Chapter 2: Pehla Pyaar Returns—Kitchen Exile and System Shocks

On the first day my wife’s pehla pyaar returns to India, she personally cooks at home to welcome him.

The air is thick with masala—onions frying, ghee sizzling in the kadhai, the aroma of jeera rice wafting through the hall. Priya, in her starched cotton saree, hair tied up with a black rubber band, is chopping coriander with the speed of a pro. The kitchen looks like Diwali prep, but all for him, her old flame. As she stirs the dal, I notice her biting her lip, fingers fidgeting with her saree pallu—tiny details that show she’s not just the CEO, but a woman nervously cooking for her first love.

I help her wash coriander and onions on the side, but she tosses me a mask and orders:

She flings a cheap blue mask at me—the kind we all started wearing in 2020 but now stuff into our pockets. "Yeh pehen lo," she snaps, as if I’m some paanwala with a cough. "He doesn’t know I’m married yet. Koi galat mat samjhe."

"Khana jab hoga, darwaze ke paas khade ho jao, aur zara bhi table ke kareeb mat aana. Samjhe?"

"Arrey, you want me to look like one of those Haryanvi bouncers from Lokhandwala? The ones with thick moustaches? Fine, whatever you say." I tug the mask over my face, hiding my disappointment and the pimple on my chin.

I nod obediently. "Theek hai, madam," I mutter, wishing I could vanish into the fridge. In this house, my only job is to say haan, madam, haan.

Since the first day I entered this house, agreeing was my only option. Ma would’ve said, "Pehle naukri, phir izzat." And anyway, my fate here was sealed from the start.

A while later, the doorbell rings.

The bell sounds—a typical harsh buzzing, like old Mumbai flats. My heart skips a beat, palms sweaty. For a second, I almost call out to Amma, then remember—this isn’t my real home.

I open the door, stepping aside with my head slightly bowed, hands folded in a forced namaste. "Welcome, sir. Madam is waiting." My voice sounds like the reception guy at Hotel Shanti Palace. Priya would’ve cringed if she saw.

Her pehla pyaar is about the same height as me, sharp-featured. Seeing me dressed like a security guard, he just nods, shrugs off his blazer, and tosses it at me.

His blazer is heavy—Gucci, by the looks of it. He throws it at me like I’m some hanger on the wall. I catch it, force a plastic smile, and resist the urge to mutter under my breath. Rich people, I tell you.

"Take it. Hang it up."

His tone has that entitled NRI twang. I want to say, "Bhai, I’m not your naukar," but instead I nod. What choice do I have?

My wife comes over at the sound, her cold face suddenly brightening with happiness. Black curls are carelessly tied up, her figure elegant in a simple saree, eyes seductive and full of longing. She runs straight into his arms, and the two stand there, gazes lingering on each other.

Priya’s transformation is instant—like those heroines in soap operas who suddenly become soft when their hero enters. Saree pallu perfectly arranged, eyes shining, lips parted. Her smile is reserved for him, never for me. She runs, almost gliding, and melts into his arms like ghee on hot roti.

He pulled her close, his hand resting bold and familiar at her waist, like they were the only two people in the world.

For a second, I feel invisible, like the plastic cover on the sofa that no one removes. Only the clock’s ticking and a distant train horn break the silence.

But after all, there’s an outsider here.

Me…

I clear my throat, but they don’t notice. The only outsider is me, the extra in their drama.

So he restrains himself and shoots me a glare.

His glare is sharp enough to cut onions. I look away, pretending to admire the ceiling fan.

"Priya, is this the bodyguard your father arranged for you? Why’s he so lacking in manners?"

He spits out the words with a smirk, as if he’s expecting me to salute. These rich types, always quick to judge.

Priya hears this, and a flash of anger passes through her eyes as she looks at me: "Go stand near the door, face away, and don’t even think of disturbing us while we eat. Aur khud ko table ke paas mat laana."

I just swallow, my pride shriveling like a papad in the sun. I turn, back stiff, and glue my eyes to the wooden door.

Suddenly, a jolt goes through me—like when you touch a faulty plug point during a monsoon. My whole body tingles, and sweat breaks out on my upper lip. Bas, ab toh lag gayi.

The system’s punishment.

Aaj toh gaya main. This system—worse than my PT teacher with his punishment runs. My teeth chatter as I grit through the pain.

Beads of sweat drip down my spine, dampening my shirt collar. I move in slow motion, feeling like I’m carrying a sack of rice up four flights of stairs.

Behind me, I can faintly hear the man’s light laughter and their conversation, but it’s all growing distant. Their voices turn into background noise—the sort you hear at family weddings when you’re stuck at the kids’ table. I focus on my own breath, shaky and shallow.

Because after transmigrating as the female CEO’s first love stand-in, the system gave me a chamcha conquest task.

Bas, that’s my role—glorified chamcha. I should get a badge for this.

Chase Priya, win her, be her hero—easy for the system to say. But in India, even Ramlal’s son knows you can’t win someone who doesn’t want to be won.

Two years—washing her car, bringing chai, buying her tamarind candies during periods, even massaging her mother’s feet when she had arthritis. Sab bekaar.

Not once. Not even when I remembered her black coffee without sugar or that she likes two drops of lemon in her dal. I am invisible.

My body still tingles. The punishment is the only thing that reminds me I’m even here.

The system sees my pale, nearly collapsing face and sends a question mark.

[Why didn’t you beg her? If you give up on the conquest, you can’t return to the original world. What, do you really not want to go back?]

But this time, I wasn’t going to beg. Not for her, not for anyone.