Gauri returned to the bungalow before sunrise.

She had walked the entire path back in the dark — barefoot, dupatta clutched tight, eyes burning from dried tears. The servant quarters were still asleep when she slipped inside her small room. She changed into her grey salwar kameez, tied her hair back, washed her face with cold water, and began the day's work like nothing had happened.

But everything had.

Breakfast service.

She carried trays, poured tea, placed plates. When she reached Vikrant at the head of the table, her hand shook slightly. The gold chain with the tiny 'V' pendant pressed against her collarbone — a cruel reminder. He didn't look up. Didn't say thank you. Didn't even pause. Just took the cup and continued talking to his father about some business deal.

Gauri felt the indifference like a fresh cut.

She moved on.

Lunch.

Same thing.

She served silently. He ate without a glance. No brush of fingers. No lingering look. Nothing.

Every time she passed him, she waited — stupidly, painfully — for something. A word. A nod. A sign that last night meant anything to him.

Nothing came.

Her phone stayed silent all morning.

No message.

No call.

She told herself she didn't care.

She lied.

Afternoon arrived.

The cramps worsened — sharp, twisting, making her vision blur. She couldn't stand straight anymore. She approached Mrs. Chauhan in the drawing room — head bowed, voice small.

"Ma'am... may I take rest today? The pain is very bad."

Mrs. Chauhan looked up from her book, eyes flicking over Gauri's pale face, the slight hunch, the hand pressed to her stomach.

"Of course, beta," she said gently. "Go lie down. No need to come back today."

Gauri nodded — grateful, relieved.

"Thank you, Ma'am."

She returned to her cot.

Swallowed two painkillers with water from the steel tumbler.

Curled into a ball under the thin blanket.

Closed her eyes.

Sleep came fast — heavy, dreamless, drugged.

She didn't hear the messages.

Didn't feel the phone vibrate once, twice, three times, four times under her pillow.

Didn't see the screen light up with his name.

Vikrant.

Dinner time.

The family sat at the table — laughter, clinking spoons, casual talk about the upcoming wedding season.

Vikrant sat at the head — face blank, fork moving mechanically.

He noticed Gauri wasn't serving.

Again.

His grip tightened on the fork.

After dinner, he went to his study room.

Locked the door.

Sat behind the desk.

Pulled out his phone.

Typed message after message — all sent.

Study room. Now.

Come here.

Gauri.

Answer me.

No ticks.

No reply.

He stared at the screen — jaw clenched, breathing short.

Dialed her number.

Rang.

Rang.

Rang.

Voicemail.

He ended it.

Dialed again.

Same.

His hand shook.

He muttered under his breath — angry, low, venomous.

"Bahut nakhre dikha rahi ho na... ab dikhata hoon." 

("Showing so much attitude now... I'll show you.")

He looked around — eyes wild, furious.

Saw the crystal vase on the shelf — expensive, heavy, a gift from some business associate.

He grabbed it.

Smashed it against the wall.

Glass exploded — shards flying, water splashing, flowers crushed on the carpet.

He stood there — breathing hard, chest heaving.

Stared at the broken pieces.

Felt the rage burn hotter.

She hadn't come.

She hadn't answered.

She hadn't even looked at him all day.

And it hurt — more than he would ever admit.

The bungalow quieted for the night.

But the next morning was different.

The house was alive early....priests chanting, servants rushing, marigold garlands being hung, banana leaves being laid, brass diya's being lit. Mrs. Chauhan had scheduled the Satyanarayan puja for the morning, a small but auspicious ritual to bless the family.

She had personally invited the Rajput family.... old business allies with newer political connections. But everyone understood the real purpose: their 32-year-old daughter Shree, recently returned from London after a broken engagement, was the main attraction.

Gauri was still resting in her cot....painkillers keeping the cramps at bay, body heavy with exhaustion. She didn't participate in the puja preparations or the ritual itself. Tradition kept her away from the sacred space while she was on her period. She stayed in the background — kitchen mostly — helping with tea and snacks for after the puja.

From the kitchen doorway, she could see the garden where the puja was held.

Vikrant stood near the puja mandap — cream kurta, sleeves rolled, arms crossed, face polite but distant. Shree Rajput stood beside him, laughing at something he said. She was tall, fair, confident — pink saree with gold zari, hair in loose waves, diamond studs catching the morning light. She touched his forearm lightly while speaking, the way women do when they feel safe to do so.

Gauri saw it all.

The smile Vikrant gave Shree ... small, easy, the kind he almost never gave her.

The way he leaned closer to listen to her.

The way he laughed....low, relaxed.

Something hot and sharp twisted in Gauri's chest.... anger, jealousy, hurt, all at once.

She turned away.

Focused on arranging the tea tray for after the puja.

Her hands shook.

Mrs. Chauhan watched everything — her eyes flicking between her son and Shree, then to Gauri in the kitchen doorway, then back. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips when Vikrant leaned closer to Shree to say something in her ear. Gauri saw it. Her fingers tightened on the tray.

The puja ended.

Guests moved to the garden tables for brunch/lunch.

Long table, white tablecloth, silver cutlery, platters of vegetarian food — paneer matar, dal makhani, jeera rice, puri, kheer.

Gauri served.

She moved behind the guests, spooning rice, ladling dal, offering raita.

When she reached Vikrant, she leaned to place the bowl of kheer in front of him.

He didn't look up.

Didn't say thank you.

Didn't even acknowledge her presence.

His hand rested casually on the table — fingers drumming once — while Shree beside him said something about London restaurants. He laughed — low, easy.

Mrs. Chauhan watched.

Then she spoke — loud enough for the whole table to hear, but directed at Shree and Vikrant.

"Shree beta, Vikrant was telling me how much he enjoyed your company at the last business meet in Delhi. You both have so much in common.... same taste in books, same cities you've lived in. I was thinking... it would be nice if our families came closer."

Shree smiled — modest, practiced.

Mrs. Chauhan turned to Vikrant.

"Wouldn't it, beta?"

Vikrant's smile was polite.

"Whatever you think is right, Ma."

Gauri's hand shook on the serving spoon.

A drop of kheer fell on the tablecloth.

Mrs. Chauhan glanced at her ....sharp, fleeting.

"Careful, Gauri."

Gauri nodded...head bowed.

"Sorry, Ma'am."

She moved on.

But the words kept ringing.

Closer families.

Same taste.

Nice.

She finished serving.

Retreated to the kitchen.

Leaned against the counter.

Breathed.

Felt the chain burn against her skin.

He hadn't looked at her.

Not once.

Not even when she spilled.

Not even when his mother talked about marriage right in front of her.

She felt invisible.

Worthless.

Replaceable.

And it hurt more than any slap, any bite, any denial ever had.

Because this time, he wasn't even cruel.

He was indifferent.

And indifference was worse.

The puja guests left.

The bungalow quieted.

Gauri cleaned the garden — picking up fallen petals, wiping tables, collecting empty glasses.

She didn't cry.

She just moved.

Mechanical.

Empty.

At night, she went to her cot.

Curled up.

Stared at the wall.

And whispered....so quiet even she barely heard:

"He doesn't care."

The words tasted like truth.

And they tasted like poison.

She didn't go to the flat that night.

She didn't wait for his summons.

She just lay there — aching, bleeding, broken.

And for the first time, she didn't hope he would call.

She just accepted that he wouldn't.

The bungalow slept.

The night stretched on.

And so did the silence.

But the need?

That was still there.

Quiet now. Wounded.

Waiting.

Because even when he didn't want her.....she still wanted him.

And that was the cruelest thing of all.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.