Anika Devi began speaking—this incident started when your sister was in her first year of college. Admission to that college required excellent grades, and about three months in, a new girl was admitted. Normally, admission wasn't easy, but with a recommendation from a member of the college's Board of Managing Directors, exceptions could be made. This girl was admitted that way. She became very good friends with your sister. She wasn't particularly strong academically, but she could dance beautifully. In fact, she led all the rehearsals for the functions.
During their first year, there was a college social event where seniors were invited. Your sister was incredibly excited—this was her first time performing in a function. The joy I saw on her face that day spoke volumes. Yet, being a mother, I couldn't shake a feeling of worry. I asked her many times about it, but she never shared what was on her mind.
After that, Ankita started visiting more frequently. Then, because of your exams, your father and I left to stay with you for almost a month. Looking back, I wonder—if only your father had gone instead of both of us, maybe our daughter wouldn't have suffered so much. While we were away, Ankita took credit for all of Amba's writing. I was shocked when I read in the newspaper that Ankita was going to receive an award as a young literary talent.
When we returned home, your sister cried terribly that day. In her time of distress, neither I nor your father could do anything to help her. She sobbed and said, "Mother, today Ankita has truly left me empty-handed. She loves Suman, doesn't she? Then why did she lie to him?" That was the first time I heard his name. They had met at that college function. Though your sister liked him, Suman preferred Ankita. Why Ankita felt the need to degrade your sister in order to win Suman's affection remains a mystery.
Ambika's tears started flowing as she said, "What happened next, Mother? Why did my sister agree to it?" At that time, we still didn't know. Later, we found out, and I'll tell you the story.
From then on, your sister continued writing, but Ankita kept taking credit for her work. Yet, an artist sometimes yearns for their own recognition—for at least someone to know the truth. So, your sister started writing a story titled *Love: A Farce.* But suddenly, she stopped writing. Not just writing—she stopped going to college, staying home instead, lost in her own thoughts.
One day, Ankita came by, arguing fiercely, but your sister didn't react—almost as if she didn't recognize her anymore. Ankita even pleaded with me, begging desperately. But there was nothing I could do except remain silent.
Then came that dreadful night. We were sitting down for dinner when the doorbell rang. As soon as we opened the door, several masked men pushed your father aside and stormed into our house, brandishing guns. They demanded to know where your sister was. When your father refused to speak, they beat him brutally.
They searched every room until they found your sister. But at the time, she was deeply asleep. Then, a man arrived—a man so wicked he could only be described as a living devil. He stepped inside and told your father, "Wake your daughter up and tell her to write. She must write, or I will cut off her right hand."
Infuriated, your father shouted, "Then what? Will my daughter still write stories with that severed hand?" At this, the man kicked your father in the stomach so hard that he collapsed, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.
It was likely that this commotion finally woke your sister. Seeing our father in such a state, she panicked and screamed in terror. The man stepped toward her and sneered, "Listen, sweetheart, I told you—if you stop writing, your family's very breath will cease."
Tears welled in my daughter's eyes. She turned to him and said, with an unsettling smile, "Fine, I'll write again. But who will edit my work? Will you publish it, uncle? Give me pages, give me a pen—I'll write about the monster."
She tried to get out of bed, but her body was too weak, and she collapsed onto the floor.
What happened next remains uncertain. The man inquired which doctor we were seeing. Upon learning that we had stopped medical treatment due to financial difficulties, he remained silent for a moment before telling your father, "I will send money tomorrow. Get your daughter the medical care she needs."
Ambika wrinkled her nose and looked at her mother. Your father reacted similarly. But the men paid no heed to us and left.
Fortunately, luck was on our side—no one had entered your grandmother's room. So she never learned of what had transpired.
Once they were gone, I helped your father back to his room, laying him down gently. Then, I went to check on your sister. What I saw filled me with mixed emotions—fear, shock, sorrow, and perhaps even a strange kind of joy.