant for practical use, not violence, but in her mounting frustration, she seized it. “This won’t do,” she muttered. “A little lesson is needed for responsibility.” With determined steps, she ascended the stairs, her breathing growing labored by the time she reached the landing.
The door to the young couple’s room was slightly ajar. Mrs. Sharma pushed it open, the hinges protesting softly. “What kind of daughter-in-law is this?” she said aloud, her voice sharp with disapproval. “Newly married and already lying in bed all morning? Get up now!” She strode to the side of the bed and, without hesitation, yanked back the heavy quilt that covered the sleeping figure.
