Chapter 1: “I won’t divorce him!”

The grand Bajaj mansion in Mumbai glittered under the stormy sky, its sprawling halls filled with relatives for Karuna Bajaj's 1-year death anniversary. The air was thick with incense and resentment, as family members gathered in the opulent living room, their eyes sharp like daggers.

"I won't divorce him!" Ari Bajaj declared, her voice echoing off the marble walls, her stunning beauty—long dark hair, sharp features, and graceful poise—making her stand out like a diamond in the rough.

"Divorce him, and you can come back to the family home!" Adhiraj Bajaj shouted, her grandfatherly face twisted in fury, slamming his cane on the floor.

"Yes, divorce him!" Tanish Bajaj, the eldest uncle, sneered. "He is nothing! His family didn't want him, he has poor roots, an orphan tossed aside like trash!"

"Don't say that to my husband!" Ari shouted back, her eyes blazing with anger.

"Divorce him, Ari, my friend has been asking," Aadiv Bajaj, the third uncle, said smoothly, a sly smile on his lips. "His only son likes you very much. His wife died last year, leaving just one 3-year-old son. The man saw you at the office and has taken a liking to you. Marry him—he owns two construction companies!"

"Yes, Ari, divorce this poor orphan!" Driti Bajaj jeered, her cousin's voice dripping with envy. The girls hated Ari for her extreme beauty, and Ishaan's handsome looks only fueled their spite—they couldn't stand seeing her with him. "He only knows how to do housework. Marry this other man!"

"Exactly," Prithvi Bajaj added, his bratty tone matching his sister's. "That guy's not good-looking, but at least he's rich, not some mute housekeeper like him!"

"Enough is enough! I will never divorce him!" Ari snapped, her chest heaving.

Misahay Bajaj, her father, cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ari, return home if you won't divorce him." He stared toward the grandfather in hopes of pleasing him, but Adhiraj looked indifferent, his eyes cold.

The room erupted in more taunts.

"Look at that silent fool!" Rajat Bajaj laughed. "Tall and Big on the outside, but empty inside!"

"Pathetic orphan, dragging our Ari down!" Ranveer Bajaj mocked. "She deserves a real man, not a house servant!"

"Ari, think of the family!" Tanish pressed. "This marriage was a mistake from the start. Karuna's gone—time to fix it!"

"Grandma wanted this!" Ari retorted. "I honor her wishes!"

"Honor? With him?" Driti scoffed. "You're wasting your beauty on a nobody who can't even speak up!"

"Quiet, all of you!" Lajja Bajaj, Ari's mother, pleaded weakly. "Ari, listen to your grandfather."

"No!" Ari yelled, grabbing Ishaan's hand. "We're leaving!"

"You'll regret this, girl!" Adhiraj growled.

"She'll come crawling back!" Aadiv chuckled.

Ishaan, a quiet man—Ari's husband, 6'3" tall, slim, fair, and handsome with long hairs tied in a bun—let her pull him away without a word.

They stepped out of the mansion, the gates clanging shut behind them. Rain poured down, drenching them instantly. Ari stood in front of the gate, sobbing, her clothes clinging to her.

"I hate them!" she said, tears mixing with rain. "And I hate you! You never stand up for yourself, never say anything! Why don't you? Do you like hearing what they say to you? I don't want anyone saying anything to my husband!"

Ishaan remained silent, years of abuse from his adoptive family having forged his quietude like iron. But today, seeing her cry, something stirred deep within. He wanted to hug her, to make her stop crying, but his body didn't move. He loved his wife—how she stood for him, how she cared, even if subtly. Although they had been married for two years, the relationship was in name only, no love or affection between them on the surface. But he loved her deeply. He had believed his life would stay like this always—endless endurance—but today, he wanted it to change for her.

"You're so frustrating!" Ari wailed, shoving him lightly. "Why are you like this? Speak! Fight back!"

Still, silence. "I can't do this alone," she whispered, breaking down further.

Inside, Ishaan's heart ached. He loved her more than anything, her strength inspiring him to dream of a better tomorrow.

They hailed a taxi, the rain hammering the roof like accusations. Ari slumped in the seat, crying herself to sleep. Back at their modest 2BHK, Ishaan took the floor as always, while Ari slept on the bed, the night heavy with unspoken promises.

As Ishaan lay there, staring at the ceiling, memories flooded him—the abuse from his uncles Aarush, Divit, and Zavian; the indifference of Madhura, his adoptive mother; the timid care from Niti. He had promised his late father Rajesh to protect them, but now, for Ari, he yearned to break free.

The next morning, Ishaan woke up early at 5 AM, the vivid scene from yesterday's confrontation replaying in his mind like a relentless storm. He lay on the floor of their rented 2BHK flat, the thin mat doing little to cushion the hard tiles. What can I do? he thought, his secret savings of 4 lakhs burning in his mind. If Misahay or Lajja knew, they'd snatch it away in an instant, claiming it for "family needs." But what could it buy? Freedom? Respect? A way to protect Ari? He sighed, pushing the thoughts aside. This was his routine—stealing a few hours of peace before the chaos began.

After the expulsion from the Bajaj mansion, the four of them—Ishaan, Ari, Misahay, and Lajja—had crammed into this modest flat in a dingy Mumbai suburb. No luxury, just survival. Ishaan rose quietly, did his usual exercises: push-ups, stretches, and meditation in the tiny balcony, breathing in the humid air as the city stirred. By 6:30, he was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast—simple idlis, chutney, and tea. The aroma filled the air, a small act of duty he clung to.

At 7 AM, Ari stirred in the bedroom. Ishaan heard her footsteps and called softly, "Breakfast is ready."

She emerged, rubbing her eyes, still puffy from last night's tears. "Do you need some help with anything?" she asked, her voice neutral but laced with yesterday's exhaustion.

"No, everything is done already," Ishaan replied quietly, setting the plate. She nodded, ate quickly, got ready by 8, and left for work at the Bajaj company—Adhiraj's empire, where he kept her employed to remind her of her "place," preventing her from shining elsewhere.

Misahay woke at 8, grumbled through his morning routine, then went for a jog. He returned at 9, sweating, and sat for breakfast. Lajja was already up, sipping tea. They ate together, the table tense.

The moment Lajja spotted Ishaan clearing dishes, she cursed. "You, The moment you came to our house, everything went to hell! Look at us—kicked out because of your worthless hide!"

Misahay, timid as ever, chimed in weakly. "At least do the housework properly. You're blessed to marry my beautiful daughter—don't mess it up!"

Ishaan bowed his head. "Yes, I'll make sure."

Lajja snorted. "Blessed? Ha! You're a curse. Clean faster, orphan boy!"

Misahay finished, patted his belly, and left on his old bike for the 5-acre orange plantation on the city's outskirts. No real need to go daily—the low-yield farm barely scraped by with two servants—but there, he could boss them around, feeling like a big shot. "Order some tea, boys!" he'd bark, basking in flattery. He'd return by 5-6 PM, sometimes sneaking drinks with friends if Lajja allowed or Ari slipped him pocket money.

Lajja, bitter and self-deluded as a faded beauty queen—good-looking for her age but cheap, showy, and money-hungry—stayed behind. She handled finances like a tyrant: Ari's 1 lakh salary vanished into her purse each month. "15 thousand for you, girl—don't waste it!" she'd snap to Ari. "10 thousand pocket money for your father—for travel and expenses." Everything else? Her permission required. Ishaan fetched groceries, counted every rupee under her hawkish eye. She spent her days at spas, tea parties, and card games with "rich" housewives, bragging, "My family's loaded—Bajaj blood, you know!"

After they left, Ishaan grabbed the grocery list and headed out. First, the market—rice, veggies, spices—then, his sanctuary: the century-old second-hand store in a narrow alley. The dusty shelves overflowed with forgotten tomes and trinkets. Ishaan returned a borrowed book, the owner nodding. "Back on time, as always. 20 rupees for the rental."

Long ago, Ishaan had struck a deal: borrow, read, return—no buying outright, as he couldn't afford it. His passion for reading was his escape, devouring English, Hindi, Marathi, Sanskrit, even picking up Kannada, Telugu, Malayalam, and Odia basics. Today, a book caught his eye: no cover, leather binding cracked with age, pages yellowed. The script resembled Sanskrit but twisted, unreadable.

"What's this?" Ishaan asked, tracing the symbols.

The owner shrugged. "Came in a new lot—people dump old junk. Useless scribbles. If you can't read it, put it back."

But Ishaan was drawn: the ancient aura, the mystery. "I will return it"

"Take it if you want—probably trash."

He took it, tucking it under his arm with the groceries.

Home by noon, Ishaan watched his favorite show: martial arts techniques from around the world. He'd loved it since childhood, imitating moves in the empty living room—kicks, blocks, flows. No one home, just him and the screen.

Ari returned at 6:30, tired. "Dinner?" she asked.

"Starting now," Ishaan said, chopping veggies.

Misahay arrived at 7, reeking of farm dirt. "Food ready, boy?"

Lajja swept in at 8. Dinner was tense: dal, roti, curry.

"You burned the roti again!" Lajja snapped. "Useless hands!"

"It's fine, Ma," Ari defended. "Ishaan works hard."

"Hard? Like a servant!" Misahay muttered. "At least you're fed—most orphans don't have this luxury."

"Grateful? He's a leech!" Lajja hissed. "If not for Karuna's stupidity, we'd be back home!"

Ari sighed. "Stop it. He's family."

Taunts flew like arrows, Ari shielding him quietly. They ate in silence after, then went to bed.

In the bedroom, Ishaan dimmed the lights for Ari. "Goodnight."

She nodded, asleep soon. Alone, he studied the book with a magnifying glass under a dim lamp. Page by page, symbols danced—Sanskrit-like, yet alien. Then, one page: a faded, crude picture of a man holding a book, eerily similar to him now—long hair in a bun, slim frame.

Curious, Ishaan traced his finger over it. When it touched the book's image... flash! A blinding white light engulfed everything. The book vanished in a puff, knowledge surging into his mind like a torrent. He collapsed, thudding to the table.

The noise woke Ari. She stirred, saw him slumped over the table. "Ishaan?" No response. Assuming exhaustion, she draped a blanket over him and returned to bed, the mystery lingering in the dark.

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