Chapter 2: The Maid’s Fate and Arjun’s Hatred

2

Neha had taken three days’ sick leave, but in truth, her pregnancy was unstable.

The staff murmured anxiously. My mother insisted she rest, while the cook complained about extra chores. The house felt emptier, tension simmering whenever a key servant was absent.

She didn’t dare overexert herself, staying in bed all day, missing the chance to explain things to Arjun.

She lay curled up on her thin mattress, a faded photo of her mother under her pillow. When Sneha brought her khichdi, she barely touched it, eyes flickering with dread at each step in the corridor.

I took Aunty Radha to the side room to find her. She wasn’t visibly pregnant yet, just unwell.

Her face was drawn, dark circles under her eyes, hair loose and lacklustre. A pang of sympathy flashed in me—quickly buried.

I said, "The new UPSC topper wants to marry you."

The words floated in the air. Neha’s lips parted, but no sound came. Her fingers twisted the edge of her dupatta, knuckles white.

She looked surprised, then shy and flustered, unable to meet my eyes.

Her gaze dropped, cheeks burning, a blend of disbelief and hope. The pounding of masala in the kitchen was a jarring background to her silent storm.

She was terrified I’d question her about Arjun.

Her shoulders stiffened, bracing for a slap or harsh words. Servants in our house knew the cost of overstepping.

But I didn’t ask anything.

For once, I let the silence stretch, my mind busy with new calculations.

I had Sneha help her dress and brought her to the front hall to meet the guest.

Sneha fetched Neha’s best salwar, braided her hair, dabbed rose water on her wrists. The girls exchanged a look—part excitement, part dread—as I led them to the hall.

Arjun saw her and was stunned, his eyes burning red.

For a moment, the past ten years dissolved. His breath caught, his fingers clenched and unclenched. Even the elders, holding tea and samosas, sensed the drama.

He hadn’t seen her for a decade.

A hush fell, broken only by the distant ring of the landline. Pain and possibility hung in the air.

When he looked at me, his eyes were full of hatred.

His glare was a silent accusation. A lesser woman might have shrunk away, but I held his gaze, letting the old bitterness fill the space between us.

My hatred for him was no less than his for me.

A bitter irony—bandhan bhi tha, vishwasghaat bhi. Kismet ne hum dono ko aise uljha diya tha. If I could, I’d have flung my cup at his feet and watched the tea stain the marble.

I thought I could hide it, but seeing him brought the weight of my past crashing down.

My hands gripped my dupatta tight, nails digging into my palm. Memories flashed: my father’s noose, my mother coughing blood, the freezing water swallowing me whole.

My father was hanged, my mother died sick and exiled, my brother lost a leg, my sister-in-law ended her life to save her honour, and my nephews—one dead, one crippled.

Each memory was a shard of glass. Even now, I could hear my mother’s prayers, my brother’s wails echoing through empty corridors.

My family was destroyed, all because of Arjun.

I tasted bitterness, metallic in my mouth. The burden of my family’s fate pressed on my chest.

Hatred boiled in me, impossible to hide.

I felt it burning through my skin, a fire that would not be quenched.

Arjun was momentarily taken aback. I knew he saw through me.

A flicker of doubt crossed his face. He was clever, I’d grant him that. But he didn’t know what I knew.

But I didn’t care.

For the first time in two lives, I felt oddly free. Let him see me as I am—let him fear me, if he dares.

I said, "Neha is a servant of our Sharma family. I don’t know when the topper took a liking to her, but since a gentleman helps others fulfil their wishes, and since you wish to marry her, as her mistress, I have no reason to object."

My words were measured, my tone cool. The relatives exchanged glances—some scandalised, others curious. Aunty Radha pursed her lips but stayed silent.

I placed the paper in her hands, the ink barely dry. For a second, the world stilled—only the ticking of the old wall clock and the distant chant of a temple bell broke the silence. "You are free."

The contract shook in Neha’s hands. For a moment, she looked as if she’d collapse from relief, tears silently streaking down her cheeks. Even Sneha, nearby, dabbed her eyes with her saree.

Neha pressed my feet, tears soaking the hem of my saree, before whispering, “Dhanyavaad didi.” The room held its breath, sensing something irreversible.

Arjun’s face was a tangle of emotions. He folded his hands in thanks, as if to leave.

For a second, gratitude and suspicion flickered in his eyes. He gave a stiff namaste, then turned to go.

But I said, "Wait."

My voice rang out, freezing everyone. The old clock ticked louder. The tension hung thick, like the after-smoke of incense from aarti.