Chapter 1: The Midnight Bazaar

Lucknow at midnight was nothing like the city during Diwali or Eid, when the lanes were alive with laughter, the air thick with the syrupy scent of jalebi, and barefoot children darted through the crowds. This bazaar belonged to another world—where secrets traded hands beneath flickering lanterns, the distant call of a chaiwala echoed down alleys, and the tang of damp earth lingered after the evening rain. Somewhere in the distance, a rickshaw bell rang, its metallic echo weaving through the hush of Lucknow’s oldest alleyways.

Tonight, a stranger arrived at my stall. His request was chilling—he wanted an insect that would make a woman infertile.

Though his face was hidden behind a Ravana mask, his posture, the subtle sandalwood scent on his kurta, and the twitch of his fingers told me instantly who he was.

This man was my husband, Arjun.

My breath caught, cold as the first sip of lassi on a winter morning. Under the harsh white bulbs strung overhead, there was no mistaking the tilt of his head. Shouldn’t he be at the university, poring over books? Why had he come here, to the midnight bazaar?

Sensing my hesitation, Arjun’s shoulders sagged a little.

"Didi, kuch aisa hai... koi keeda jo bacha hone se rok de? Lekin... health ko kuch nahi hona chahiye," he muttered, crouching close, trying to sound casual but betraying a note of urgency. The mix of pleading and command in his voice twisted something inside me. Was this really him, or a nightmare I couldn’t wake from?

I managed to nod, forcing my voice to stay steady even as my heart hammered like the dhol on Ganesh Chaturthi. "Yes."

"Do you want the woman to be infertile for life, or just for a few years?"

Arjun flinched, then answered softly, "Zindagi bhar. But remember—her health must not be harmed."

His insistence sliced through my confusion, letting suspicion seep in. Why would Arjun want something so cruel? Was this for someone else? For two years, we’d been husband and wife—always honest. Was this the first time I truly didn’t know him?

The doubt pressed down on me, heavy as the air before a monsoon. For two years, we’d shared everything—small dreams, tiny fears. Yet here he was, masked, asking for something no loving man should. My hands clenched the edge of my stall, knuckles aching.

"Do you have the woman’s date and time of birth?" I asked, my mind racing.

He paused, peering at me, but my disguise powder—Dadi’s secret, smudged just so with kohl—held strong. He wouldn’t recognize me tonight.

"Why do you need that?"

"Medicine aur keede—inseparable," I lied, voice low. "Some insects are newly bred, some cultivated for years. Older ones are more powerful. I need to know the woman’s constitution—if she’s frail, the wrong insect could harm her."

He nodded, anxiety flickering in his eyes. "By no means can her body be harmed. She was born in 2002, 5th August, just turned eighteen, healthy."

My own birth date. Arjun was buying the insect for me.

A wave of dizziness hit me. The scents of tobacco, incense, frying pakoras all became sharp, unreal. My ears rang, my vision blurred at the edges, and my hands went numb. I could still remember the warmth of his hands, the sound of his laughter echoing in our tiny home, the way he’d once pressed his palm to my belly and whispered, "If only we could have a child. If it’s a son, I’ll teach him to study. If it’s a daughter, I hope she’s as clever as you."

His words echoed now, mocking me. Was I wrong about him all along?

Then he held out a sky-blue pouch, embroidered with two bamboo clusters—the one I’d stitched for him under the yellow lamp, pricking my finger and sucking away the blood before it stained. Only Arjun had such a pouch. As I touched it, my thumb grazed the bamboo leaves, and a memory flashed—the warmth of that night, his sleepy gratitude, the way he kissed my forehead and called me his lucky charm. Now, the pouch felt heavy in my hand, thick with betrayal.

"Is this enough?" He tipped two gold coins—each worth fifty thousand rupees—into my palm. Where had Arjun, always so careful with money, found a lakh to spend?

Expressionless, I took the gold and handed him a palm-sized bamboo basket. "This is the cold silkworm insect. Keep it in the coolest place. Every night at midnight, it’ll lay an egg—soak the egg in water, give her to drink for three nights. After that, burn the insect. It’s potent—once taken, a woman will never bear children. There is no cure."

The bazaar’s lights flickered, shadows dancing across Arjun’s face. My fingers trembled, but I kept my tone flat. He gripped the basket, the veins on his hand standing out—once, I’d thought those hands beautiful; now they seemed ready to strike.

Arjun left the gold and hurried away, adjusting his cloak and mask, careful not to be seen. I sat on my plastic stool, watching him go, unable to move. In the distance, a chaiwala called his last, a rickshaw bell chimed, and a stray dog barked at the moon. For the first time, I dreaded going home.