After her grandparents passed away two years ago, Lali’s world, instead of becoming smaller, grew intensely crowded. Over-eager neighbours stepped in, eager to care for her. Her parents were grateful for the affection she received, and her nanny welcomed the little relief it offered.
Initially, Lali would happily go to whoever called her. She had known them all since birth. She was the most popular child in the building—wanted, adored, and welcomed everywhere. She could walk into anyone’s house at any time of the day because she was sweet, cuddly, never naughty, and never demanding.
In the neighbours’ homes, she would quietly sit beside whoever was watching television and slowly lean in, growing comfortably close, body resting against body. They enjoyed the soft dependency of her presence. As for Lali, she was filling a quiet absence—she missed her grandparents, and she missed them deeply
Lali’s parents returned home tired after a full day’s work. They spent exactly one hour with her—mostly watching television and discussing their day. Lali never cozied up to her parents the way she did with the neighbours. As her parents talked, she busied
herself with her toys, which she rarely played with.
After exactly one hour, her mother would call the nanny to feed Lali and put her to bed. After dinner, Lali received a customary kiss from both her parents before the nanny led her away. Then, like modern parents, they peeped into her room to wish her goodnight, smiled at her dotingly for a brief moment, switched off the lights, and closed the door behind them—turning their backs and separating themselves from Lali.
Lali lay quietly in bed, gazing at the psychedelic solar system glowing above her.
Lali’s parents were smart, young, successful careerists. They liked their lives well-organised, everything carefully planned in advance. Once or twice a month, they invited friends like themselves for drinks and a light dinner. The otherwise quiet house hummed with subdued, measured voices. Occasionally, a polished laugh, the clinking of ice in glasses, and the restrained strains of Western classical music added life to the otherwise perfect, lifeless flat of a lifeless, perfect family.
If the conversations were light and general, Lali was allowed to come in and say goodnight. The guests would shower praise on her parents for raising such a well-behaved child. However, if the discussions turned serious, Lali was forgotten.
Lali’s parents had never had to struggle. They had been good students, studied at good institutions, secured good jobs, found their perfect match in each other, married, and led perfect lives. Everything was perfectly planned—except Lali, who had happened to them in a moment of passion ignited by the news of a promotion. Their perfect world briefly crumbled at the news of the pregnancy.
Despite discussions about abortion, Lali happened. She simply happened—arriving through an early C-section one September morning in 2016. Her parents, preoccupied with projects, returned hurriedly to work and carelessly named her Lali, politely inviting the grandparents to look after her.
The not-so-perfect, lonely grandparents happily accepted the offer and engulfed Lali’s life with their presence, leaving the mother free to shape her body back and return to work. Too much in love with each other and with their careers, Lali’s parents could never quite love Lali enough. To them, she was a souvenir of their passion, an addition that completed their family, and a story of carelessness they shared triumphantly with their perfect friends—as proof of an adventurous side ,they were in truth, far from.
Work consumed all their energy and passion. If there were any leftovers, they gifted it to themselves in passionate but cautious sex. Lali always reminded them of their carelessness. This made them restrained and routine-bound with her.
As Lali grew older, her routine changed. She started school. For a child so young, she rarely smiled—but there was nothing alarming about it. She had always been quiet, inward-looking. Her days now filled with school, drawing classes, homework with her home tutor, and various other activities. Lali rarely had time for the neighbours anymore.
In the evenings, when there was a little time to play, her mother arranged yoga classes for her at home. Lali seemed to be gaining weight, and since she was never much of an outdoor child and had few friends her age, yoga was decided upon as the best form of exercise. Lali was a good child—never rebellious—and followed the new routine to the letter.
Occasionally, when she did manage to visit the neighbours, she noticed she no longer interested them as she once had. A new chubby child in the building had taken her place. Only an old uncle, who lived alone, welcomed her eagerly and pulled her onto his lap. Quietly, they watched television together.
Somewhere deep down, Lali knew she should not be sitting on his lap anymore—she was no longer a baby. But deprived of physical affection from her restrained, matter-of-fact parents, she savoured the contact and absorbed it silently. After her grandparents’ death, no one had really kissed or hugged her, except the many neighbours. Now even they had found a replacement. Her new schedule kept her busy, and they needed another toy to play with.
One night, Lali overheard her parents discussing sending her to a posh boarding school. She heard them talk about how dangerous it was for a grown child to be left alone at home—especially since both of them were likely to receive promotions that would require longer hours and frequent travel. Working in the IT sector was no small deal. With Lali in boarding school, they would have one less thing to worry about.
Slowly, Lali returned to her room. She did not fully understand what a boarding school was, but she had seen a neighbour’s son return home from one. She knew that when you returned from a place called “boarding,” you received many gifts and a lot of love—even if it lasted only a few days. And so little Lali believed that when she returned from boarding school, she too would receive attention—something she missed deeply now.
School had opened Lali’s eyes. She noticed how other parents kissed their children before dropping them off, how they waved frantically and blew flying kisses at the school bus. Slowly, she began to yearn for the same from her parents.
Lali went to school by a bus that picked her up from home. Her mother saw her off at the door. The nanny walked her to the bus. Her father sometimes waved from the balcony.
With the attention from the neighbours fading, Lali now yearned for attention from her parents.
Lali tried various ways to draw her parents’ attention. She began by breaking plates and cups. Her parents—modern and understanding—dismissed it as childish mischief. In fact, they were relieved. At last, she was showing signs of life. Her withdrawn, cold composure had begun to trouble them.
At night, Lali would suddenly cry out for her parents. When they rushed to her room, she would howl and cling to her mother, pretending she had seen a nightmare. Some nights, her mother even slept beside her, much to her father’s irritation. Realising that this worked, Lali repeated the performance often.
Gradually, her parents stopped responding. One day, she overheard her father telling her mother that they were spoiling Lali—giving her too much attention—and needed to be more restrained in showing affection.
“Children should grow up strong,” he said, “especially since she will be sent away to boarding school.”
Though Lali had known for some time that she would be sent to boarding school, hearing her father say it so matter-of-factly made her angry. She did not want to go away—not now. She remembered the warmth of her mother’s body beside her, the way her mother had allowed her to snuggle close. She craved that comfort now.
Eight-year-old Lali began to think of ways to make her mother touch her, hold her, love her openly again. She was angry with her father for keeping her mother away from her. She decided she would not go to boarding school.
Always withdrawn and uncommunicative, Lali did not know how to protest.
One day at school, a classmate named Romi fell from a swing and hurt herself badly. Romi screamed and cried. Her parents rushed in, hugged her, smothered her with kisses, and carried her away. Romi returned to school a week later, bruised but glowing—walking between her parents, holding their hands.
Lali wanted this.
She understood then. She would have to fall and hurt herself—but more than Romi. Then her parents would hug her too.
Lali had never fallen or hurt herself before. Quiet and cautious, she did not run or play rough games. Apart from the sharp pricks of vaccination needles, she did not know pain. But to her, pain now seemed like the only path to love.
Always slow, steady, and careful, Lali did not know how to fall. She tried climbing the slide at school—it was higher than the swing—but with children waiting behind her and a teacher watching, she could not do it. Days passed. She thought of falling only at school, where everyone could see how much her parents loved her.
Slowly, Lali became restless. Carelessness crept into her perfect composure. She began making mistakes in her schoolwork. Her tutor complained to her parents about the sudden change in her behaviour. Her parents grew irritated. Lali grew lonelier.
The school called her parents and advised them to give her more attention. They tried—taking her to a movie one day, buying her ice cream another. Lali sat quietly in the back seat while her parents talked among themselves. The matter of fact parents did not understand the matters of the heart. Lali did not want outings. She needed arms around her.
One afternoon after school, Lali sat eating lunch and watching television. The nanny moved around in the kitchen talking to someone on the mobile and the gardener tended to the plants on the balcony . Lali heard a cat mewing outside and went to look. The balcony grill was open. She climbed onto a stool and peered out. The cat hid among the flowerpots on the parapet.
The gardener told her to be careful and stepped away to fetch water.
Lali stared at the cat. She wanted to touch it, make it her friend. Absorbed, she climbed onto the railing, ready to step onto the parapet.
Just then, the gardener returned and shouted, “Laaali!”
She lost her balance.
Lali fell face-first into the pots on the narrow parapet. A pot toppled. Her body struck the startled cat, which sprang away with a shrill cry. Lali was flung into the air and then fell—five storeys down—flailing, screaming in terror.
She did not want to fall anymore.
There was a thud.
Then silence.
Then afterwards a rush
The gardener watched from the balcony. The cat watched from another parapet. The Nanny rushed from the kitchen hearing the gardener and the cat. Far below, Lali lay still, blood spreading into patterns around her head.
Lali’s school never got to see how much her parents loved her.
