Chapter 1: The Aroma of Scandal

Rohan’s mistress had run away again.

The word had spread like the aroma of masala chai in the morning—quick and unmissable. Neighbours whispered on their balconies, WhatsApp groups buzzed before sunrise—everyone wanted a sip of the scandal. He was as restless as a man standing barefoot on burning coal at a summer wedding, summoning his men in the dead of night as if he couldn’t bear a moment’s delay.

He personally travelled all the way to Lucknow to bring her back, refusing to trust anyone else with the task. It was as if his pride had been wounded, and the only balm was Sneha’s return.

This time, he swore to himself with all the pride of a zamindar—he would give her a proper status. No more hiding, no more whispers in the family. He’d bring her into the fold, no matter what the elders or the neighbours said.

Before leaving, he informed me in his usual hurried way, like a passing monsoon cloud.

"Husband, could you... come home a bit earlier?" I asked him softly, the words almost trembling out of me, hoping for a sliver of his time.

He snatched the file from my hands, his impatience as sharp as the slap of a wet towel:

"Arre, Priya, how many times will you say—come home, come home? Missing me so much, kya?" His voice was thick with annoyance, not a trace of tenderness.

He signed his name, tossed the file aside as if it was an empty biscuit packet, and strode out, the click of his polished shoes echoing through the marble-floored corridor.

He was in such a tearing hurry, he never even noticed—

what he had just signed were the divorce papers—between us.

A silence like that after the last diya is snuffed out lingered behind.