Until then, her pain had one face.
Now it had two.
She did not know the bride.
Had never heard her voice.
Had never seen her smile.
Yet hatred bloomed instantly.
The unknown woman had stolen a life she believed was hers.
Every night she imagined her differently.
Beautiful and arrogant.
Plain and manipulative.
Soft-spoken and cunning.
No image satisfied the rage.
At last curiosity defeated fear.
One afternoon she followed two women from the neighborhood who were discussing wedding shopping. They entered a sari store in the market.
Inside, among silk and laughter, stood the bride.
Her name, she overheard, was Meera.
She was not dazzling.
Not dramatic.
Just quietly graceful.
Simple eyes. Gentle speech. A smile that seemed to apologize before arriving.
That made the hatred worse.
If Meera had been cruel, jealousy would have felt easier.
But goodness is difficult to fight.
She watched from behind stacked fabrics as Meera chose colours with Arjun’s mother. Once, Arjun himself entered carrying parcels.
He stood beside Meera naturally.
Comfortably.
As if they belonged in the same frame.
He asked, “Do you like this one?”
Meera smiled and nodded.
The tenderness in that ordinary question shattered her.
She fled before anyone noticed.
Outside the shop she vomited near a drain.
A shopkeeper stared in disgust.
She wiped her mouth and walked home in a trance.
That night she burned the engagement card with a candle flame.
Watched both names blacken.
Still, the marriage remained.
She began collecting information like a spy.
Wedding date.
Venue.
Guest count.
Bride’s locality.
Arjun’s leave from work.
Each fact hurt, yet she chased more.
Pain had become addictive.
Her mother noticed new secrecy.
“Why are you always outside these days?”
“No reason.”
“Why don’t you sleep?”
“No reason.”
“Why are your eyes like this?”
No reason.
How could she explain that another woman’s happiness was keeping her awake?
One evening she saw Meera and Arjun walking together near the temple road.
Not touching.
Not dramatic.
Just walking side by side, sharing some small conversation.
She hid behind a parked car and watched every step.
When Meera laughed, she dug her nails into her palms until skin broke.
When Arjun slowed his pace for Meera, she bit her own wrist to stop crying aloud.
When they disappeared around the corner, she slid to the ground.
A child nearby asked his mother, “Why is that aunty crying?”
The mother pulled him away.
That night she wrote in her notebook:
If she vanishes, everything returns.
She stared at the line for a long time.
Then crossed it out violently.
Then wrote it again.
Some thoughts begin as whispers.
Repeat them enough, and they start sounding like plans.
Meanwhile, wedding drums were already being booked.
And time was marching toward a day she could not survive.