Chapter 3: Ashes and Departures

My parents died young. My dowry wasn’t much, but it wasn’t little either—gold bangles, silver anklets, a small plot of land near Nashik, and a few silks from my mother’s side.

All these years, I had poured myself into Rohan’s family home, my belongings already mixed up with his. My books sat on his father’s bookshelf, my silk dupattas folded among his mother’s saris.

I had Chitra check the dowry list, and pick out everything that belonged to me. She took it as seriously as a temple priest counting donations, her lips moving as she ticked off each item.

I sent them out of Rohan’s house at night. The old driver, Ram Bhaiya, helped load everything into his battered white Omni van, muttering prayers for my future under his breath.

I asked the family accountant to check on the shops the Chief Minister’s wife had gifted me, preparing to replace all the staff inside. I didn’t want a single person loyal to Rohan left there.

Then I told the servants to erase all traces of me from the house. My photos were removed from the walls, my name wiped from the family puja register.

Especially the plants and flowers I had tended over the years. The jasmine by the entrance, the tulsi near the kitchen—gone overnight, like a festival after the last guest has left.

Finally, I packed my own luggage. There really wasn’t much.

Just a few pieces of jewellery.

This pair of gold bangles—the Chief Minister’s wife let me choose a husband. I was worried Rohan had no interest in me, but couldn’t refuse the marriage. So I gave him a scented handkerchief. He gave me a gold bangle in return. My heart had fluttered all night, dreams scented with rosewater.

I was so happy that night, I couldn’t sleep. My pillow was wet with tears of joy.

This kundan hairpin—on the day I returned home after the wedding, Rohan gave it to me specially. He said that even if I had no home to return to, from now on, I could treat his house as my own mother’s home.

I was so moved, I wiped away tears in secret. Even the moonlight that night seemed softer, kinder.

This matching pendant—on the first Diwali after our marriage, Rohan brought it to me at dawn. We each wore one, red thread tied with hope. The house was filled with the smell of ghee lamps and marigold.

This ring, this hairpin, this piece of green jade…

He had once treated me so well, I truly believed he loved me. I would smile like a fool at nothing, just thinking of him.

But that lasted only a year.

"Priya, the house is so big, must you always wait for me in the study?" His voice would echo through the marble halls, irritation growing.

"Priya, I’m busy. Just stay by yourself, all right?" The tone turned colder, like winter wind in Delhi.

"Priya! Aren’t you annoying!" The final snap, like a clay diya shattering on the floor.

Good things in this world never last; rainbow clouds scatter, glass bangles shatter easily. My mother used to say, don’t trust happiness to stay too long.

Even before Sneha appeared, Rohan was already tired of me.

I left all the jewellery, clothes, and trinkets Rohan had given me in the room. I didn’t want any memory that could bind me back, not even a silver payal.

Not wanting to upset the new favourite, I burned my wedding saree outright. The saree was a deep red, heavy with gold zari that shimmered in the light; my hands trembled as I held it over the flame. The gold threads curled into black spirals, the smell of burning silk making Chitra sob harder. The heavy silk melted into nothing but ashes. Chitra sobbed in the corridor, the smell of burning zari hanging in the air.

Chitra’s bangles clinked nervously as she folded my saris, the quiet broken only by the distant whistle of a pressure cooker.

Half a month later, after the staff in the shops had been replaced, I had nothing left to do with Rohan’s family. Even the guards at the gate no longer looked me in the eye.

Every corner, front and back, was thoroughly cleared of my traces. Even the stray kitten I used to feed had disappeared, as if following my shadow.

I rented a new 2BHK flat. The society was quiet, with neem trees lining the walkway and the distant sound of children playing cricket in the evenings.

On the day I moved out, Chitra cried until her face was soaked with tears. Her voice was hoarse, yet she kept fussing with my bags, unwilling to let go.

"Why not wait a bit longer… Sir, how could he bear to part with you…" Her words were heavy with sorrow, as if she could somehow stall fate itself.

"I am no longer Madam."

I corrected her gently. My voice was calm, but my fingers clutched the end of my dupatta for strength.

"It’s not convenient for me to take your contract directly. When he returns, I’ll come to fetch you." I tried to sound reassuring, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever set foot in that house again.

I wiped away Chitra’s tears, the way my mother used to wipe mine after a scraped knee.

"Madam! Madam!"

The accountant came running, clutching a letter excitedly:

"Madam, Sir… Sir sent a letter by express courier, saying you must open it yourself!"

Chitra’s eyes lit up:

"It must be Sir realising his mistake and writing to apologise!"

"Madam, open it and see!"

I looked at the letter. The envelope was thick, the handwriting unmistakably his.

Rohan hadn’t written to me in years. Once, his letters had been filled with poetry and dreams. Now, I could only guess.

Before our marriage, it was those letters that made me fall in love with him. I would read them under my blanket by torchlight, afraid someone would see the foolish smile on my face.

"Madam, hurry!" Chitra urged, unable to wait.

"Such a thick letter—Sir must truly regret it!"

I pressed my palm, and finally took the letter. My heart thudded in my chest, hope and dread mixing like tamarind in dal.

I opened it:

"I have found Sneha. Will return to Mumbai soon."

"Sneha has lost weight. Prepare more gulab jamuns. She likes your sweets."

"Sneha’s room can be arranged. She fears the cold and likes sunlight."

"Sneha doesn’t like Banarasi silk, only cotton. Sky blue, bottle green, crimson, and deep violet suit her."

"Sneha’s jewellery needn’t be excessive. She is simple and prefers elegance."

"Sneha…"

"Sneha…"

"Sneha…"

Page after page, all about Sneha. My name was nowhere. It was as if I was just the caretaker, not a wife.

The last line: "Sneha is lonely. Let the dowry be prepared by you. Pay extra attention."

Eight years of knowing each other, three years as husband and wife.

The faint spark in my heart was extinguished at this moment. It was as if a gust of wind had blown out the last diya at Lakshmi puja.

"These matters, I’m afraid will trouble you."

I calmly handed the letter to the accountant. My face was serene, but my heart finally surrendered.

Turned around.

Never looked back again. I left behind the last piece of hope, stepping into a world that was suddenly too large and too empty.