Chapter 9: New Roots, Old Shadows

I brought Ananya to the Mehra haveli. Radios played old filmi songs, agarbatti scented the air, and my mother’s bangles clinked as she set out a welcome tray.

Kabir was away in the capital, the house quieter but filled with my parents’ warmth and fussing. Nights were softer, pain dulled by laughter and shared memories.

Ananya, exhausted, slept early. I tucked her in, smoothing her hair, her breath finally calm.

By lamplight, I sorted through old accounts, the flame casting shadows over papers and memories. The dowry left at the Sharma house was a knotty matter; my mother’s neat lists stretched long into the night.

At dawn, I returned to the Sharma home with staff and cars. Neighbours crowded at the gates, WhatsApp groups alive with new gossip.

Openly, with head held high. There was nothing to hide now.

Priya hurried over, face pale, hands trembling as she tried to gather herself.

Our maid checked off items from the dowry list—silver, sarees, jewels—each piece a relic of my old life, now reclaimed.

Priya approached, voice quivering. "Has Didi misunderstood? Rohan hasn’t divorced you, yet you’re so eager to break ties."

I offered a tired, brittle smile. "I heard your wedding was done with all the proper rituals."

Priya blushed, looking down, fingers twisting her dupatta. "Yes."

"You are the rightful wife now. Our laws don’t allow equal wives. Once he married you, it has nothing to do with me."

She clung to my sleeve, desperate. "So Didi minds. Priya will be second wife, if Didi wishes."

The old logic of hierarchy and sacrifice lingered, even when it hurt us both.

I shook her off, my gesture final. She stumbled back, tears in her eyes, hair falling loose—a picture of helplessness.

Rohan’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, his face drawn, eyes rimmed with sleepless worry.

"I’ve looked into it. The car you came in was no ordinary car. In Kaveripur, only a man of status could own such a thing. But all such men are already married. Did you become a second wife, or..."

His meaning was clear—insulting, poisonous.

My anger flared. I grabbed the old maid’s calculator and hurled it at his shoulder. The thud echoed in the marble hall, staff and elders holding their breath.

Priya gasped, eyes burning. "He’s a government officer—how dare you!"

I pointed at Rohan, voice trembling with rage. "He slandered my reputation. What punishment is right for that?"

Arjun burst from the crowd, face set, adolescent anger burning in his eyes. He scuffed his shoe, glanced away—a flash of the boy he once was, quickly hidden.

"Was Papa wrong? If you aren’t a second wife, what else are you?"

I met his gaze, cold and unflinching. "Arjun Sharma, pair chhoo."

Sunita stepped forward, nudging him. Arjun’s body stiffened, shame and pride warring on his face. He hesitated, hands trembling, but finally bent to touch my feet—his defiance folding under the weight of old bonds.

The staff watched, breath held; Priya shrank back, Rohan’s face flushed with anger and humiliation.

My voice rang out, calm and steady. "First, I am your birth mother. Second, I am Princess of Kaveripur. You owe me both respect and loyalty."

The room held its breath as my identity, once lost, was claimed again.