Chapter 1: The Vanishing Groom

We grew up swapping tiffins in the school corridor, and now my wedding sari still hangs untouched in the cupboard—because Rohan is gone.

On the eve of our wedding, Rohan died unexpectedly. My sobs came so hard I nearly fainted, the sticky heat of my tears clinging to my cheeks. As I pressed a cold, damp kerchief to my face, the distant clang of temple bells drifted through the window, and the heavy jasmine gajra in my hair pressed against my neck. But instead of comfort, I found my phone buzzing with a flood of scrolling comments:

[Can someone tell the heartbroken heroine that he's only pretending to be dead?]

[Rohan’s little nightingale ran away when she heard he was getting married, so he faked his death overnight and went abroad to chase after her. The heroine is crying at the ghat, the nightingale is crying in bed, I can't take this.]

[What a joke. When he comes back after faking his death, the heroine doesn't know a thing and still happily marries him...]

It was as if my grief had become a live serial for everyone to watch—my maasi’s favourite afternoon drama, except I was the one in tears and Kaveripur was watching from behind their curtains.

Half a month later.

Word of my arranged marriage to Mumbai’s elite spread through Kaveripur like spilled tea. Even the sabziwala was gossiping with customers, and groups of aunties peeked from behind half-closed doors as I passed. Rohan’s friend—his kurta-pajama wrinkled, eyes darting nervously—came to question me on the veranda, his voice low:

“Bhaiya just passed away, and you’re already rushing to find someone else?”

“He’s already dead. Am I supposed to be a widow for him my whole life?”

My voice came out flat. I kept my gaze fixed on the cracked floor tiles, refusing to let him see my eyes fill up. In small towns, they expect you to wrap yourself in white forever, as if love and death are the only colours a woman is allowed.