Chapter 1: Hope, Betrayal, and the Unspoken War

Ten years of marriage, and every month, Priya’s hopeful eyes searched my face for a sign—a sign that never came.

We tried everything—dadi’s nuskhas, three different temples from Haridwar to Kanchipuram, and even a parade of aunties muttering prayers on our behalf. But nothing changed. Each year, the silence in our bedroom thickened, but Priya, my wife, held her pain close, almost as if she could swallow it for both of us.

Yet, the college girl I’d been seeing secretly—Neha—became pregnant the very first time.

It felt almost like a scene straight out of a Bollywood movie, the way fate twisted. Neha, with her shy giggle and neatly plaited hair, slipped into my life as quietly as the July rain. That first night, with auto horns echoing outside and the smell of pakoras wafting up, she squeezed my hand and whispered, “Rohit bhaiya, bas simple rakhte hain na, please.” Who would’ve thought things would get this complicated?

After Priya found out, she didn’t just refuse divorce—she outright denied that Neha could be carrying my child.

Priya’s eyes glistened, hard and bright as glass, when she said, “Don’t think I’m stupid, Rohit. Kuch ladkiyan sirf paise ke liye aati hain. Koi proof nahi hai woh baccha tumhara hai.” The words hit me like a slap, but the way she folded laundry, sharp and methodical, made it clear she wasn’t letting Neha into our lives—not by will, not by accident.

So, I had to show her the pregnancy report. Still, she didn’t budge. She accused me of being taken for a ride, begged me to send Neha away at once.

When every attempt to talk divorce failed, I just brought Neha home.

Jeera sputtered in hot oil, the aroma of Priya’s tadka mingling with the evening’s first monsoon breeze. Her bangles clattered as she poured tea, just as I stepped in with Neha. I wanted Priya to see, to understand.

Even after all these years, through every struggle, I told myself—someone like me, now successful and known, deserved a fresh start. Priya needed to leave.

But deep down, I couldn’t escape the guilt. My heart twisted between hope for a new beginning and the weight of what I was about to destroy.

1

Honestly, when I brought Neha to my front door, my heart was thudding like a tabla. My hands were sweaty, mouth dry—like standing under a scorching Delhi sun. The iron gate creaked, but today it sounded like a dhol beating out my doom. Over the neighbour’s TV, I heard a Saas-Bahu serial blaring at full volume. For a second, I wished someone would stop us right there, demanding, “Beta, kahan ja rahe ho?”

Priya’s usually calm nature did nothing to ease my nerves. I genuinely feared she’d lose it and come at me with the kitchen knife—she had that spark, the same one she showed the day she put out a gas cylinder fire with her bare hands and one bucket of water. That day, her courage was pure sherni. If that fire turned on me, I’d be finished.

I remembered those days in our tiny Kaveripur 1RK, fresh after graduation. I’d promised Priya a good life, sworn I’d never betray her. She’d smile, adjusting her dupatta, saying, “One day we’ll have AC, you’ll see.” I’d hold her hand, dreaming aloud—chai at Marine Drive, our own car, a child running circles around us.

When my first business sank and we depended on her salary, she’d slip alu paratha and achaar into my tiffin, along with a note: “Don’t worry, Rohit. Hum kar lenge.” Her faith turned broken tiles into marble.

And now, I was about to kick her out, with Neha by my side. My conscience jabbed me, but I steeled myself. This was the only way forward. But how would Priya react?

The thought of the child in Neha’s womb gave me some courage. I remembered Ma lighting a diya every Thursday, Baba muttering, “Bas ek poti de de, bhagwan.” For ten years, their hope stuck to me like May sweat. Their pride, their longing for a Sharma heir—it all weighed on me.

The thought of finally fulfilling their wishes filled me with a strange boldness. I pictured their faces lighting up, breaking into real, toothy grins at the news. A proper Sharma heir—at last.

My heart pounded, just like it did before my first job interview. But Priya just wouldn’t leave—her stubbornness made me furious.

A voice in my head whispered, “She gave you everything, yaar—her best years, her trust.” I ignored it, hardening myself.

Clutching Neha’s hand, I prepared to open the door.

Neha’s hand was cold, her fingers trembling. I squeezed tighter, hoping my strength would steady her. I took a deep breath, trying to fill the hollow ache inside me.

But Neha, as always, surprised me. She tugged my sleeve, whispering, “Rohit bhaiya, isn’t this too cruel to Priya didi? Shayad… hum yeh mat kare?”

Her voice was barely above the clang of utensils from the neighbour’s kitchen. Her eyes flicked to the nameplate—"Sharma Parivar"—still unable to believe she was about to cross that threshold.

“Don’t worry, Rohit bhaiya. Even if you and Priya didi don’t divorce, I’ll still give birth to your child…”

Her words made my chest ache. For a moment, I wished life was simpler—no lies, no pain, just love.

“I’m with you because I love you. Mujhe kuch nahi chahiye…”

Her innocence wrapped around me like a warm shawl. I felt a surge of pride, as if her sacrifice made my decisions justified.

I reached out, patting her head gently. Her hair smelled of coconut oil—nostalgic, like home.

“Silly girl, don’t say such things.”

I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not about status, Neha.”

“I know you don’t care about status, but what about the child?”

I stiffened. “Beta, duniya bahut badi hai, bahut cruel. Log kya kahenge?”

“Does our child have to be called illegitimate from birth?”

My throat went dry. I pictured the sharp-tongued aunties at pooja, their eyes scanning every move. I squeezed Neha’s hand, resolve hardening. “It’s time Priya understood.”