DIVYA
The knock comes exactly at nine in the morning. Three sharp knocks. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just firm enough that I already know who it is before I even reach the door.
For a moment I stand frozen in the middle of the living room, staring at the peeling paint on the opposite wall like if I focus hard enough the sound will simply disappear.
It doesn’t.
The knock comes again. Three times. My chest tightens. I glance toward the small dining table where Neel sits swinging his legs under the chair, his school notebook spread open in front of him. His pencil is moving slowly across the page, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration.
He hasn’t heard the door yet. Or maybe he has. Maybe he’s just pretending he hasn’t. Children are very good at pretending things are normal when they know they aren’t. I wipe my hands on the edge of my kurta before walking toward the door.
My feet feel heavier with every step. By the time I reach the handle, I already know exactly who is standing outside.
I’ve memorized the rhythm of his knock. I open the door. Mr. Sharma stands there with the same polite expression he always wears. White shirt. Grey trousers. Leather folder tucked under one arm.
If someone saw him on the street, they would probably think he was a school teacher or a government clerk. Not the man who comes every few weeks to remind me that the life my father built is slowly collapsing around me.
“Good morning, Ms. Rathi,” he says. His voice is gentle. It always is. That almost makes it worse.
“Good morning, Mr. Sharma.” We’ve known each other long enough now that the greetings feel almost routine.
He glances past me briefly into the house before stepping inside when I move aside. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“You’re not.” That’s a lie. He’s interrupting everything. My sleep. My peace. My ability to breathe normally in my own house. The house I have spent my whole childhood in. But saying that out loud won’t change anything.
Neel looks up from the table when he hears the unfamiliar voice. “Didi?” he calls.
“It’s okay,” I reply quickly. “Finish your homework.” He nods slowly and goes back to his notebook, though I can feel his attention drifting toward us. Children always sense tension before adults realize it’s there.
Mr. Sharma walks toward the small sofa near the window and sits down carefully, placing his folder on the table in front of him. I remain standing. I always remain standing. Sitting would mean this is a normal conversation. And it isn’t.
“I’m sorry to come again,” he says after a moment. His eyes move briefly around the room. The old furniture. The small cracks in the walls. The photographs of my parents hanging above the shelf. “I know this is difficult.”
My lips press together. “Yes,” I say quietly. “It is.” He opens the folder slowly. He doesn't really care about the difficulty, he's just here to do his job. The sound of paper sliding against paper fills the room. I hate that sound. It always means numbers. And numbers always mean bad news. “The bank has reviewed the situation again,” he says.
I already know what’s coming. My fingers curl into my palms slightly. “And?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “You have one week.”
There it is. The sentence I’ve been expecting for months. Seven days. Seven days before everything my father worked for disappears. “If the payment isn’t made by then,” he continues carefully, “the properties will be sealed.”
Sealed. Such a neat word for something so devastating. My throat tightens.
“Mr. Sharma—”
“I tried,” he says quickly. His voice is softer now. “I really did.” I know he did. That’s the worst part. Mr. Sharma has been coming to our house for almost a year now. The first time he arrived, he was formal and distant. Now he looks almost… apologetic. Like he hates being the person delivering this message.
“But the loan is too large,” he says quietly. “And the extensions have already exceeded policy.” My eyes drift briefly toward the photograph on the wall. My father is smiling in it. One armwrapped around my shoulder. Neel is sitting on his lap, barely two years old.
We all look so happy. We all look like we believed the future was safe. “I understand,” I say.
The words feel mechanical. Like they belong to someone else.
Mr. Sharma closes the folder slowly. “I’m truly sorry, Ms. Rathi.” He stands up, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt before picking up the folder again. “If anything changes… please contact the bank immediately.” I nod.
I’ve nodded so many times in conversations like this that it’s become automatic. He hesitates near the door. Then he lowers his voice slightly. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “your father was a good man.”
My chest tightens. “Yes,” I whisper. “He was.” Mr. Sharma gives me one last sympathetic look before stepping outside.
