Chapter 4: Testing the Impostor

The next day.

The morning sun crept through the curtains, painting golden stripes on the marble floor. Birds sang in the neem tree outside, and somewhere, a pressure cooker whistled shrilly.

Tulsi rose early, dressed with care, and went to the study.

She chose a pale pink saree, adjusted the pleats just so, and dabbed a hint of rosewater behind her ears—just as Ma had taught me. She checked her reflection twice before gliding down the hall to find Arjun.

Arjun was already fully dressed. Seeing her, his smile deepened.

He wore a crisp kurta-pajama, his hair still damp from the bath. The scent of Old Spice mingled with the fresh perfume of jasmine flowers. His smile was gentle, warmer than usual.

After drinking adrak chai, the two went together to serve tea to Arjun’s parents.

The cups clinked softly on the silver tray as Tulsi carried them to the drawing room. The scent of ginger and cardamom filled the air, mixing with the lingering aroma of incense.

In my memory, the two elders had always treated me well.

Baba would tease me about my small hands, and Maaji would insist I take extra laddoos for the journey. Their affection was always evident—warm, generous, and sometimes overwhelming.

Especially Maaji, who could never hide her smile when she saw me.

She would pinch my cheeks, calling me “gudiya” and fussing over every detail—my hair, my saree, even my choice of bangles.

Now that we were family, the two elders were even more delighted, repeatedly instructing Arjun not to neglect “me,” wishing they could cherish “me” as their own daughter.

They kept pulling Tulsi close, blessing her, pressing rupee notes into her hand for good luck. The house was full of laughter and affectionate scolding.

Tulsi imitated my manner, softly agreeing, but her eyes secretly lingered on Arjun.

Even as she smiled at Maaji, her gaze would slide back to Arjun, her lips curving with secret delight. She was unable to hide her new infatuation.

I knew she liked Arjun.

It was obvious in the way her eyes followed him, how she tried to catch his attention at every opportunity. She glowed with anticipation whenever he entered the room.

But after just one night, her affection seemed even stronger.

It grew like a creeper on a rainy day—fast and wild, winding around every word and gesture. She was intoxicated by her new life.

She could not hide it at all.

Even the servants whispered about how the new bride could not take her eyes off her husband. The old cook grinned, shaking his head.

“Ma is right. Your son will certainly treat Riya well.”

Maaji beamed, her eyes misty with happiness. Arjun reached over, taking Tulsi’s hand in his.

Arjun took Tulsi’s hand, his fingertip gently stroking the pad of her middle finger.

The movement was subtle, but I felt a spark of hope and cried out to Arjun.

He traced the old scar there—a crescent-shaped mark that had always set my hand apart from others. My heart leapt.

“Arjun, you noticed, didn’t you? There’s a scar there—from when I was six and you accidentally hurt me. You know she’s not me, right?”

I called to him in desperation, praying he would remember the truth. My voice trembled with hope.

I was excited.

For a moment, I felt like I could breathe again, like maybe—just maybe—Arjun would expose her.

But Arjun’s expression did not change; his dark eyes were as calm as ever.

His face was unreadable, his smile gentle. He did not even glance at me.

“Does husband remember how this scar came about?”

Tulsi openly extended her right hand, palm up, revealing a small crescent-shaped scar on the pad of her middle finger.

She smiled sweetly, her eyes wide and innocent. She looked from Arjun to Maaji, inviting their attention.

I was thunderstruck.

That scar—how could she have known? My body, my memories, my everything—she had taken it all.

“Of course I remember.”

Arjun’s brows relaxed, no longer as restrained as before.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He squeezed her hand.

He gripped Tulsi’s hand tightly and vowed, “From now on, I will never let my wife be hurt again.”

His voice was low but firm, the sort of promise that carried weight in our family. Even Maaji dabbed at her eyes, overcome with emotion.

Tulsi shyly lowered her head, smiling.

She glowed with happiness, her cheeks pink with pleasure. For a moment, it seemed she had truly become the centre of the world.

But as a soul, I saw clearly—Arjun’s eyes suddenly grew cold, even more terrifying than his usual stern self.

His gaze flickered, dark and inscrutable. For an instant, his face hardened—an edge of danger beneath the surface, visible only to me.