Chapter 3: The New Bride

After drinking the wedding milk, Arjun spoke gently: “You must be tired, na? It’s been such a long day.”

He took the steel tumbler from her hand, his fingers brushing hers lightly. The malai clung to the rim, and for a moment, the room was filled only with the faint gurgle of the ceiling fan.

He began to help Tulsi remove her heavy bridal jewellery. “Take it off first, or your neck will get sore.”

His fingers, careful and skilled, moved along the curve of her neck, undoing the mangalsutra, the heavy gold necklace, the jhumkas. The sound of metal clicking against metal was oddly comforting.

His voice was tender, his eyes smiling.

There was a warmth there I had never seen—a softness that seemed out of place on Arjun’s usually severe face. His lips curved gently, and the lines at the corners of his eyes softened.

I had never seen this side of Arjun.

It was as if a different man had entered the room—a husband from a dream, not the stern boy I’d known all my life. Even his hands trembled slightly, betraying some nervousness.

Tulsi was delighted, obediently letting him do as he wished, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him.

Her eyes followed his every movement, worshipful. She laughed at his smallest joke, her cheeks dimpled with happiness, her manner so natural it almost fooled even me. She seemed to glow in the lamplight, every gesture brimming with newfound confidence.

“Weren’t you always afraid of me before?” Arjun glanced at her, his tone mild.

He said it almost teasingly, as if recalling an old, private joke. His eyes lingered on her face, searching for something—perhaps a sign of the girl he once knew.

“That was when I was little,” Tulsi replied softly. “Now you’re mera pati. How can I be darpok in front of you?”

Her words were gentle, her voice sweet as rasgulla syrup. She reached out, almost shyly, and touched his hand, her bangles chiming like temple bells in the silence.

Arjun said nothing more, his gaze lingering on Tulsi.

For a moment, his eyes seemed to pass through her, landing on me.

I tensed instinctively.

I felt exposed, as if he could somehow sense my presence hovering near the foot of the bed. I willed myself to stay hidden, my form flickering like the flame of the diya.

But I quickly remembered: now I was just a wisp of a soul—he could not see me at all.

I drifted closer, desperate to catch any clue that he suspected the truth. But his face remained unreadable, a mask of calm.

“The necklace you’re wearing looks familiar.”

Arjun’s eyes lingered on the gold chain with the bead—my bead. He ran his thumb along it, his brow furrowing just a little.

Tulsi reached up, touching it with a look of happiness. “This was given to me by my husband on my eighteenth birthday. But on the eve of our wedding, a maid broke it by accident and one bead was lost. This one was added in its place. Husband, you won’t blame me, will you?”

She gave him a pleading look, her voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. She clutched the chain with both hands, pressing it to her heart. The gold glinted in the lamplight, hiding its secret.

Arjun narrowed his eyes, but did not pursue the matter.

His gaze lingered on the necklace for a moment longer before he relaxed. He nodded slightly, as if dismissing the thought, though a shadow flickered across his face.

They chatted a bit more—mostly Tulsi speaking, Arjun listening.

Tulsi recounted stories of the wedding, giggling over Maaji’s tears and Bhaiya’s awkward toast. She asked about his favourite foods, the things he missed most from childhood, laughing at his dry jokes. Arjun responded in monosyllables, his eyes growing heavier with each passing minute.

He replied occasionally, perhaps a little tipsy, less interested than usual.

His answers came slow, his words slurred at times. I watched him, noting the flush in his cheeks. Tulsi poured him water, her hand steady, her smile never faltering.

When the moon was high, Tulsi suddenly blew out the diya.

The room plunged into darkness, save for the faint glow from the streetlight outside filtering through the curtains. The world seemed to hold its breath.

In the darkness, I heard the rustle of clothing as Tulsi embraced Arjun.

Her saree swished softly, the pallu brushing against the bedsheet. Her arms slid around his neck, her body pressing close.

I heard her, using my voice, whisper softly: “Husband, I’m so cold. Can you warm me?”

Her words floated in the air, trembling with need. I felt a pang of loss—my own voice, my own longing, now turned into someone else’s game.

Soft skin, warm scent, red diya, cosy bed—what would happen next was obvious.

Even the house seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the first stirrings of passion, for the new bride to be claimed by her husband.

But Arjun refused her.

He disentangled himself gently, his touch respectful. He tucked the pallu over her shoulder and moved to the edge of the bed, keeping a polite distance.

“I’ve had too much to drink tonight and am quite drunk. If we consummate, it might not be fair to you. Let’s rest early tonight.”

His voice was soft, but there was a finality to it—a firmness I recognised from years of knowing him. He lay back, his breathing slow and steady, as if forcing sleep.

Though he refused, his voice was gentle, as if afraid she might feel hurt.

He even reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, murmuring, “Don’t worry, tomorrow will be better.” It was the first time I’d ever heard him sound so considerate.

I didn’t know why, but my heart felt stifled.

A heavy ache settled in my chest, an old pain made new. Was it jealousy, loss, or something deeper? The sound of the ceiling fan suddenly seemed unbearably loud.

Was it for my own death, or for Arjun’s attitude? I couldn’t say.

Perhaps it was both—the finality of my erasure, and the strange new tenderness Arjun was showing this impostor.

As soon as Arjun left, Tulsi’s expression changed.

Her smile widened, turning sly. She traced the outline of the bead on her necklace, her eyes gleaming in the faint light. A triumphant little giggle escaped her lips.

She smiled innocently, stroking the round bead containing my eyeball. “You always said Arjun was fierce, a terror, but he’s so gentle with me. Looks like he really likes me.”

She twisted the chain thoughtfully, her tone smug. “You were wrong, Riya. He’s not a monster. Maybe you never understood him.”

“You were always so timid—how could he like you?”

She said it with a sneer, her voice laced with pity. “Always hiding behind Papa’s kurta, always afraid. No wonder you could never win his heart.”

“It’s wonderful to be human. From now on, Papa, Ma, Bhaiya, and even my husband will all love me.”

She spun around the room, arms wide, inhaling the fragrance of flowers and incense, her face glowing with pure delight. “This is my life now, not yours.”

I looked at her radiant smile, my heart aching with bitterness.

It was like looking at my own reflection twisted into something unrecognisable. I wanted to scream, to break the mirror, but I was powerless.

Yes, she was a spirit, and no one could see through her disguise.

I watched helplessly as she settled into my bed, her hair spread across my pillow, her hands folded neatly over her heart. It was as if I had never existed.

She would live in my place.

And I would vanish without a trace.

My voice, my laughter, my scent on the pillow—everything would fade, replaced by her.

But I was not resigned.

I clenched the memory of my family, my love, around me like a shawl. I would not go quietly.

I thought, after all, she was not me.

No matter how perfect her imitation, she could never truly be Riya Sharma. My family would know me—somehow, I believed that.

Papa, Ma, Bhaiya… surely one of them would notice?

My heart clung to this hope, like a child clutching the edge of a dupatta. Someone, I thought, would see through her.