Chains of the Brothel: Part 6 The Withering Light

Padma’s life had always been a fragile flame, trembling against storms too cruel for her tender years. She was born beneath shadows that should never touch a child, robbed of innocence before she even understood what innocence meant. That cursed night—when predators trampled her body and soul—became the invisible chain she would carry forever.

Yet in the middle of that pain, she still had one safe place: Anita’s lap. Anita was not her birth mother, but in every way that mattered, she became more than a mother. It was Anita’s hands that wiped her tears, Anita’s lullabies that calmed her fears, Anita’s arms that gave her a home when the world had given her only wounds.

After Aryan’s death, Anita could no longer breathe inside the brothel. Every wall reeked of despair, every sound was a ghost of suffering. She took Padma by the hand and walked away, even if “away” meant sleeping on station floors, begging for crumbs, and swallowing hunger so Padma could eat. They wandered like shadows, surviving only on the thin thread of love binding them together.

In time, kindness led them to a small village in Bihar. It wasn’t paradise, but here, cruelty had softer edges. Villagers handed them leftover rice, a clay pot of milk, a blanket patched too many times—but given with open hands. Compared to the city’s cruelty, this felt like grace.

For the first time in years, Anita dared to hope. Padma grew into a delicate young woman, graceful like a flower that had learned to bloom in poor soil. And one day, a villager asked for her hand in marriage. Anita’s heart trembled with fear—what if her daughter’s past came back to destroy her again? But the joy in Padma’s eyes melted every hesitation. The wedding brought laughter, music, and something Anita had almost forgotten existed: happiness.

But Padma’s happiness was always fleeting, like a dream too fragile to last.

Soon, her body weakened. Fevers burned through her nights. Her breath grew shallow, her laughter turned to coughs. When the doctor whispered the diagnosis—HIV—Anita felt her chest split open. This was not Padma’s fault. This was the poison left behind by the men who had stolen her childhood. Yet the world refused to see truth.

Her husband recoiled. His love curdled into cruelty. “Your blood is filthy,” he spat, before walking away and leaving her broken. Those words cut Padma deeper than the disease itself.

And so she returned—frail, shivering, and silent—to the only place she had ever truly belonged: Anita’s arms.

Anita cared for her with trembling hands. She fed her with spoons of broth, wiped her forehead with wet cloths, sang lullabies as if Padma were once again a little girl crying in the night. The villagers showed small mercies too. They did not turn her away. They brought food, a cup of tea, or sometimes just their quiet company. These gestures, however humble, gave Anita the strength to keep fighting against the inevitable.

But every day, Padma’s light grew dimmer. Nights stretched endlessly, filled with her restless breaths. Anita would press her close, terrified of the silence that threatened to come.

And when silence finally arrived, it was heavier than Anita had ever known.

The room grew unbearably still. Padma’s chest no longer rose. Her hand slipped gently from Anita’s grip.

Anita’s world collapsed in an instant. The daughter she had saved, raised, and loved beyond all reason was gone—snatched away by the same fate that had haunted them both from the beginning.

Yet Anita had no time for grief. Already, whispers slithered through the village. Whispers about Padma, about Anita, about their blood. Some voices carried pity, but others carried venom: “curse,” “shame,” “unclean.”

Anita could feel their eyes. Watching. Judging. Waiting for her to crumble.

In that one-room shelter, she sat with Padma’s body still pressed against her chest, staring at the door. She knew what was on the other side—more cruelty, more silence, more attempts to bury her truth.

And as a chill traveled through her bones, Anita understood something terrible and certain:

Her story was not finished. Something darker was already coming. Something that still wanted her silenced.

To Be Continue.........

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