Chapter 5: New Patterns

After that day, I rarely went out, staying at home peacefully, embroidering my wedding lehenga.

I stitched tiny mirrors into the border, each one catching the sunlight—each one a small shard of hope. Each stitch was a small act of defiance, a reclaiming of my own story. I sat by the window, watching the world bustle by—the milkman, the postman, the paper boy, all moving to their own rhythms. The sound of the Hawkins pressure cooker whistling in the kitchen, Mummy’s bhajans playing on the radio, and the distant laughter of children in the lane—all became the backdrop to my healing.

For a hundred years, marriages between respected families have never ceased. The current matriarch of the Sinha family of Patna is my paternal aunt. Though she is a second wife, after many years of managing the household, her prestige in the clan is considerable, and she also gets along well with the legitimate son born of the first wife. If I marry there, it is a close family tie—I will not suffer from my mother-in-law’s difficulties, and it will bring the Sinha and Chaturvedi families closer together. All benefit, no harm.

In my mind, I ran through the family tree, recalling stories my father used to tell of alliances made and broken. I knew my place, my responsibilities. My new life would not be a punishment, but a new beginning—one that I could shape for myself.

The days passed like this.

Time slipped by quietly, measured by the steady progress of my embroidery, the shifting light on my bedroom wall, the rustle of silk and zari between my fingers.

I saw Arjun and Meera again at the poetry gathering hosted by Lady Malhotra. The news that the heir of the Sharma house would marry his mentor’s daughter as a second wife had already spread throughout Mumbai half a month ago. Meera attended today as Arjun’s fiancée. Her every gesture radiated the air of a young madam of the Sharma bungalow. The two stood together, and anyone would praise them as a perfect couple.

Outside, the monsoon clouds gathered, but inside Lady Malhotra’s bungalow, the air was thick with mogra and sandalwood. The drawing room was filled with the scent of mogra and sandalwood, the clink of china, the low hum of conversation. Meera was dressed in the latest Benarasi, her hands adorned with gold. She smiled at everyone, floating from group to group with practiced ease. Arjun trailed beside her, distant but dutiful. I could hear the whispers—‘Sharma parivaar ki izzat ka sawal hai, after all.’ The gossip flowed like chai at every table.

But for some reason, Arjun did not look happy. His lips were pressed tight, his gaze falling on me from time to time. I avoided his eyes, following behind my mother as she exchanged pleasantries with Lady Malhotra.

I felt his stare, heavy and insistent, but I refused to meet it. My mother chatted with Lady Malhotra about politics, the rising price of onions, the latest dance performance at NCPA. I kept my face serene, my heart protected by a shield of indifference.

Lady Malhotra is the current Chief Minister’s younger sister. In her youth, she was called the foremost talented woman in Mumbai. After her marriage, she became even more free-spirited, often hosting poetry gatherings, making friends through verse, and enjoying elegant pursuits.

Her home was a living museum—walls lined with rare books, the air thick with the promise of art and intellect. She greeted my mother with a hug, her voice warm and inviting. I admired her poise, the ease with which she commanded the room.

I heard her tell my mother that the prize for this poetry gathering was the original copy of Grandmaster Anand’s ‘Chess Manual,’ with his personal commentary. I have loved chess since childhood, and though I had only come to relax today, upon hearing this, I grew excited. Unfortunately, in the end, I lost by a single move to Sneha. She took the trophy, grinning as she flashed it in my direction. As Sneha hugged me, I heard my phone buzz—a new message from an unknown number. I almost didn’t dare open it.