Chapter 1: The Bride in the Shadows

When I was eighteen, I caught my sister Priya lifting Rohan’s shirt and tracing her fingers over his abs!

Even now, the memory makes me cringe—Priya was always fearless, never bothered that I might walk in any moment. She giggled, so sure of herself, while he just let her, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Their easy laughter filled the air, and all I could hear above the whirr of the ceiling fan and the distant honking from Linking Road was the strange flutter in my chest at seeing them together.

Rohan’s shirt was always loose, making it easy for Priya to do as she pleased.

It wasn’t the first time Priya had taken what she wanted, moving with that typical Mumbai confidence. Rohan—calm, self-assured, always letting her have the last word—never objected to her games. Sometimes, I’d watch them from afar, quietly wondering if I belonged anywhere in that scene.

But at twenty-two, Rohan listened to his elders and married me instead.

Our wedding was a spectacle: gold, jasmine, a thousand guests crowding the hall. Aunties in kanjeevaram sarees, uncles comparing gold prices, children darting about with laddoos. Still, I felt the weight of Rohan’s silence beside me, as if our garlands were shackles, not flowers. People blessed us, but I knew whose face he searched for in the crowd.

But everyone knew—even after marriage, he couldn’t forget his passionate love for my sister.

The whispers chased me everywhere—at home, in family gatherings, even at the local store, where a neighbourhood auntie would lower her voice and ask, “Beta, sab thik hai na?” with too much meaning. No matter how hard I tried to be the perfect wife, his heart was never really mine. It stung, but what could I do? In our society, sometimes a bride is just a stand-in for someone else’s story.

Later, I asked for a divorce.

My hands shook as I held the papers, the pressure cooker whistling from the kitchen. Even the pen felt heavier than usual. Amma’s face flashed before me—her disappointment, the certainty that people would talk. But what was left for me here?

He was silent for a long time before signing the divorce papers.

The silence stretched until the hands on the wall clock seemed frozen. Faint music drifted in from the living room—an old Lata Mangeshkar song, sad and achingly familiar. When he finally signed, something broke inside me—a flood of relief and grief washing together.

“If you ever need anything in the future, just ask.”

He spoke softly, with that old-school dignity Mumbai boys sometimes have, even while breaking a heart. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—what could I ever need from him now?

At twenty-eight, I returned to attend Rohan and Priya’s wedding.

I stepped into the Mehra bungalow with a new sort of poise, draped in a pastel saree, pearls at my ears, chin up. The hum of gossip followed me from the gate to the drawing room. I could practically hear WhatsApp pings as I entered, holding my head high, pretending not to notice the sideways glances.

He shot a dark, unreadable look at the man standing beside me.

For a moment, I felt a strange thrill—as if I was no longer invisible, as if the tables had turned. His gaze lingered, sharp and questioning, on Kabir, who stood quietly by my side, shoulders squared, eyes steady. The tension thickened, even the family portraits on the wall seemed to watch us.

Back then, he’d been so eager to divorce me—now it was clear, it was always for her.

It was a bitter truth, but seeing them together now, it all made sense. The puzzle pieces of my past finally fit—painful, but for the first time, I knew where I stood—even if it meant standing alone.