Chapter 1: The Sunehra Bag

For three years, Arjun Malhotra was just Arjun to me—faded jeans, crumpled kurta, a battered bike. Only after the pheras did I learn he was a Malhotra—the kind who owns half of Lajpat Nagar. That revelation didn’t just change my address; it changed the way the world looked at me.

Back then, Arjun would roll up on his noisy bike, hair a mess, jeans washed thin with time, kurta untucked. Nothing about him said ‘Malhotra’. I’d never have guessed his family’s name could open every door in South Delhi. But after the truth came out, my life was never the same.

From the very start, Arjun’s friends whispered that I was after his money. Their sly jokes and sideways glances followed me everywhere, like the trailing pallu of a saree at a crowded party.

Their suspicions chased me through every gathering—echoing off marble floors at his parents’ farmhouse, blending with the aroma of elaichi chai. The aunties of Delhi, with their sharp eyes and sharper tongues, sized me up as if my worth could be measured in family trees.

And what hurt the most was that Arjun actually believed them.

His silence after those accusations was louder than any fight. I could almost hear Ma’s voice, “Beti, shaadi ke baad sab kuch badal jaata hai.”

Once we married, Arjun forbade me from working, handing me exactly ₹10,000 a month—never a rupee more, never less.

On the first of every month, he’d place a crisp envelope on my bedside table, as if I were a college kid getting pocket money instead of his wife. It stung every time.

He’d say it was enough. Maybe it was enough for groceries and the odd kurti from Sarojini, but not for Sunehra bags or the dreams I carried from my old life.

Outwardly, it seemed like plenty. I still went shopping, sometimes even treating myself to a luxury moisturizer or a designer knockoff.

Every day, as I left for the market, the house help would watch with keen eyes—Sunita’s eyes lingered on the Sunehra bag, her bangles paused mid-jingle. I could almost hear her silent judgment: "Madam toh badi paise waali lagti hain."

It wasn’t long before Arjun’s suspicions grew sharper. He started asking questions, watching my every move.

I looked at him, all innocence. "Aap hi toh dete ho mujhe har mahine. Aur kisne dega?"

I made sure to widen my eyes, channeling every saas-bahu heroine I’d ever watched, pretending I was clueless.

He was furious. "I only give you ₹10,000 a month—what can you possibly buy with that?"

So he did know. ₹10,000 was barely enough for rations, let alone the Sunehra bag on my arm.

But none of that mattered. He still handed me that same envelope each month.

His so-called friends? Each of them quietly sent me a lakh every month.

The irony was too delicious—duniya ka kya hai, yaar, log toh bolte rehte hain. Even I never thought Arjun’s friends would prove more generous than he ever could be.