Chapter 1: News in the Lanes of Lucknow

In order to save my daughter, I tumbled from a cliff, my body battered, memory wiped clean as a slate.

The news raced through the gullies of Lucknow faster than a monsoon current. Rickshaw-walas paused mid-gossip, the samosa vendor shook his head as he passed the tidings along, and WhatsApp groups buzzed with forwarded rumours. By dusk, every tea stall and aunty circle in the mohalla had decided I was gone for good, my name added quietly to the city’s list of unspoken tragedies, retold with every sip of evening chai.

Rohan, too, believed I was lost to the world.

A year after my vanishing, he listened to the elders’ advice—'beta, zindagi rukti nahi, bachchon ko maa chahiye'—and remarried.

His new wife was my mirror in both face and manner. Even at weddings, my own relatives would mutter about the strange resemblance, exchanging knowing looks, while neighbours debated whether it was fate or just Rohan’s inability to move on.

She and Rohan lived in a courteous peace. My children clung to her, the house moving on with a practiced routine: the smell of sambar simmering in the morning, the clink of tiffin boxes, the soft scold of a maid.

When I returned, Rohan shielded his tearful wife, meeting my gaze with a face set like Lucknowi stone. His hand on her shoulder was so tight the knuckles whitened, but his eyes remained cold, unreadable.

"Priya also married me with proper rites and ceremony; there is no reason to return your position to you."

His words dropped between us, heavy as a pronouncement from some ancient dadi-amma. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding—relief mingled with regret.

After wandering in the shadows of amnesia, I too had remarried. The past now felt as distant as temple bells echoing down the lane at dusk.