Chapter 3: Chai, Shards, and Old Wounds

Rohan led me down the corridor, our footsteps echoing among the distant hiss of a pressure cooker and the muffled chatter of servants.

I paused, taking in the old painted tiles, the faded family photos, the faint whiff of jasmine from the balcony—so much unchanged, yet nothing the same.

We had been childhood sweethearts. Our families had celebrated together, neighbours teasing us since we were kids. When he proposed, he rebuilt Kaveri Bungalow to echo my parents’ home, placing my favourite tulsi plant at the entrance. But now, the gulmohar by the pond and the banyan tree were gone, and the house felt as if it was holding its breath.

Rohan explained, "Priya has asthma. She can’t be near pollen or dust."

So, the aangan was scrubbed bare, the gods shifted indoors, no flowers left to trouble her breath. Priya’s world now filled this home.

I lowered my eyes, managing a small, polite smile. "Of course, her health is most important."

A trace of bitterness pricked my tongue, but I swallowed it with the old grace drilled into me since childhood.

Rohan looked surprised, frowning. "Meera, you’ve changed a lot."

I kept my tone light. "Is that so wrong?"

He laughed, the sound awkward. "No, it’s good. I was afraid you’d be difficult with Priya. But now, I see you’ve learned to accept others."

I remembered how, during our vows, I made him promise I would be his only wife. The weight of sindoor, jasmine garlands, my mother’s tears of joy—how quickly that "forever" was erased. Four years after marriage, I was lost to the world, and the world wasted no time in moving on. The elders would have said, "What does a dead wife’s promise matter?" Yet here I was, back among the living, unsure if my return was a blessing or a curse.

So this was what he meant by "accepting others." My heart twisted at the thought.

"Rohan," I began, but he cut me off—