Chapter 1: The Mistress Appears

What should you do when faced with a high-level mistress?

This question has haunted me for more than three months now.

When it comes, it isn't with the melodrama of a saas-bahu serial, but with the deep, dull ache that comes when reality is more filmi than fiction. In the sticky afternoon, ceiling fan lazily swirling, my unfinished chai growing cold on the table, these thoughts have become my constant shadow.

And all because I actually encountered such a mistress myself.

You think, hota hai, these things happen only in movies or to someone else's cousin's mami. But here I am, living it. Shame, disbelief, helplessness—all rolled into one bitter paan.

She's a classmate my husband met during his executive MBA—beautiful, highly educated, running her own business. She should have been the heroine of her own story, but instead, she chose a shortcut.

She walks with the quiet confidence of a woman who grew up knowing she was meant to shine—hair always set, saree never creased, a hint of Chanel, English as smooth as her Hindi, ambition sharper than broken glass. She could have carved her own destiny, but she chose to try and carve up mine.

Honestly, we could have coexisted. She could take resources from my husband, and as long as my core interests were untouched, I could tolerate her.

Accha, what's the harm? In our circles, some wives just close one eye. A little flirting here, a late-night call there—so long as he comes home for dinner, eats my dal-chawal, I can manage. But then, boundaries shift—quietly, like the Mumbai monsoon leaking in through old window frames.

But lately, I've noticed Rajeev is actually considering divorce.

That, I will not allow.

My heartbeat thuds in my ears every time he lingers on his phone or walks in with a secret smile. The word divorce—such a black mark—could drag my name through every drawing room in the city. Worse, my children might lose their father's name. No, never.

Young women, don't judge me for my main-wife mentality. You might say throw out a cheating man like an old shoe, but my husband is not a shoe to be tossed aside. He's my money tree—I can't let him go so easily.

You ask, "Why keep a cheating husband?" But life isn't so simple, beti. In our world, a husband is security, respectability, future. My heart aches, but my mind cannot be weak. Paisa hi sab kuch nahi, but without it, what are we?

There are two types of wealthy people: those on the Forbes list, flaunting their assets, and those who move capital and influence behind the scenes.

That's an old Delhi secret—who the real players are. My husband Rajeev is the latter. Unknown to the public, but he manages assets worth nearly a lakh crore. There's little he can't do if he sets his mind to it.

He's the kind of man who never stands in line, whose phone call makes government offices scramble, whose birthday parties attract ministers and film stars. Even the local police salute his car. If he wants to divorce me, he could leave me with nothing. If he doesn't saddle me with debt, that would already be merciful.

Given our twenty years together, he might show some mercy, but why should the tree I've watered all these years bear fruit for someone else?

Every line on his face is a story I know, every business victory a night I lost sleep for. Why should my youth, my energy, my womb, benefit another woman?

At this age, love doesn't matter to me. Sleeping with men, whatever. But my money? No way.

I've seen enough to know: love is a season, but property, family name, children's future—those are all seasons. Let any woman try to snatch that. I'll become a tigress. Let her try. If she thinks I'll let go so easily, she's never seen a mother fight for her pride.

But this mistress is too high-level.

First, she's younger and more beautiful—more presentable for a man to show off. Second, she knows exactly what men want.

Her laughter is like an old Lata Mangeshkar song—soft, sweet, a little nostalgic. She never fights, never nags, never raises her voice. The kind who always looks fresh, even after a flight. I watch from the side, burning with jealousy, but never showing it.

She's playing out a pure, Bollywood romance. She never asks for money or resources, never says she wants to be the official wife. She just loves, simply. She's willing to be the third party, as long as he visits her sometimes.

What an act! The script every man dreams of—a woman who loves without demands, who smiles when he leaves, never asks when he'll return. Sometimes I wonder if she practices in front of a mirror.

She claims her income is enough, she doesn't need Rajeev's money—she just wants love.

"Money? Arrey, I have enough, didi. What I want is companionship, understanding." Even her voice is soft, like a sangeet song. But behind that sweetness is steel. I've seen her type before.

Sounds noble, but every project of hers carries Rajeev's endorsement. She's capable, but without the right backing, she wouldn't get a single deal.

In our world, deals don't move on talent alone. A phone call from Rajeev, a signature, a nod in the right meeting—these are the real ingredients in Meera's success. She plays the game better than most men.

Plus, she and Rajeev are both in finance—endless topics to discuss.

Sometimes, I overhear them talking about bonds, IPOs, some fintech startup, and I feel like a stranger in my own home. Their language is money, not utensils.

By comparison, I've been a housewife for years. I can't match her knowledge or spirit. Rajeev and I share little in common now.

What do I know of Nifty and Sensex? I know how to remove dal stains, calm a feverish child, bargain with the sabziwala for fresh lauki. Our worlds have drifted apart. I am the outsider.

I tried to join their conversation once, mispronouncing a finance term. Rajeev corrected me gently, but his eyes flickered with embarrassment. That night, I stayed up searching for Sensex basics on YouTube, my phone screen glowing in the dark.

She doesn't pressure him and gives him high-quality emotional value—what man wouldn't be drawn to that?

Men in our society crave adulation. Give them respect, stroke their ego, and they'll build you a Taj Mahal. Meera has built a temple of Rajeev's pride.

And most importantly: Rajeev is her first man. I know my husband—he has a purity complex. He must feel deep guilt towards her.

This shuddhata obsession—as if he's a Rajput prince. For all his modernity, he has the same old ideas, just wrapped in English.

The less she asks, the more he feels he owes her. The only reason he hasn't divorced me is probably because I gave him three children.

At family weddings, relatives praise my "three gems," and I catch Rajeev's soft smile—his only sign of loyalty. I cling to these crumbs.

I've heard him mention to media and outsiders more than once how outstanding Meera is, how much she helps his career.

Once, on TV, I heard him say, "Meera Sinha is a rising star in Indian finance, someone who inspires even me." My heart dropped like a stone.

She has me beaten in every way.

A woman knows when she's lost the upper hand. Meera is younger, smarter, more adaptable—a new phone with all the latest features, while I'm an old Nokia: reliable, outdated.

A decisive battle is coming, and my only card left is the little bit of old affection Rajeev still has for me.

Sometimes, late at night, when the baby finally sleeps and the fridge hums, I look at Rajeev's side of the bed, hoping his hand will reach for mine. It rarely does.

Because of this, I lost ten kilos during postpartum confinement.

I look in the mirror—gaunt face, dark circles, hair falling. Even the maid tuts, "Didi, you're not eating enough. You're looking weak."

I don't know if, when the baby turns one, it will also mark the end of my marriage.

Some days I pray for a sign, some days I steel myself for a battle. But every day, the clock ticks closer to that invisible deadline.

I'm not afraid of being without a man. But I have three children.

Society says a woman's place is with her family. But really, a mother's place is wherever her children need her most. Mine need their father's name, his shadow, his money.

My eldest son just started college, also studying finance. In this field, without his father's resources, his road will be tough.

One call from Rajeev, and my son can get the best internships, the right mentorship, the crucial first break. Without him, it's a jungle—only the connected survive.

My second daughter goes to an international school in Mumbai, costing fifteen lakhs a year. She dreams of studying art abroad—without crores, her dream will die.

Her dream is to show at the Tate, to mingle with the European art set. I keep counting school fees, tuition, travel, foreign exchange, knowing I can't let her dream die.

The youngest, an unexpected pregnancy, is also a son. His first month’s bills equal an ordinary person's annual salary.

The nurse who bathes him costs more than my old salary. The diapers are imported. The paediatrician charges just for lifting his stethoscope. And yet, I cannot cut corners here.

Behind me, I also have elderly parents. Last year, a minor cold sent my father to the ICU—1.5 lakhs a day. He was there for six months. If not for Rajeev's money, I might not have a father anymore.

When my father fell ill, I begged Rajeev. With one call, the best doctors appeared. I have never forgotten that debt. To lose him now would be to lose my safety net.

All this means I cannot leave Rajeev.

This is not just my battle—my family's future depends on me keeping this home intact. In our world, respect is as fragile as a clay pot; once broken, nothing can repair it.

If I could, who wouldn't want to be the heroine of her own story, capable, independent?

I read about women entrepreneurs, single mothers with thriving businesses. Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I am one of them. But I know my limits.

I'm just an ordinary woman. I didn't have the brains for IIT or IIM, nor wealthy parents, nor special talents.

My parents were government school teachers. I scraped through college. No family money, no fancy degrees—just my looks and my willingness to work hard.

The only thing I could rely on—my beauty—is gone too.

The skin that once turned heads now sags. I see it in the bored gazes of shopkeepers, in Rajeev's indifference. My beauty was my dowry, and now it's spent.

But never underestimate a mother fighting for her family. If I can't move Rajeev, I'll do something about the mistress, Meera Sinha.

I remember Dadi saying, "Aurat jab ladti hai na, toh sab sambhal leti hai." If my husband won't be moved, I'll move the mountain standing between us.