Chapter 5: The Besan Laddoo

That night, Arjun still did not come to Tulsi’s room, only sending a servant with a message.

The servant, a timid boy named Ramesh, shuffled in with his head bowed, delivering Arjun’s words in a low voice before scurrying away. The corridor outside echoed with the distant clatter of utensils from the kitchen.

He said a friend had invited him to the club for drinks and he couldn’t refuse. If he returned too late, smelling of whiskey, it wouldn’t be proper to disturb her, so she should rest first.

His message was polite but firm, leaving no room for argument. The club—one of those old haveli-style establishments where men gathered to play cards and discuss politics—had always been his excuse to avoid uncomfortable situations.

Tulsi twisted her dupatta, gave a few instructions, and let the servant go.

She looked disappointed, biting her lower lip and fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta. But after a moment, she composed herself, sending Ramesh off with a fake smile.

For some reason, seeing Arjun not come, my anxious heart relaxed a little.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. The thought of Tulsi and Arjun alone in the darkness made my chest ache. At least for tonight, I would not have to watch them together.

Perhaps feeling sorry for the new bride, Arjun visited Tulsi’s room the next day.

He knocked gently before entering, bringing with him the faint scent of sandalwood and the early morning sun.

“The new cook is very skilled at making sweets. You always crave these, so I had him make some.”

He placed a silver plate of sweets on the table, pushing it toward her with a little smile. The aroma of ghee and roasted besan filled the air.

He gestured to Tulsi. “Try them.”

He watched her closely, his thumb tapping the rim of his chai cup, as if waiting for something only he knew.

His tone was gentle, but there was an odd tension in the room. Tulsi’s eyes sparkled with delight as she reached for a laddoo.

I looked over and saw besan laddoos—my favourite.

I felt a sharp pang of nostalgia. I remembered sneaking into the kitchen as a child, stealing laddoos from the tin Ma kept hidden under the stove. It was a memory I thought only my family knew.

Someone as proud as Arjun had never spoken so kindly to please anyone.

He was not the type to indulge others, least of all with sweets. This gesture was out of character—strangely intimate.

I felt miserable and didn’t notice anything odd about the sweets.

My mind was lost in memories, the taste of besan laddoo on my tongue, the warmth of family gatherings, the sounds of laughter echoing in my ears.

Until Tulsi suddenly fainted, and Arjun, while no one was watching, quietly took away the sweets and summoned a doctor…

The laddoo slipped from her hand, rolling across the floor. Her body went limp, and within moments, she collapsed onto the bed. Arjun sprang into action, his face set and grim.

Only then did I realise what he had done.

A shiver ran through me as I saw him pocket the remaining sweets. His movements were swift, almost rehearsed, as he dialed the family doctor.

There were peanuts in those sweets.

My skin burning, Ma’s frantic voice calling for Baba, the doctor’s bag thumping on the table—every time, it was chaos. I remembered the first time I broke out in hives as a child—Papa’s panic, Ma’s tears, the rush to the clinic. Peanuts had always been forbidden in our house.

Inside, Arjun kept watch at Tulsi’s bedside, carefully feeding her medicine.

He propped her up on the pillows, murmuring reassurances. His hands were gentle, steady as he measured out the syrup and pressed the spoon to her lips.

Tears welled in Tulsi’s eyes as she looked at Arjun pitifully. “Husband, do you not like me?”

She sniffled, her voice quivering. Her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling. She reached for his hand, clinging as if she might drift away without his touch.

Arjun’s eyes darkened for a moment, then returned to normal. He asked in surprise, “Why would Riya say that? Did someone gossip to you?”

He frowned, his tone soft but confused, as though the idea that he didn’t like her was entirely foreign to him.

Tulsi shook her head. “If you liked me, how could you not know that I’ve been allergic to peanuts since childhood? Even a little makes me break out in hives, itching unbearably.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her voice choked with emotion. The old drama played out perfectly, just as I had done so many times before.

With that, she shed a few more tears, looking very pitiable.

Her shoulders shook, and her sobs grew louder. Even the nurse looked away, uncomfortable.

Arjun looked heartbroken, hurriedly comforting her. “It’s all my fault—I forgot to remind the cook. I’ve made Riya suffer…”

He stroked her hair, his voice thick with remorse. He promised to be more careful, swearing never to let it happen again.

Outside the room, Arjun’s expression changed to indifference as he repeatedly confirmed with the doctor.

His manner was brisk, businesslike. He grilled the doctor for details, making sure every possibility was covered.

“Are you certain my wife fainted because of a peanut allergy?”

His tone was clipped, his face shadowed. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.

“It’s so.”

The doctor nodded, confirming the diagnosis. He scribbled out a prescription, handed it over, and took his leave.

“Thank you, doctor…”

Arjun’s voice was cool, almost dismissive. He watched the doctor go, then shut the door quietly behind him.

Watching Arjun see the doctor off with a dejected look, my heart was in turmoil.

My thoughts churned like water in the Ganga during monsoon. Why was Arjun acting this way? What was he really thinking?

Arjun…

His name was a prayer, a plea. The hope I had clung to began to slip away.

Why does he keep testing Tulsi again and again?

He had always been sharp, but this was something else. It was as if he was searching for something only he could see.

Could it be he’s discovered something?

A tiny flicker of hope ignited in my chest. If anyone could unmask her, it would be him.

I couldn’t stray far from Tulsi. When my spirit was forcibly pulled back into that bead, Tulsi was already up, sitting at the mirror combing her hair, safe and sound.

She hummed a tune, her fingers working through her hair. The scarlet sindoor glowed in the parting, and she smiled at her reflection—a perfect bride, untouched by harm.

As if her earlier suffering had all been an act.

I realised how easy it was for her to slip into my skin, to mimic my pain, my joys, my fears. She played her part with eerie perfection.

Wasn’t it just an act?

The thought stung. My life—reduced to a role for someone else to play.

When I was six, I rescued her—she was nearly dried up in the scorching May sun, and I transplanted her into the courtyard.

That memory returned in flashes—the sweat on my brow, the sting of the earth under my nails as I dug a new spot for her, the satisfaction as her leaves unfurled again under my care.

According to her, she gained intelligence then.

She told me later, in her cold, measured voice, that the moment I saved her, she became something more—something almost human. I had never suspected.

It must have been then that she began silently memorising all my preferences and habits.

She watched me with unblinking eyes, absorbing every detail: how I ate, how I laughed, how I cried. Every story, every secret, every dream—I had shared it all with her.

In other words, she had planned from the start that one day she would take my place…

A shiver ran down my spine. I felt a fool, blind to her ambition, to the seeds of envy that had grown alongside her roots.