Chapter 4: The Other Side of Arjun

Numbness seeped into my bones as the car wound through Lucknow’s streets. Maybe, just maybe, this was all a mistake. My Arjun was a poor student, the boy who copied notes for extra cash, who made me sweet kheer and dreamed aloud of our children.

But then it hit me—he’d passed the civil service exam. That changed everything. My mind reeled as the car stopped and a cup of chai was splashed in my face. An old matron glared at me, her face pinched and severe. "Now that you’re in the Sharma mansion, obey the rules. Speak out of turn, and you’ll regret it!"

They dragged me to a small blue palki. The Sharma mansion loomed, all carved jaali windows and peacocks on the terrace—like something from a TV serial. Inside, I was jostled from gate to gate, through a courtyard of champa flowers, finally shoved into a room.

Maids changed my clothes, painted my face with unfamiliar makeup, and set a heavy gold tikka at my parting. The jewelry felt alien, the weight of the tikka digging into my scalp, the unfamiliar powder itching my cheeks. My reflection was a stranger—hair pulled into a tight bun, lips too red, gold heavy on my skin.

Once the maids left, the carved door swung open. Arjun entered, resplendent in a sherwani, a gold brooch glinting in his hair. He looked every inch the nobleman—so different from the man I’d known.

A surge of anger and grief rose in me. I wanted to scream, but my throat was too tight. Arjun strode up and gently pulled the gold hairpin from my hair. For a moment, silence pulsed—my heartbeat loud in my ears, the faint sound of temple bells drifting through the open window.

"These things are too gaudy," he murmured. "You look best without makeup—pure and unrivalled. Meera, I didn’t mean to deceive you. I just liked you too much. Can’t you understand how I feel?"

He took my hand, pressing it to his chest. His heartbeat was strong, steady, but I felt nothing but cold dread.

"Meera, at last we can be together. I’m truly happy."

I yanked my hand away, stepping back, chin raised. "Arjun, I will not be a mistress."

He looked shocked, then sighed. "Meera, don’t be greedy. Priya’s father is Additional Secretary of Finance. Her mother’s a former MP’s daughter. Your status is worlds apart. Allowing you here is already a concession. Don’t worry—when I pass the highest exam, you’ll become a proper concubine."

I’d heard of the ranks—equal wife, senior mistress, registered mistress, maid-mistress. A maid-mistress was the lowest: a servant in name, nothing more. Why should I accept this fate just because I loved him? The bitterness in my mouth was sharper than the neem leaves Ma used to make me chew.