Chapter 1: Into the Lake

One careless step and the world turned upside down—the cold slap of lake water, Ananya’s shriek, and the stunned silence of a dozen onlookers. For a heartbeat, the only thing I felt was the lake’s icy grip, and the taste of panic on my tongue.

As the chilling water closed around us, I caught a glimpse of the mango trees lining the shore, their branches nodding in the hot Lucknow sun—a reminder that no matter how bright the day, darkness could come in an instant. My heart hammered against my chest, not just from the shock of falling, but from the sudden, terrifying knowledge that fate had pushed me here with Ananya, whose existence had always cast a shadow over my life.

My fiancé, in his panic, rushed to protect my younger sister, leaving me to crawl out of the water, drenched and dishevelled in front of everyone, my reputation for modesty in tatters.

In that moment, as I struggled with my sodden salwar kameez clinging to my body and the weight of so many eyes upon me, my cheeks burned hotter than the noonday sun. The whispering grew louder, sharp and pitying. One aunty even muttered, "Bas, ab toh izzat ka sawal hai," while another nudged her friend, eyes wide. And there, standing helplessly on the banks, I understood—sometimes, all it takes is a single moment to shatter a lifetime’s worth of careful upbringing.

Maa’s voice echoed in my mind: "Priya, hamesha dhyan rakhna, beti. Ek galti sab kuch le sakti hai." I could almost see Dadi’s stern face, her disappointment sharper than any scolding. Shame flooded me, my hands clutching at the soaked fabric as I imagined their reactions.

In that moment, I suddenly realised—even a childhood sweetheart cannot be relied upon.

The words settled in my chest, heavy as a sack of stones. The ache was not just of betrayal, but of a quiet, bitter knowledge: when the moment truly comes, even the ones you trust most may look the other way. I clenched my jaw, blinking away tears, determined not to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“Priya, can’t you restrain your stubborn temper and learn from your sister’s gentleness and obedience? That is what a wife should be.”

My father's voice rang in my ears, carrying the sternness of old values—words passed down from grandfather to father to daughter, meant to shape a woman into someone else's ideal. How many times had I heard it? Yet this time, each word felt like a slap, especially as I sat shivering on the verandah with my wet hair dripping onto Maa’s borrowed shawl, the smell of nimbu and wet earth thick in the air.

So, on the day of the wedding, I swapped bridal cars with my younger sister, fulfilling his wish.

The day arrived with the city bathed in the golden glow of marigolds and the scent of agarbatti curling into every corner. As the baraat drums thundered outside and my cousins fluttered about like excited birds, I waited in the shadow of the corridor, my heart oddly calm. I reached for Ananya’s trembling hand, feeling her pulse racing. Without a word, we exchanged veils—the shimmer of zari and silk briefly blending our destinies. As our hands brushed, her bangles jingled nervously, and for a moment, the weight of what we were doing pressed down on us both. Our secret sealed, I watched her slip away, the echo of her payal lost in the festive chaos.

But why did he come storming to my door the very next day, eyes bloodshot as if he wanted to tear someone apart?

The morning after, while the smell of leftover biryani still hung in the kitchen and relatives dozed on mattresses spread across the drawing room, Kabir thundered in. The sight of him—unshaven, eyes wild, voice breaking—sent a ripple of shock through my mother and the servants. Even the neighbour’s dog stopped barking. The storm I had longed for had finally arrived, but not in the way I’d imagined.

That day, as I dragged myself out of the lake alone, I left my childhood dreams behind in the muddy water.