CHAPTER 10
Wadhwa Mansion
Maria was relieved when Mishti finally returned home that afternoon. She bustled out of the kitchen, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw her ma’am walk in. “You’re back!” she exclaimed, taking the small overnight bag from Mishti’s hand. “How was the party? How did Sir react seeing you there?”
Mishti forced a small smile. “It was… fine.”
She didn’t have the strength to recount what had happened, especially the moments in the bedroom that still burned in her memory. Maria saw the turmoil flickering in her eyes even though Mishti tried to mask it with polite smile, and decided not to pry further.
***************
The mansion felt emptier that night. Karan hadn’t returned home since leaving early morning from Lonavala. When Maria had texted him to ask about dinner, at Mishti’s insistence, his reply had been curt: I’ll be home past midnight.
Mishti had eaten quietly with Maria sitting beside her at the dining table, giving her company.
Post dinner, she tried distracting herself with a fashion magazine in the living room, though her eyes kept drifting toward the clock every few minutes.
It was well past midnight when she finally heard the familiar growl of his car engine outside.
Within moments, Karan entered. His navy suit clung perfectly to him, his tie still in place. He looked as though he could still walk straight into another board meeting without missing a beat. Even exhaustion dared not to touch him.
Despite knowing she was there, he didn’t spare her a glance and brushed past her, heading straight for the staircase.
“Karan,” she called softly, rising to her feet. He didn’t respond.
“We need to talk,” she said, following him up the stairs. Still no response. He walked into his bedroom, and she entered behind him.
To her surprise, he didn’t tell her to get out this time. He removed his watch, set his phone on the table, and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.
“Where did you sleep last night?” Mishti finally asked what had been haunting her throughout.
He froze for a micro second but didn’t look up. “In Kanika’s room,” he said flatly.
Her throat tightened at his reply. In Kanika’s room? How can he? What was it supposed to mean?
“In… Kanika’s room,” she repeated softly, as if saying it aloud would make her believe it. Karan smirked faintly at her expression, clearly pleased by the flicker of hurt that crossed her face.
“Does Rajat know?” she whispered, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
Now Karan froze mid-motion. His head tilted slightly toward her this time. “What?”
“Does Rajat know,” she repeated, “that his best friend is sleeping with his sister…despite being married to someone else?”
That did it.
Karan turned sharply, crossing the space between them in two long strides. Before she could step back, his hand gripped her upper arms, and pressed her against the wall behind, pinning her there. His face was inches from hers.
“Kanika and I are adults,” he said coldly. “We don’t need anyone’s permission. Not Rajat’s. Not yours.”
The venom in his tone stung, but she didn’t cower this time. When Karan turned to leave, she reached out and caught his shoulder.
Karan didn’t turn back. He just stood there, rigid.
“So what is this then?” she asked quietly. “This marriage of ours? An open marriage? Where you can sleep with someone else and proudly confess it to my face?”
When he spun around, he saw her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but there was fire in them…the kind that burned through pain.
“Last night at the party, you told your friends you don’t like sharing what’s yours,” she continued. “And yet, you’re sharing what’s mine with someone else. So, tell me, Mr Karan Wadhwa, do I get that liberty too? To sleep with someone else when I’m married to you?”
The fury that flashed in his eyes could have lit the entire mansion. His hand slammed into the wall beside her head, not to hurt her, but out of sheer, uncontrollable rage. It definitely hurt him, but not more than her words.
“You even look at another man, Mishti, and see what happens. I dare you.”
That was her breaking point. She straightened her spine, meeting his glare without flinching. “Fine. Then next time when you look at Kanika,” she shot back, “remember that too.”
Before he could react, she shoved him hard enough to make him step back, then turned on her heel and walked out.
Karan stood frozen for a moment, his chest rising and falling with fury. Had she challenged him? Mishti, the woman he’d assumed was quiet, naive, and submissive, had just thrown his own words back at him?
He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering a curse under his breath.
He’d known she was soft-spoken, gentle, easily hurt.
But this fierce side of her, the one that dared to stand up to him, was something he hadn’t even dreamt about.
As if just having the tag of a ‘wife’ had suddenly upgraded her fighting spirit.
***************
Wadhwa Mansion – Next morning
The next morning, Mishti knelt before the idol in the temple room, offering flowers and chanting soft hymns.
Ever since that Teej day, when she had dared to open this room against Karan’s clear orders, she had expected him to lock it again. But to her surprise, he hadn’t. Perhaps, unknowingly, he had allowed her to continue her prayers here.
He never stepped into the room, though, never even looked at it. Mishti wondered why he despised God so much. What had broken his faith so deeply that he’d shut God’s very presence out of his home? She still didn’t know.
Finishing her prayer, she rose, adjusting her dupatta, and turned to leave when her gaze once again fell on the small wooden cupboard tucked in the corner of the room.
It had always caught her attention during her morning pujas, and curiosity lingered in her mind to know what it held.
But each time, something or the other distracted her — a servant’s call, a chore, or simply the thought that it wasn’t her place to meddle. Today, however, the pull was stronger.
Giving in to her curiosity, Mishti knelt and opened it gently. Inside were stacks of old holy books, their pages yellowed but still sacred. She began arranging them properly when something slid out and fell to the floor with a faint thud.
A diary.
It was thin and worn out, the leather cover had faded, and dust clung to the edges.
Mishti picked it up carefully, brushing it clean.
It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.
As she opened it, her eyes softened. There were photographs glued to the pages, each one captioned with neat handwriting.
The very first picture made her heart melt.
A baby boy, splashing in a tiny bathtub, laughing without a care in the world. Those eyes were the same dark eyes she saw every day.
Karan’s!
A small smile broke on her lips as she read the caption written beneath it in blue ink:
“My Chiku.”
Her smile widened. So his nickname was Chiku? How cute.
Smiling to herself, she turned the next page carefully, afraid the fragile paper might tear. More pictures followed of Karan, growing older with each page.
“10th December 1994 – Chiku’s first toy.”
“16th May 1995 – Chiku’s first step.”
“5th July 1995 – Chiku called me ‘Maa’ for the first time.”
Her eyes lingered on the next picture, where little Karan kissed a woman’s cheek as she laughed, her joy practically glowing through the faded photo. She realised that must be his mother.
She turned another page, eager to see more.
“22nd August 1995 – Chiku’s first birthday! Mala and I are baking his cake together!”
Mishti blinked as she saw another woman in the picture, standing beside Karan’s mother, both smiling as they baked a cake. She was almost around Karan’s mother’s age.
Curiosity deepened as she flipped further. Another photo of Karan’s mother, again, this time with the same woman, Mala, both holding two little boys in their arms.
“19th July 1997 – Mala and I with Chiku and Abhimanyu.”
Abhimanyu?
Mishti frowned slightly. Who was he? She had never heard that name in this house.
She kept turning the pages, lost in the small, handwritten moments of Karan’s world, long before bitterness had built its walls. She finally saw his father’s photos, too. The following photos showed Karan between his parents, the three of them laughing, hugging, like a picture-perfect family.
Her throat tightened as tears welled in her eyes. Karan did have a sweet childhood. His parents loved him. So what had gone so wrong that he now lived like a man with no heart, no faith, and no peace? Had their deaths destroyed him that deeply?
She looked around the quiet temple again. Maybe that’s why he’d locked this place, because faith reminded him of what he’d lost.
A sudden thought bloomed in her mind. What if she could frame these photos? Restore them, maybe even surprise him someday. Perhaps it could be the first small step toward reaching his heart.
Maybe he wouldn’t say it aloud, but he’d feel it.
Carefully, she closed the fragile diary, holding it against her chest and walked toward her room.
She’d keep it safe, and someday, when the time was right, she’d show it to him. Even if Karan had forgotten the warmth of love, Mishti believed that somewhere deep down, a part of that little boy named Chiku still lived within him.
***************
Same Evening
Mishti was in the kitchen, flipping the golden puris in the kadhai when a familiar teasing voice came from the doorway.
“So this is what my patient does in her free time, ignoring all her health follow-ups,” Dr Komal said, leaning against the frame with a playful smile.
Mishti was surprised to see her here.
“Komal? What are you doing here?”
“You missed your appointment twice this week, dear. I had no choice but to come check on you myself.”