Chapter 3: Dividing the Past

Back in my room, I called for Nisha, my trusted maid, to help me take stock of my dowry. The old trunks, with their faded stickers from my wedding, still lined the wall, full of memories and regret.

“Madam’s dowry is divided into three parts: one I keep, the other two were given to Master Ishaan and Miss Meera.” Nisha’s voice was steady, but her eyes flickered with worry.

I went through the dowry list, fingering the silk covers, the jewellery boxes, the heirloom sarees. On my wedding day, the baraat had filled the street with music and laughter, my father’s face beaming with pride. We’d sent trunks of gifts, silverware, even a gleaming Ambassador car. People still spoke of that wedding, comparing every other to it in hushed admiration.

Seven years have passed. Some of the gold and cash have been spent, gifts distributed at festivals, but there is still enough for the Sharma family to live in comfort for three lifetimes. I felt a bitter satisfaction—at least my sacrifices were not in vain.

I handed the list to Nisha. “According to the usual share for children of well-off families, list the extra portions held by Ishaan and Meera. I intend to reclaim them.” My voice was steely, unrecognizable even to myself.

I am about to leave this house. The children are too young; who knows what tricks Lata Singh might use? I must secure what is rightfully mine and theirs.

“In the past, my maids numbered at least a hundred. Count their contracts and ask who is willing to leave with me.” I wanted loyal people by my side—there is no security for a woman on her own, no matter her family name.

Nisha blinked in surprise. “Madam, are you making plans for departure already?” Her voice trembled.

I smiled faintly, squeezing her hand. “I am leaving here. I want to see the ghats and the mountains, to see the wider world.”

Nisha’s eyes filled with tears, but she clasped my hand tighter. “Wherever you go, I will follow.” Her simple loyalty brought a lump to my throat.

Just then, the door creaked open. Instinctively, we fell silent. I stood up, motioning for Nisha to hide the dowry list.

Arvind entered, impeccably dressed, his manner all understated power.

“I brought you some pastries from Raj Sweets.” His tone was casual, but I caught the strain in his voice.

He set the box down. When I opened it, the sweet aroma filled the room—but it was nothing but leftovers, packed from the lunch he’d shared with the children and Lata Singh. My stomach turned at the thought.

Arvind, oblivious, continued, “I was delayed by colleagues on the way back. It’s probably cold by now. If you don’t want it, just throw it away.”

Once upon a time, even such a small gesture would have made me happy. I would have eaten the leftovers just for the taste of his affection. But those days were gone.

“Since you say it’s cold, Nisha, throw it away.”

Arvind’s face darkened. There was a time he would have argued, but now he simply said nothing, the silence between us thick as curd.

He sat for a while, trying to appear at ease. “You went to see Aunty at Raj Bhavan today? Why didn’t you let me go with you?”

I replied evenly, “You took Ishaan and Meera out, so I took the chance to chat with Aunty.”

Arvind sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “The children are growing up. You do everything yourself—I’m afraid you’ll tire yourself out. Fortunately, they like the tutor.”

I said nothing, keeping my gaze fixed on my teacup, watching the steam curl up and disappear.

Finding no purchase, Arvind muttered about some files and left, his slippers shuffling on the mosaic floor.