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“Bhoomi!” Nitin’s voice thundered through the walls.

She barely stepped into the room when the plate full of food flew past her and crashed to the floor with a loud clang.

“What is this?!” he roared.

“I… it’s food,” she stammered, trembling.

He stood, unbuckling his belt with a rage she had learned to fear. “I know it’s food,” he hissed, pointing to the spilled dal-chawal on the floor. “But this? You expect me to eat this plain garbage?”

“No… n-no… wait, I’ll make something better,” she said quickly, bending down to clean the mess—

But the moment her fingers touched the floor, the first lash cracked across her back.

“AAAH!” she screamed, clutching the spot in pain.

Before she could move, another strike landed.

Then another.

And another.

Until she was curled on the floor, sobbing, her hands folded in front of him, begging for mercy.

He knelt beside her, grabbed her hair, and yanked her face up to meet his. Her cheeks were streaked with tears.

“Next time, I’ll kill you.” His voice was low. Deadly.

“You filthy bitch.” He threw her head back with a jerk, kicked her once, and walked out of the room like nothing happened.

Bhoomi stayed on the floor—curled, broken, and crying.

Moments later, her mother-in-law, Kalpana, entered.

“What is all this?!” she scolded, as if the shattered plate and bruises were just inconvenience. “You can’t do one thing properly? Look—he left without eating! If he falls sick, it’ll be your fault.”

Bhoomi opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Why the hell are you crying now? Huh? Enough of your drama. Clean this mess!”

She turned and walked out—completely unfazed by what she had just witnessed.

Dragging herself up with shaky hands, Bhoomi picked up the plate and slowly mopped the floor. The sting in her back throbbed with every breath, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

In the kitchen, most of the food was already gone. She scraped together a few leftover vegetables and a single cold roti. Quietly, she sat down at the edge of the table, lifting her hand to take a bite—

Slap.

Her mother-in-law’s hand landed across her face, the food falling from her fingers.

“My son is hungry and you’re here filling your stomach? Do you have no shame?” Kalpana snapped. “In our time, women didn’t even look at food until their husbands had eaten. But look at you—shameless!”

She snatched the plate from the table and dumped it straight into the dustbin.

“Starve… or die. You don’t eat until my son eats.” With that, she turned and walked away.

Kalpana didn’t even look at her again.

“Now stop sitting there like a statue and go wash the clothes. The pile’s waiting,” she said flatly.

Bhoomi sat there for a second longer, staring at the dustbin where her only meal for the day had just landed. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach growled in betrayal. But she didn’t cry. Not anymore. The tears had stopped meaning anything.

She quietly made her way to the backyard, where the plastic buckets already overflowed with a mountain of clothes—her husband's shirts, her father-in-law’s sweaty vests, her mother-in-law’s sarees, her sister-in-law’s stained kurtis, her brother-in-law’s jeans, and to top it all off— used bedsheets rolled up like wet, smelly rags.

The sun was already harsh, burning into her back as she knelt on the rough cement floor. Her body screamed in protest. The belt marks across her spine hadn’t faded yet. Every bend, every lift, every scrub pulled at her skin like it was tearing open again.

She pulled the first sheet toward her. It stank—sweat, hair oil, something else she didn’t want to name. She dipped it into the soapy water and began scrubbing with both hands, her knuckles going red almost immediately. There was no machine. No help. Just a rusted washboard, a cracked bar of detergent, and a silence that rang louder than any scream.

Her hands worked like they didn’t belong to her anymore.

Dip. Scrub. Wring. Repeat.

Over and over.

No breaks. No food. No water.

Hours passed. The cement burned her knees raw. Her fingers blistered. Her head throbbed from heat and hunger. But she didn’t stop.

Because stopping meant another slap.

Another insult.

Another round of being reminded that she was unwanted.

By the time she finished, her arms were shaking, and her cotton saree was soaked through. Her braid clung to her neck. Her palms were wrinkled and raw.

She hung the last sheet over the clothesline, her arms trembling as she reached up.

Kalpana’s voice came again from inside.

“Don’t sit around like a beggar. The living room’s a mess. Clean it before guests come. And fix your face—what if someone thinks we torture you?”

Bhoomi didn’t respond. She just looked down at her hands, and then picked up the dusting cloth and began wiping the centre table.

Kalpana clicked her tongue.

“Tch… Look at that speed. When I was your age, I managed a whole house and still looked fresh like a rose. But you? MBA degree and can’t even wipe a table properly. Wah.”

Bhoomi kept her eyes on the surface.

“This is what happens when girls study too much. They forget how to be wives. Always with that dumb blank stare. Did your mother not teach you anything?”

The cloth in Bhoomi’s hand paused for half a second.

Kalpana noticed.

“Ah. Sensitive topic?” she smirked. “Poor woman. Must be ashamed seeing her daughter become this burden.”

Something hot rose in Bhoomi’s throat, but she swallowed it down.

She moved to fluff the cushions.

“Make sure the corners are sharp,” Kalpana snapped. “You don’t know who might walk in. And remember, don’t sit on the sofa after cleaning it. It’s not for you.”

Bhoomi bent to sweep the floor, her knees cracking.

Kalpana watched her for another moment, then scoffed.

“No wonder my son comes home angry. Who wouldn’t be, married to a girl like you? No spark, no manners, no figure, no charm. Just a dead face and useless hands.”

And with that, she walked away.

Bhoomi kept sweeping. Silently. Carefully. One corner at a time. As if her life depended on it. Because in this house—it did.

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I hope you all will like this story!