Chapter 4: The Chai Incident

Before I could finish, a figure appeared at the end of the corridor. Priya, her dupatta covering her mouth, leaned against the doorframe. The faint scent of eucalyptus oil floated in the air—her medicine for asthma, I remembered from Sunita’s stories.

She coughed softly, eyes flickering nervously between us, uncertain if she was trespassing on something sacred.

"Has Didi Meera returned?"

Rohan hurried to her, taking the shawl from the maid and draping it over her shoulders with careful, almost anxious tenderness.

I hesitated, then followed out of duty, the old rules of family pressing down on me. Whatever had passed, she had raised my children; gratitude was owed.

Her resemblance to me was uncanny—arched brows, almond eyes, but softer, the edges rounded by innocence. She smiled shyly, her lips quivering.

As I approached, she bowed her head, the gesture awkward, uncertain of her place in this tangled household.

The maid beside her held a steel tray bearing two steaming cups of chai. The aroma mingled with the evening air, a comfort just beyond reach.

Priya picked up a cup for me, her hands visibly trembling. The steel tray wobbled, drawing a sharp look from Sunita.

She stammered, "Offering chai to Didi."

I did not accept, my tone gentle. "No need for such formalities. You’re the lady of this house now."

Priya’s eyes glistened, unshed tears gathering. The tray shook harder, the cup slipped, and chai splattered across the floor, porcelain shattering with a slap-like crack.

Hot tea scalded her hand. She jerked back, hiding it in her dupatta, lashes trembling in distress. "Didi won’t accept because she resents me for taking her place?"

Rohan rushed to her, concern flashing in his eyes before he masked it with a stern look. "Bring cold water!" he barked to the servants.

He turned on me, eyes burning. For a moment, the old Rohan surfaced—protective, sharp-edged.

"I never thought you’d become so petty. Bahut ghoom liya na tumne? Zindagi ki saari chaalein seekh aayi hogi ab tak."

Each word stung like red chilli on an open wound. My hands shook; I pressed my saree pallu between my fingers to keep them steady.

I met his glare, cold. "I didn’t spill that chai."

Sunita, uncertain, offered me the second cup. I took it and, with deliberate calm, flung it at Rohan. Chai splattered across his kurta, the stain blooming like a wound.

"Yahi hai asli soch. Rohan, zubaan sambhalo."

He shielded Priya and turned away, but his kurta bore the evidence. His eyes iced over. "You’re impossible."

He led Priya inside, leaving me alone in the corridor, the door’s slam sealing me out of my own history.

Somewhere behind me, a servant muttered, "Ram bharose, what will become of this family now?"