Chapter 2: Punishment and Betrayal in the Pooja Room

Rohan’s voice sliced through the corridor, dripping with disgust. “Priya is so shameless. Who knows how many men she’s slept with besides me?”

I froze at the threshold, the cool marble burning beneath my bare feet. Auntie from next door peeked through the grill, eyes wide, already planning how fast she could spread this gossip. Everything went silent except the erratic drum of my heart. I remembered the boy who once fed me jalebi at the mela, who wiped sugar from my lips. Now, his words were stones, pelting my dignity for all to see.

That day—

Sunlight poured through the half-open window, but the room felt cold, winter settling inside our walls. The aroma of filter coffee and the clatter of utensils from breakfast felt like a distant memory. How quickly happiness curdled.

He had clearly known. He knew I was still innocent.

His eyes, once playful, had turned hard and calculating. He’d always tested my shyness—now I saw it was just a search for weakness.

Inside the study, Papa’s face was dark as thunderclouds. The walls, lined with faded photos and trophies, closed in. Papa’s glasses slid down his nose; his hands trembled as he tried to collect himself. That pink bra—a woman’s most private thing—lay like an accusation, a wound on Papa’s honour. I wanted to vanish, to dissolve like camphor after aarti.

Despite everything, Papa said, “The engagement is already set…” His voice was brittle, each word forced through clenched teeth. I saw the battle in his eyes: tradition versus his daughter’s ruined future.

Rohan laughed coldly. “Main engagement nahi tod sakta. Bas, Chacha ji ki doosri biwi ki beti ko legitimate kar dijiye, usse shaadi kar loonga.”

His words cut deeper than any slap. In our world, legitimacy is everything. Aunties gasped, Uncle Sharma’s cup rattled, servants exchanged worried glances behind the curtains. Papa was stunned, at a loss for words—a rare thing. The vein in his temple throbbed, his mind racing to protect our name.

I gripped my sari, breath caught in my throat. Yesterday, I was a bride-to-be. Today, I was discarded, like an old saree after Holi. The truth stung like red chilli in an open wound. All the secret smiles, childhood promises—they meant nothing. I had been a pawn.

I remembered that absurd night: Rohan’s arms around me, the lamplight, the sound of a distant train, his breath warm against my skin. I believed he loved me. “Priya, I am truly so happy…” he’d whispered, his fingers brushing my cheek. But his happiness was never about me—it was about winning, manipulating, getting what he wanted.

Now his plan had succeeded. He could finally have Meera. My fists curled as anger and shame burned in my chest. He spoke of Meera as “talented and gentle, far more suited to be the main wife than Priya.” He sounded as if I were a defective piece of furniture. Elders nodded as if this was business, and I was an item for exchange.

Papa’s shoulders slumped. “Very well, I promise you.” His eyes lost their spark, his voice was hollow. My fate was sealed by nods and agreements. My voice was never sought.

My heart plunged into an abyss. The spring sunlight was warm, but my feet were ice. I wrapped my dupatta tighter, trying to stop my trembling. I ran from the room, my anklets jingling, searching for a corner where I could break down, far from the eyes that measured my worth by my purity.

Rohan’s words—each one a slow, torturous knife—shattered my dignity completely. The shield of my girlhood was gone. I glanced at the ceiling fan, wondering if I should end it all. The old fan whirred, filling the silence. For a moment, I thought about leaving this world quietly, to spare Papa further shame. But I had no face left to see Maa.

How could I face her portrait, garlanded and glowing in the pooja room, after disgracing everything she’d taught me? I pressed my forehead to the cold marble, longing for her gentle touch, wishing for even a single word of comfort from Papa.

I squeezed myself between Maa’s old sarees, letting their familiar scent of sandalwood and mothballs comfort me as I muffled my sobs. I clung to her blue sari, my body shaking. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t make sense of Rohan’s betrayal. I replayed every moment, searching for my fault.

We had shared mangoes in summer, kites on Makar Sankranti, secrets under the banyan tree. At the engagement, surrounded by marigolds, he’d looked at me with mischief. “Priya, I can finally marry you,” he’d said. I clung to those words, believing love would see us through. Now I realised he’d been acting all along.

His love was a mask, hiding a heart cold as stone. I sobbed until my tears ran dry. Papa came once, footsteps heavy outside my door, pausing—then walking away. The silence between us screamed.

He led me to the pooja room for punishment. I knelt on the hard marble, marigold petals sticking to my knees. I pressed my palms together, bowing my head before Maa’s photo. The diya flickered, shadows dancing on the wall. My forehead pressed to the cold stone, I remembered Maa’s gentle caress, the scent of her sari, and wished desperately for her comfort.

Just as I was about to faint from kneeling, sounds of intimacy drifted from outside. At first, I thought I imagined it. But the voices grew clearer—Meera’s shy laughter, Rohan’s gentle words. Through the half-open door, I saw him holding Meera close, his hands caressing her hair. He kissed her with tenderness I had never known. Meera reached to untie his kurta, but he stopped her: “Meera, shaadi ke baad hi.”

For her, he waited. For her, he was gentle. My pain was nothing. I clung to the edge of the pooja mat, my knuckles white. Tears I thought had dried fell again, wetting the marigold petals. I closed my eyes and looked at Maa’s photo.

“Maa, your daughter has been so foolish and has shamed you.” My voice trembled. I pressed my forehead to the marble, begging for forgiveness. “Your daughter will never love Rohan again.”

For the first time, I heard my own voice echo back at me—clear, unafraid. And in that silence, something inside me finally broke free.