I woke with a start, my head pounding like a drum in a temple festival gone wrong. The room spun for a second, and I groaned, pressing my palms to my temples. This wasn't our bed—the mattress felt lumpy, the sheets rough and unfamiliar. Blinking through the haze, I recognized the walls: faded blue paint, posters of old cricket heroes peeling at the edges. My childhood room at my parents' house. What the hell? An empty bottle of whiskey rolled off the bed as I shifted, clinking against the floor. The smell hit me—stale alcohol, sweat, neglect. My mouth tasted like ash, and a deep, hollow ache sat in my chest, like something vital had been ripped out.
Sitting up slowly, I took stock. I was in a single white veshti, the cloth wrapped loosely around me—the kind worn for mourning or rituals. No shirt, just bare skin prickled with goosebumps in the morning chill. The room was a mess: clothes strewn about, dust gathering on the shelves, an air of abandonment. My gaze drifted to the wall opposite the bed, and my heart stopped. There, in a simple wooden frame, was a photo of Priya—smiling, radiant in her wedding saree. But it wasn't just hung; it was adorned like a shrine. A marigold garland draped over it, wilted and dry, the kind used for funerals. A small oil lamp sat below, unlit, with a streak of vermilion on the frame.
No. This can't be. Panic clawed up my throat. I stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping on the bottle. "Priya?" My voice cracked, echoing in the empty room. The house was silent—too silent. No sounds of my mother in the kitchen, no father's newspaper rustling. I burst into the hallway, bare feet slapping against the cool tiles. "Ma? Pa? Priya!" Rooms empty, beds made but cold. The living room—dusty, photos on the mantel showing happier times, but none recent. My mind raced: Was this a dream? It felt real—the headache throbbing, the veshti's fabric scratching my skin.
Denial surged. This had to be a mistake. I grabbed my phone from the bedside—wait, it was there, charging. No missed calls, just a low battery warning. I dialed Priya—straight to voicemail. "This number is not reachable." What? Heart pounding, I tried again. Same. My parents' numbers—ringing, but no answer. Sweat beaded on my forehead; the ache in my chest deepened, like grief I couldn't place. This wasn't right. We were happy—newly married, building a life. Why was I here, alone, dressed like this?
I couldn't stay inside. Throwing on an old shirt from the cupboard, I bolted out the front door into the street. The neighborhood looked the same—narrow lanes, kids playing cricket, aunties sweeping porches—but eyes turned to me with pity. Whispers followed: "Poor boy... so young..." "Recently married, and now this..." "Must be in shock, wandering like that."
Shock? What shock? Rage bubbled up. I grabbed the nearest man—an uncle from down the lane, mid-sweep with his broom. "What are you talking about?" I growled, clutching his collar. "My wife—what about my wife?"
He looked at me with sad eyes, gently prying my hands away. "Arjun... beta, you know. She... she took her own life. It's been weeks. You need to accept—"
"No!" The word ripped from me, a denial from the gut. "How? Why? Tell me!"
He sighed, glancing around at the gathering neighbors. "Why the pain for her, son? She was... unfaithful. Everyone knows. The shame drove her to it." He shook his head, pulling free. "Let it go. Move on."
Unfaithful? The word hit like a slap. Priya—my Priya, strong, loyal, the one who'd chosen me boldly? Lies. It had to be. The street blurred, whispers turning to a hum. I sank to my knees, the ground hard and unforgiving. Terror gripped me—this phantom world, this nightmare where she was gone, tainted. Isolated, shattered, I fumbled for my phone again. Fingers trembling, I dialed Rajesh—my rock, the one who'd know the truth. "Rajesh... what the hell happened?" My voice broke, raw and desperate.