Chapter 1: The Night Everything Changed

My younger sister lost her honour at the Diwali Banquet.

The word 'honour' hung in the air—heavy, suffocating—like the thick heat after a power cut in Lucknow’s October. Whispers from a hundred aunties seemed to slither through every corner. Diwali, meant for laughter, light, and the scent of marigolds and ghee, became the night my family’s destiny was rewritten.

My fiancé, Arjun, seeing the disaster unfold, deliberately ruined his own kurta.

A sharp intake of breath echoed from the servants in the corridor. Arjun, always the picture of perfection, smeared bright orange jalebi syrup down the front of his cream silk kurta. His jaw clenched, his movements rough, as if every stain was a silent promise. Even the silver buttons looked mournful, catching the harsh light. My mother’s hands trembled as she gathered her dupatta around her shoulders, and the old family clock in the hall ticked louder and louder in the growing silence, the tension swelling with every second.

When we finally reached the guest room, we found him and Priya, both looking utterly disheveled.

The room was thick with the sweet trace of agarbatti and the oppressive warmth of too many bodies pressed into one space. We burst in, slippers slapping against the marble. Arjun stood by the bed—kurta rumpled, hair askew; Priya, my younger sister, sat on the edge of the mattress, fingers twisting the sheet, her eyes darting away, lips trembling as she struggled to compose herself. My mother’s bangles jingled as she yanked her dupatta over her head in shock.

Arjun, always gentle and upright, lied for the first time—claiming he had taken advantage of Priya while drunk.

The hush was absolute, broken only by the relentless tick of the clock and the low hum of the generator outside. Arjun’s voice was rough, but steady: "All the blame lies with me alone. It was I who, while drunk, took advantage of Priya. She was forced by me, and I... will take responsibility for this." His words, low and hoarse, echoed in the stunned room, each syllable like a stone dropping in water.

The people around us stared, and the gossip exploded like crackers outside—sharp, relentless, impossible to ignore.

It felt as if the entire colony had squeezed into that room. Neighbours peered from the landing, aunties muttering behind their hands. Each rumour stung more than the cold air sneaking in from the windows.

[Arrey, did you see? This is straight out of a Zee TV serial!]

[Heroine got drugged, hero ran away—kya flop scene, yaar.]

[Of course, the hero is from a rival state. If he doesn’t run, will he wait to get caught? At least the second hero came to the rescue, but why is he engaged to the supporting girl?]

[Bas, now the heroine will get all the sympathy and the supporting girl—kya bechari!]

The air sizzled not just with Diwali sparklers, but with fresh gossip—each word sharper than the last. It was like living in a desi serial, except I was the tragic supporting character, never the heroine.