Chapter 5: The Price of Betrayal

My heart suddenly clenched. I apologised to Meera, put on my clothes, and rushed to the hospital. Before leaving, Meera suddenly grabbed me, looking worried. “I’ll go with you. Aryan needs comfort now.”

She looked scared, almost childlike, but determined to face the consequences with me. I nodded, my legs weak, as if I’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

I was so flustered that I lost all reason and brought Meera to the hospital. As soon as we arrived, Meera tried to see my wife’s body, but Aryan slapped her across the face. For a moment, the corridor fell silent, the only sound the squeak of a nurse’s shoes on the linoleum. Her thin body fell to the ground, tears welling in her eyes.

The sound of the slap echoed in the hospital corridor. Nurses stared, relatives murmured. Meera covered her face, her bangles clinking softly, the red mark already blooming on her cheek. In that moment, I saw both her strength and her fragility—how much she was willing to bear, for love.

“You witch! Mistress! How do you have the face to see my mother!”

Aryan’s shout, raw and guttural, made the old ayah nearby cross herself and look away. In our society, these words were sharper than any blade.

I didn’t dare look at my wife’s body, not even raise my head. I could only help Meera up and scold Aryan:

I caught Meera’s arm, pulling her close. My voice came out harsh, desperate to reassert control. “Aryan, enough! People are watching!”

“What are you doing! This has nothing to do with your Aunty Meera!”

Aryan looked at me, his eyes bloodshot.

He was shaking, his body rigid. The loss, the betrayal, everything—spilled out in that look. For the first time, I saw just how alone he truly was.

“Nothing to do with her? Nothing to do with her?”

“Right, it has everything to do with you! You were two-timing, you killed my mother! You! For a mistress, you killed your wife! The doctor said, if we’d arrived three minutes earlier, she could’ve been saved! That one slam on the brakes cost us ten minutes! Ten minutes! My mum is gone!”

His words echoed off the hospital walls, bouncing back at me, each syllable heavier than the last. I saw my brother-in-law glance away, ashamed for me. My hands shook, the air thick with blame.

Aryan shouted at me, tears streaming down, mouth wide open and retching, unable to make another sound. He sank to the cold tile, fists pounding his knees, the sound of his sobs mixing with the hospital’s antiseptic air.

My ears rang. For a moment, the world shrank to his words, sharp as broken glass.

On the one hand, I didn’t dare meet Aryan’s eyes; on the other, I felt my authority and dignity as a father were being challenged, so I could only say sternly:

“Bas karo na! Grown-ups’ affairs aren’t for you to judge!”

In our house, a father’s word was supposed to be final. But today, even the elders looked away, unwilling to take sides.

My voice sounded cruel even to my own ears. In that moment, the roles of father and son seemed to blur—both of us children, both of us lost.

Besides, it was hard to say it wasn’t just an accident—who could really be blamed? The doctor said three minutes, but is that really true? Maybe they just wanted to shift the blame. Even if I’d brought my wife, she probably wouldn’t have made it. That was her fate. But at least, Meera was fine. I thought this to myself and felt justified again.

I repeated these excuses in my mind, clutching them like a drowning man clutching driftwood. Maybe, I told myself, this was written in our destinies. “Kismat ka khel hai,” my mother would have said. I wanted to believe her.

After finishing my wife’s death certificate, I wanted Aryan to apologise to Meera, to regain my authority as a father. But Meera stopped me.

She touched my hand, shaking her head. “Rakesh, let it be. He’s just a child, lost his mother. I can take this much.”

“This isn’t Aryan’s fault. Don’t be angry with him.”

“For you, a little grievance doesn’t matter. I can take that slap.”

Her voice was so soft, only I could hear. She dabbed her cheek, straightened her saree, and stood tall, her dignity intact. For the first time, I saw just how much strength lay behind her gentleness.

Seeing Meera’s still red and swollen cheek, I felt very sorry for her. She was pampered since childhood, admired by all—when had she ever been wronged like this? But for me, she took a slap from a junior.

I wanted to gather her up, take her away from all this pain, but I knew I couldn’t. Not now. Not yet.

“Meera, after this is over, can you give me a chance?”

“I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you, taking care of you.”

As if possessed, I confessed my feelings to Meera. Meera also held me and sobbed uncontrollably. We embraced tightly, promising each other the rest of our lives—while my wife’s body was still warm. But there was nothing I could do—this is love.

We wept together in that cold hospital corridor, both sinners, both seeking some kind of forgiveness that perhaps only time could give. Outside, the city blared on—rickshaws, temple bells, the world refusing to pause. But inside, in the hush of our grief, I wondered if any of us would ever truly be forgiven.