Chapter 1: Foundations and Fault Lines

A year after our marriage, our own house was finally ready. The faint smell of wet cement mixed with agarbatti from the neighbour’s balcony drifted in, making the moment feel both new and familiar. The weight of that statement lingered in the air like the aroma of fresh paint and new beginnings. My heart fluttered at the thought of griha pravesh, the echo of mantras in every corner. There was a certain pride in calling a house ours—no landlord to frown at a nimbu-mirchi hanging at the doorway, no restrictions on drawing a rangoli at the threshold.

For the past year, we had been renting a 2BHK flat in a colony close to the office. The colony aunty next door would bring over homemade pickles, the aroma of tadka from neighbouring kitchens would drift in every evening. Sometimes, the pressure cooker’s whistle would sound like a chorus from all the houses at 8pm. Yet, deep down, it never felt fully mine. Even the small balcony, where I grew my money plant in a reused Horlicks bottle, belonged to someone else. I’d stroke its leaves every morning, hoping it would take root, even if I never truly could.

My husband, Arjun, is a practical man. Back then, he said the new house was too far from work, and moving there would lower his happiness quotient.

He’d calculate distances as if each kilometre would chip away at his peace. "Yaar, office se itna door, traffic bhi toh kitna hota hai," he’d grumble. I’d watch him tap the Google Maps route in frustration, his mind already juggling deadlines.

But now, all of a sudden, he changed his mind. One evening, after chai and pakoras, he came home and announced this as if discussing a cricket score—calm but decisive. I almost dropped the cup in surprise.

He said, “This is our first home together. Of course, we should treasure it.” After speaking, he looked away, tapping his cup and then glancing at the family WhatsApp group photo on his phone, as if seeking silent approval.

His voice was softer that day, as if he too had begun to see beyond practicality. For a brief moment, he seemed to carry the same dreams as I did. It felt like the monsoon finally breaking after a long, parched summer.

I was overjoyed, searching for inspiration and picking out designs, until I accidentally saw his WhatsApp chat history with the designer.

Scrolling on his phone to check a shopping list, my eyes landed on something I wasn’t meant to see—a flurry of messages, full of emojis and professional jargon. It felt wrong, but the words lingered in my mind, like an itch I couldn’t ignore.

He wrote: “If you finish this big project for me, will you be able to get promoted?”

My throat tightened. In that moment, the sweet taste of celebration turned bitter, like chai that had gone cold. My hands went cold, my ears ringing with the distant sound of a pressure cooker whistle from a neighbour’s kitchen—a sensory cue of my world tilting.