Chapter 1: The Night That Changed Everything

Her phone had buzzed all day with WhatsApp pings from the office group: karaoke, late-night, boss’s treat. In Mumbai, that could mean anything. She’d shown me the messages with a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes, but I didn’t press further. That evening, she left in a rush, adjusting her dupatta, already bracing herself for the chaos outside.

It was one of those never-ending Mumbai nights—the city still humming, BEST buses groaning down the street, the sharp tang of vada pav in the air, and the dull glow of streetlights filtering through dusty curtains. When she finally stepped inside, shoulders drooped and eyes hollow, she paused at the threshold. She slipped off her sandals, wincing as she rubbed her aching feet, then glanced guiltily at the clock—worrying about waking the neighbours or my in-laws next door. For a moment, I wanted to ask her what happened, but the way she clutched her handbag told me not to push. That night, even the fan’s whir sounded tired.

She moved towards our bedroom in silence, her steps slow. Before collapsing on the bed, she paused by the window, clutching her dupatta, staring out at the city lights flickering across the skyline. She stood there, debating whether to wake me up or just give in to exhaustion. The loneliness wrapped around her like a second skin. Then, quietly, she lay down.

In the dead of night, she swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills and never woke up again.

Later, I sat on the edge of the bed—her side table littered with a half-empty glass of water and the discarded pill bottle. The kind of silence that seeps into your bones filled the room. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to disperse the heaviness in the air. The neighbour’s dog barked somewhere far away, but inside the flat, everything was still.

She left a suicide note under her pillow—a few short lines, quietly expressing the injustice weighing on her heart.

As I read the note, my fingers unconsciously traced the creases in the paper. Her neat but trembling handwriting carried the faintest scent of her perfume, like jasmine and sandalwood. She must have written it in the soft yellow glow of our bedside lamp, probably wiping her tears on the end of her dupatta. Even in her last moments, she was thinking not to disturb anyone’s sleep.

1

Bhaiya Rohan, I’m sorry, but I have to go first.

She still called me 'Bhaiya', the way she did back in college—an old habit that lingered even after we became husband and wife. Maybe she wanted to remind me of those simpler days, before the world crept in.

I can’t bear to face you anymore, but please remember, I will always love you.

Her words were a whisper in the dark. I could almost see her brush a strand of hair behind her ear, biting her lip as she tried to explain what she could never say out loud. In our house, love was always quiet, tucked away behind chores and shared meals.

If you can, please avenge me.

That line cut through me. In our society, people love to talk about 'izzat' and 'justice', but to hear it from her—so soft-spoken, always hesitant to even ask for more sabzi—was like thunder on a clear day. I remembered those old Hindi serials where mothers would say, 'Hamari izzat ka sawal hai!' Now, her words echoed the same depth.

The police came, the doctor examined, and everything moved at a dizzying pace. Soon, my wife was gone—laid to rest.

It all happened in a daze: the inspector in a sweat-stained khaki uniform scribbling into a torn notebook, the doctor’s cold hands checking for a pulse that wasn’t there. Aunties from the building stood in the corridor, murmuring 'Ram naam satya hai' as the body was taken out, offering sugarless chai in steel glasses. Her final journey was as quiet as her life—just a handful of relatives and neighbours, a garland of jasmine already wilting in the heat, the priest chanting mantras while the city outside moved on as if nothing had happened.

I never mentioned the suicide note to anyone.

Not to her mother, who clung to my arm and asked, 'Beta, did she say anything to you?' Not to my own father, who only nodded grimly and handed me a steel tumbler of water. Some things, in our families, are buried with the dead.

Why couldn’t my wife face me anymore? Why did she want me to avenge her?

Even as the ashes cooled in the urn, these questions twisted inside me. I knew our society well enough—knew what people would whisper, what they’d mutter over evening chai. The words 'izzat' and 'sharam' would hang in the air. But it wasn’t the neighbours I wanted answers from. It was her.

I think anyone with eyes can guess.

Neighbours started dropping hints—a sympathetic pat on the back, a steel dabba of kheer placed quietly by the door, a 'Don’t worry, beta, God sees everything' murmured in passing. In India, some truths linger in the air like the smell of fried onions: everyone knows, nobody names it.

Late-night karaoke, boss, female subordinate—these words alone paint a scene that haunts me endlessly.

No one needed to spell it out. My mind kept circling the same images, the faces blurry but the guilt and shame etched clear. The idea of her surrounded by those men, forced to laugh along, pretending to be part of the team—it made my hands clench until my nails dug into my palms.

In my wife’s WhatsApp, I quickly found the people who had invited her to karaoke that night.

Her phone was still unlocked, the screen full of unread messages, the wallpaper a photo of us from last Diwali—smiling in front of diyas. I scrolled through her chats, feeling as if I was trespassing in her world, but knowing I had no choice.

There were two: the company’s finance director, Amit Sinha, and the general manager, Kunal Verma.

Amit Sinha—his profile picture in a shiny suit at some corporate party, holding up a glass like he was the king of the world. Kunal Verma—always the one making the rounds at office get-togethers, grinning too wide, the kind of man who thought a little money made him untouchable.

That morning, someone messaged my wife’s WhatsApp.

The green notification blinked. Even after everything, life moved on. People still wanted answers, favours, or just their own satisfaction.

Finance Director Amit Sinha: 'What yaar, still on sick leave? We didn’t party that hard, no?'

The words hit me like a slap. That casual, cruel Indian-English—so familiar, so heartless. I stared at the message, bile rising in my throat. My hands shook, but I forced myself to breathe. A deep, shuddering breath—just like Amma used to tell me when I was a boy.

Suppressing my fury, hands trembling, I typed: 'Director Amit, meet me on the rooftop. Just you. Don’t tell anyone else.'

My heart hammered in my chest. I could hear the neighbours upstairs dragging chairs, the distant honk of an auto. But my world had shrunk to the little blinking cursor on the phone screen. I pressed send.

He replied almost instantly: 'Arre, I used to ask you to chat alone and you always refused. One lesson and you finally get it, huh? Wait for me, see you in half an hour.'

His arrogance dripped from every word. I could picture his smirk, the way such men always believed nobody would dare challenge them. But today, I was not afraid. My wife’s tired but proud face hovered before me. Enough was enough.