Silence Has a Price

Silence is not the absence of sound.

It is the presence of listening.

I learned that the hard way.

In this house, silence wasn’t peaceful—it was required. Like breathing. Like blinking. You didn’t earn it; you maintained it. And if you failed, the consequences didn’t always come immediately. Sometimes they waited. Sometimes they arrived smiling.

Morning arrived without ceremony.

No alarm. No greetings. No warmth. Just the dull scrape of a chair downstairs and the faint clink of steel against stone. I was already awake. I always was. Sleep here was a shallow thing—never deep enough to drown thoughts.

I sat up slowly, careful not to let the mattress sigh beneath my weight. Even objects here were trained not to complain.

The bruise on my forearm had darkened overnight. Blue melting into purple, purple into something uglier. I touched it lightly, testing the pain the way one tests a wound—measuring how visible it was, how inconvenient.

It would need to be hidden.

I reached for my dupatta and wrapped it around my arm first before covering my head. Priorities were learned early. Modesty mattered, yes—but explanations mattered more.

Downstairs, the house breathed.

Not in relief. In vigilance.

I counted my steps as I descended. Seventeen from the top to the landing. Nine more to the floor. I placed my foot carefully where the wood didn’t creak. Muscle memory guided me better than thought ever could.

The kitchen smelled of yesterday—oil gone stale, spices soaked into walls, something metallic beneath it all. The window above the sink was open just enough to let air in, not enough to let voices out.

He liked it that way.

I filled a pot with water, keeping the tap low. Noise was a currency here. Spend too much, and someone noticed.

My reflection wavered in the steel surface of the pot.

I looked… normal.

That was the most dangerous thing.

“You’re late.”

The voice came from behind me, close enough that I hadn’t heard him enter. My fingers stiffened around the handle, but I didn’t turn immediately. Turning too fast looked defensive. Turning too slow looked guilty.

“I was cleaning the back room,” I said.

Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Silence followed.

I waited.

He stepped closer. I could feel it—the shift in air, the way presence here always announced itself without words. He didn’t touch me. He rarely did unless necessary. Touch was a tool, not a habit.

“You missed a spot,” he said.

“I’ll redo it.”

Still not turning.

A pause. Longer this time.

I felt his eyes move—not just over my face, but over my posture, my tone, the space I occupied. I had learned that posture mattered as much as words. Shoulders too stiff invited suspicion.

Too relaxed invited correction.

He reached past me and shut the window.

The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.

“Outside noise,” he said. “Distracts you.”

“Yes.”

Another full sentence. Risky. I swallowed and added nothing else.

He picked up a plate from the counter, inspected it, then placed it back down. A test. I watched his hands instead of his face. Faces revealed too much.

“You were told not to speak yesterday,” he said casually.

“I didn’t.”

The words escaped before I could weigh them.

A mistake.

The air changed instantly. It always did. Not anger—something colder. Precision.

His hand came up without warning.

Not fast. Not slow. Measured.

The slap landed across my cheek, sharp enough to knock my breath loose but controlled enough to leave no mark that would last longer than a few hours.

My head snapped to the side.

I didn’t cry out.

That was the real test.

I stayed still, eyes lowered, jaw clenched—not in defiance, but in compliance. Tears were unpredictable. He disliked unpredictability.

“You answered,” he said. “That counts as speaking.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out flat, practiced.

He watched me for a moment longer, then turned away as if nothing had happened.

“Make tea.”

No comfort. No explanation. Correction delivered, lesson reinforced, routine restored.

I moved.

My cheek burned, but I kept my movements steady. Pain here wasn’t about injury; it was about memory. The body remembered even when the mind wanted to forget.

As the tea boiled, my thoughts wandered somewhere unsafe—backwards.

I remembered being younger, smaller, asking questions because curiosity hadn’t yet been punished out of me.

Why can’t I go outside?

Why do people whisper when the news comes on?

Why does everyone stop talking when you enter the room?

Each question had been answered the same way.

With silence first.

Then with consequences.

By the time I learned to stop asking, it was already too late. The habit of silence had settled into my bones.

I poured the tea carefully, avoiding the chipped edge of the cup. He liked things orderly. Predictable.

I placed the cup in front of him and stepped back exactly three paces. Not two. Not four.

He lifted the cup, took a sip, then frowned.

“Too much sugar.”

“I’ll remake it.”

“No.” He set it down. “Drink it.”

My stomach tightened.

I picked up the cup, the heat biting into my palm, and took a sip. The sweetness coated my tongue, thick and cloying.

“Again.”

I drank.

“Again.”

By the third sip, my hand trembled slightly. Not from heat. From the humiliation of being watched.

“Stop.”

I lowered the cup.

“Next time,” he said, “measure properly.”

“Yes.”

He stood, adjusted his sleeves, and walked past me toward the door.

Before leaving, he stopped.

“You should remember,” he said without turning, “everything you do reflects back on me.”

I nodded.

The door closed behind him.

Only then did I allow myself to breathe.

My legs felt weak, but I didn’t sit. Sitting without permission felt indulgent. Instead, I stood at the sink, staring at my reflection in the darkened glass.

The red on my cheek was already fading.

Good.

Proof disappeared quickly here. Memories didn’t.

I rinsed the cup he hadn’t finished and placed it upside down to dry. The water dripped slowly, rhythmically.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Silence returned—not as relief, but as warning.

And I understood, as I always did:

Silence wasn’t what kept me safe.

Silence was what kept me owned.

After he left, the house didn’t relax.

It never did.

Silence here was not emptiness—it was surveillance without witnesses.

I wiped the counter twice even though it was already clean. Habits kept the mind occupied. An occupied mind didn’t wander. A wandering mind asked questions. Questions led to consequences.

The clock on the wall ticked softly. He didn’t like loud clocks. Time wasn’t meant to announce itself. It was meant to pass unnoticed, like people.

I carried the cleaning cloth with me as I moved from room to room, fixing things that didn’t need fixing. Straightening cushions no one used. Aligning shoes no one wore except him. Dusting frames whose photographs had been removed years ago.

Faces were dangerous.

Empty frames were safer.

In the back room, sunlight slipped through the curtain in thin lines. I avoided stepping into it. Light made things visible. Visibility invited attention.

I knelt near the cupboard and opened the lower drawer carefully. Inside were old notebooks—mine. School books from a time that felt borrowed, like a life briefly lived under someone else’s name.

I hadn’t opened them in months.

Paper carried risk. Words stayed.

I ran my fingers over the cover of one notebook, then stopped. Touching wasn’t the same as opening. I closed the drawer again.

A rule surfaced in my head, clear as if spoken aloud:

If something matters to you, hide it.

If it matters too much, destroy it.

I stood up and moved toward the window at the back—small, barred, and permanently shut. The outside world existed only as sound here. Traffic in the distance. Children shouting sometimes. Life happening without my permission.

Once, long ago, I had pressed my forehead to this very window and asked why I couldn’t go out like the others.

He had crouched beside me then. Calm. Patient.

“Because outside teaches people to run,” he’d said gently.

“And you don’t need that lesson.”

At the time, it had sounded like care.

Now, it sounded like strategy.

A sharp knock echoed from the front door.

My breath hitched automatically.

Three knocks. Evenly spaced.

Not police. Not neighbours. Not emergency.

Familiar.

I moved before being told to, straightening my dupatta, lowering my gaze. When visitors came, I was expected to be present but invisible—proof of order, not personhood.

The man who entered spoke loudly, his voice filling the room too easily. He laughed. I flinched inwardly. Laughter here was rare and usually meant something else entirely.

“Tumhara ghar hamesha itna shaant kyun rehta hai?” the man asked.

Why is your house always so quiet?

I kept my eyes on the floor.

“Discipline,” he replied smoothly. “Shaanti aadat ban jaye toh ghar bhi sambhal jaata hai.”

When silence becomes habit, even a house stays in control.

They talked about things I wasn’t meant to understand—routes, timing, people who’d “moved,” places that were “sensitive.” Words floated around me like smoke. I inhaled without meaning to.

“Chai?” the visitor asked.

I moved toward the kitchen immediately.

“No,” he said sharply, not looking at me. “She listens when she moves.”

The visitor chuckled, unsure if it was a joke.

It wasn’t.

I froze mid-step.

Listening wasn’t an action here. It was an accusation.

“She’s trained,” he continued casually. “Sunna seekh liya hai. Bolna bhool gayi hai.”

She’s trained. She’s learned to listen. Forgotten how to speak.

The visitor hummed in approval.

“Achha hai,” he said. “Aajkal log zyada bolte hain.”

I stood there, heart pounding, waiting for permission to leave the room.

He waved his hand dismissively.

“Jaao.”

I retreated without turning my back, each step measured. My ears burned. Not from shame—shame required selfhood. This was something else.

Reduction.

In the kitchen, I gripped the edge of the counter until the feeling in my fingers returned. Their voices carried faintly through the walls, muffled but distinct enough.

“…hospital ke aas-paas…”

“…zyada sawaal nahi…”

“…andar se kaam hona chahiye…”

Hospital.

The word slipped under my skin.

I straightened instantly, heart accelerating in a way that felt dangerous. Hospitals meant people. Patients. Children sometimes. The word echoed against something old and buried—sirens, screams, heat.

No.

I forced the thought down.

Thinking ahead was not my role.

I busied myself with washing utensils that were already clean, letting the water run a little louder than necessary just to drown the conversation.

But the word stayed.

Hospital.

I shut the tap abruptly.

My reflection stared back at me from the steel sink—eyes too alert for someone trained not to notice.

I lowered my gaze immediately.

That was safer.

A sound behind me made me stiffen.

He stood in the doorway.

“How long does it take to clean one sink?” he asked mildly.

“I’m done,” I said quickly.

“Good.” His eyes flicked to my face, then away. “Remember what I told you yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

I hesitated for half a second too long.

His fingers twitched.

“Silence,” I said. “Is safety.”

A thin smile crossed his face.

“Good,” he said. “You’re learning again.”

Again.

As if learning could be undone. As if forgetting was an option.

He turned to leave, then stopped.

“And Zoya?”

I looked up instinctively.

Mistake.

His gaze sharpened—not angry, just alert.

“You’re talking too much today.”

My mouth went dry.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched me for a moment longer, then walked away.

I stood there long after his footsteps faded, the word still echoing in my mind.

Hospital.

I didn’t know why it mattered yet.

But I knew one thing with terrifying clarity—

Silence was no longer enough.

Night fell the way it always did here—without warning, without ceremony.

Lights were switched off early. Curtains drawn tight. The house didn’t sleep; it merely lowered its voice. Darkness was not rest. Darkness was cover.

I lay on the thin mattress on the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan that wasn’t moving. He didn’t like fans at night. Said the sound distracted the mind.

A distracted mind made mistakes.

My hands were folded over my stomach, fingers pressed together so tightly they hurt. Pain kept thoughts aligned. Pain was predictable.

From the other room, I heard him on the phone again. His voice dropped when he spoke at night—controlled, careful, almost intimate. Night conversations were always important ones.

“…kal nahi,” he said quietly.

“…haan, jagah confirm hai…”

“…andar se koi dikkat nahi hogi.”

Inside help.

The words slid into me like splinters.

I turned my face toward the wall, pressing my cheek against the cool surface. I didn’t want to hear. Hearing meant knowing. Knowing meant choice. Choice meant danger.

But the words didn’t stop.

“…hospital ke time pe…”

“…log zyada honge…”

“…panic ka fayda uthana hai.”

Hospital.

Crowd.

Panic.

My breath caught, sharp and sudden.

I forced myself to slow it down. Inhale. Exhale. Like he taught me. Control the body, the mind will follow.

This is not your concern.

This is not your place.

I repeated it silently, like a prayer I didn’t believe in anymore.

A memory surfaced uninvited—white walls, the smell of antiseptic, a child crying somewhere down a corridor. A nurse once handing me a biscuit when I was very small, whispering, “Don’t be scared.”

I swallowed hard.

Fear had been my education since then.

The phone call ended. Footsteps moved across the floor. Slow. Unhurried. He wasn’t angry. That was worse.

The door to my room creaked open.

I shut my eyes instantly, pretending to be asleep. Sleep was another kind of silence. Sometimes it worked.

His presence filled the room before he spoke. He always stood still for a moment, as if counting my breaths.

I kept them even. Shallow. Careful.

“You’re awake,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

I opened my eyes and sat up immediately, lowering my gaze.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just—”

“Listening?” he asked softly.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“No.”

A pause.

The kind that stretched, thin and dangerous.

He moved closer. I could see his feet now, just within my line of sight. Bare. Steady.

“You know what I don’t like?” he asked calmly.

I shook my head once.

“I don’t like curiosity,” he said. “Curiosity makes people forget their place.”

I nodded quickly. “I understand.”

Another pause.

His hand reached out—not to hit, not to grab. Just to lift my chin, forcing my face up.

I froze.

His eyes searched mine, sharp and assessing, like he was checking for cracks in a wall he’d built himself.

“You’ve been restless today,” he said. “Cleaning too much. Moving too much.”

I didn’t respond.

“Talking too much.”

My breath stuttered.

Then he said it.

Low. Even. Final.

“Aaj tum zyada bol rahi ho.”

Today, you’re speaking too much.

The words settled over the room like a sentence already passed.

He released my chin and stepped back.

“Kal se yaad rakhna,” he added, turning away.

“Zinda rehne ke liye chup rehna zaroori hota hai.”

To stay alive, silence is necessary.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

I sat there in the dark, unmoving, the echo of his words pressing against my chest.

For the first time, silence didn’t feel like safety.

It felt like a warning.

"Chup rehna maine seekha tha bachne ke liye,

Par kuch khamoshiyaan cheekh ban jaati hain.

Jab farz aur darr ek hi saans lein,

Toh zinda rehna bhi saza ban jaata hai."

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