CHAPTER 30
Ten Months later – London
The glass doors of the NGO ‘Sahara Foundation’ slid open at exactly nine.
“Morning, Mishti.”
“Good morning,” she replied, already walking hurriedly inside.
As the Operations and Programme Coordinator at Sahara Foundation, Mishti was the spine of the organisation.
From managing shelter allocations for homeless women and children to coordinating legal aid, hospital partnerships, and overseeing volunteers, the responsibility rested squarely on her shoulders.
Ten months ago, she had left India for good and flown straight to London after leaving behind that WhatsApp voice message and the photo album for Karan.
That had been her last contact with him.
The decision to walk away from her old life and begin again had not been an act of courage alone.
It was survival. And she didn’t have to do it on her own. Someone had helped her. Komal.
The day Komal came to meet her at the Wadhwa mansion, after Mishti learned the true reason behind Karan’s revenge, Mishti had asked her for one favour.
To help her leave Mumbai. To help her disappear, somewhere Karan wouldn’t find her easily.
Somewhere, she could start a new life, away from him, and allow him to live in peace without her presence haunting him or reminding him of their bitter, connected past.
Fortunately for her, Komal arranged everything within a week.
There was a medical conference in London, one that her hospital was attending.
A few doctors were flying in as delegates.
Komal added Mishti’s name under hospital management and quietly handled the visa process.
Mishti flew to London with the team. She sat silently at the back during the sessions, barely listening, clutching her folder like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world she was trying not to fall apart in.
During that same conference week, she applied for a temporary management role at a local hospital. Scheduling. Coordination. Paperwork. Basic work, she knew how to do. Work that did not ask questions.
And from there, the path opened slowly.
Sahara Foundation in London needed someone who understood systems, people, and real pressure. Someone who could work with women carrying stories too heavy to speak aloud.
And Mishti, having lived through that kind of pain and solitude in her own marriage and family, became the perfect fit without trying. And somewhere along the way, she began to love the work.
Now, she strode inside the building, wearing a soft grey blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers.
A camel trench coat was draped over her arm.
With her hair pulled back in a neat low ponytail, minimal makeup, and small studs in her ears, nothing about her stood out loudly, yet people moved aside instinctively to make way for her.
“Has the Riverbridge shelter sent the updated intake list?” she asked, glancing at the tablet in her hand.
“Yes,” a young coordinator replied, falling into step beside her. “Three new cases. Two women with children. One domestic violence referral.”
Mishti stopped walking.
“Have the legal aid appointments been rescheduled?”
“They are pushing it to next week, Ma’am.”
“No,” she said calmly. “Call them again. Today. These cases can’t wait a week.”
The girl nodded immediately. “I’ll handle it.”
Mishti resumed walking. Inside the main operations hall, the activity was buzzing. Social workers were at their desks. Volunteers sorting donation kits. A whiteboard was filled with timelines, locations and helpline numbers written in multiple languages.
“Mishti ma’am,” a senior field officer called out. “We have an issue with the Southall outreach. Two volunteers didn’t show up.”
Mishti turned toward him. “Who’s covering for them?”
“No one yet.”
She thought for barely a second. “Okay. Move Neha from admin for half a day. Pair her with Rukhsar.”
“Okay, Ma’am.”
She walked into her glass-partitioned cabin, placing her coat on the chair. The space was sparse. Small desk, a laptop, a small potted plant by the window, no photographs, no personal touches and definitely nothing that could connect her to her past life.
Every day here, she tried hard to push away the thoughts of back home.
Of Karan. Of her brother Daksh and Divya bhabhi.
But each day of this distance felt heavy, because she knew returning to them was not an option anymore.
Her brother hated her. Karan did too. How was she supposed to live among people who only held resentment for her?
Hence, the small life she was building here, alone, was all she had now.
The family she found in the form of the NGO was enough.
She did not know for how long, but for now, it was enough.
During the job interview here, she had told no one that she was married.
She simply said she was from India, that she had come to London looking for work and a chance to settle down.
Despite having a family, she had to lie that she was an orphan.
And perhaps because of that, no one ever questioned her past again, which worked well with her.
The days here at the NGO kept her occupied from morning till evening, leaving her no space to drift back into the life she had walked away from. And it was better that way. She smiled more now. At people, colleagues, and the children who ran through the NGO corridors with careless laughter.
A smile that said, I am fine, without inviting questions. The sadness still lived inside her. It had not disappeared, just merely been taught where it belonged. To the deep corner of her heart, she visited only at night when she was alone.
Somewhere along the way, in the last ten months, the woman who once questioned every choice she made had learned to stand firm. Pain and solitude had taught her that.
Since coming to London, a lot had changed. She had stopped wearing sarees, suits, even the mangalsutra that had once been her constant strength and hope. She had left it off deliberately, with Karan. All because she wanted no visible reminder of the woman she used to be. Wife of Karan Wadhwa.
Her lunch hours were usually quiet. She ate alone, mostly a small sandwich for lunch.
Evenings, she felt even lonelier in the small studio apartment provided by the NGO as staff quarters.
It was tucked inside a modest residential building.
But there was no one to welcome her back from work, and no one she waited to hear from.
The apartment was simple, clean, with a single bed, a compact kitchen and one window that overlooked a narrow street where city lights flickered long after sunset.
She cooked simple meals for herself. Most days, she made herself something quick and plain.
Sometimes, Indian food, when the longing became unbearable.
Who was there to cook for anyway? She was alone now, so that habit had faded months ago.
But every night, when the city finally quietened, memories found their way back in.
Of the mansion where she lived once.
Of a bedroom she had never truly shared.
Of the man whose mere thoughts still ached her heart.
But Mishti had made the painful choice, promising herself she would not falter. She had chosen solitude over humiliation. Distance over daily wounds. Silence over a love that had never been offered freely.
London had not healed her. It had only kept her intact instead of breaking. And for now, that was enough.
“Mishti?”
She blinked, pulled back into the present.
“Yes?”
“The hospital liaison call,” her colleague reminded her. “In ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there,” she said, already reaching for her notepad.
Whenever thoughts of her past bothered her, made her weak, work always came to her rescue. And she was grateful.
By noon, Mishti had chaired two meetings, approved three emergency funds, and personally handled a distressed mother who refused to speak to anyone else but Mishti, who listened.
She did not rush. She did not offer empty reassurance.
And when the woman finally left, calmer, Mishti prayed for her.
Just like she still prayed for everyone else.
That was one thing that hadn’t stopped, and it never would.
As the day moved forward, she moved with it. Assigning tasks. Approving resources. Listening more than she spoke. Work resumed, and noise filled the space again.
****************
By evening, the office began to empty. Lights switched off one by one. Outside, London glowed in muted golds and greys. But Mishti remained at her desk, reviewing reports.
When done, she finally stood, picking up her bag, switching off the light in her cabin and stepping into the corridor, where she saw the lights of her boss’s cabin glowing.
‘VK’, as everyone addressed him here, was a fifty-six-year-old Indian man who had been settled in London for decades.
He came from a wealthy legacy and owned several businesses across the city.
Nearly five years ago, he had founded this NGO and had been running it with dedication and remarkable efficiency ever since.
Before leaving the building, she decided to check on him once and walked up to his office. She knocked lightly and pushed the door open only after hearing his voice.
“Come in.”
VK was standing near his desk, reading through a file, with his glasses perched low on his nose. He looked up the moment he saw her.
“Still here?” he asked, not surprised. “You realise I like it when my staff leave work on time, right?”
Mishti smiled faintly. “I know. But someone had to make sure the shelter allocation list doesn’t collapse by morning. I was just reviewing those details.”
He chuckled. “Ah, Mishti.” He kept the file down. “You run this place better than I do.”
“That’s not true,” she said, walking in. “But I love working here. Gives me the peace I always sought.”