Chapter 1: The Scandal No One Must Know

One night, one stupid mistake—and now I was carrying my stepbrother’s child. Even thinking it made my heart race, as if Amma might barge in any second, demanding answers.

That thought alone, whispered in the silent corners of my mind, sent my heart skittering out of rhythm, as if the ceiling fan above was spinning backwards. In a city like Delhi, where the walls have ears and the neighbours’ tongues are sharper than their knives, such a secret wasn’t just scandal—it was the kind of masala that fueled drawing-room gossip for generations. I could almost picture Mrs. Mehra next door, already dialing her WhatsApp group. My hands trembled as I replayed what happened.

I kept circling back to that dinner the other day. Mum and Dad, with gentle smiles and not-so-gentle hints, urged Kabir to think about marriage. He barely looked up from his phone, adjusting his watch with a flick. Then, quietly, he said, "Mujhe koi pasand hai."

Their words still echoed in my ears, the air thick with the smell of daal tadka and the distant blare of an auto’s horn. My stomach churned, remembering that poised, unreadable smile on his lips and the way he avoided my gaze. It was as if he’d just dropped a lit match onto a pool of kerosene right at the dining table. My mind went completely blank. That’s it—I’ve become the other woman. I wanted to shrink into my chair, hide behind the half-eaten bowl of kheer, anything to escape those knowing glances.

I could almost hear the old aunty next door, Mrs. Mehra, whispering over the balcony railing, “Beta, these days children are all so modern, haan.” That very night, I applied to graduate schools abroad, planning to get an abortion and leave the country.

I sat hunched on my narrow bed, my laptop glowing blue in the dark. The clock on the wall, with its chipped frame, ticked away the seconds of my old life. While waiting for my number outside the operation theatre, someone suddenly grabbed my wrist.

The corridor smelt faintly of Dettol and anxiety. A nurse hurried past, her rubber slippers squeaking against the tiles, eyes averted. My stepbrother looked at me coldly, his voice icy yet desperate: "Is it that easy for you? To just erase me from your life?"

His grip was firm, not painful, but urgent—the way you’d grab someone to stop them from walking in front of a speeding DTC bus. "You’d rather abort the child and run away than tell me? Is that it, dear sister?"