Chapter One
Chapter 1
It was seven in the morning when my sleep was disrupted by the buzz of the alarm. The soft vibration and music from my phone, placed on the side table to my right, startled me awake. I reached out blindly, cracking open one eye just enough to swipe it off. I hadn’t even unlocked the screen when the date caught my attention—March 1st.
I sat up slowly and glanced around. This is my room—in my mother’s house. I moved in three years ago, when Ammi’s health began declining and she needed help managing the business. The room had been completely redesigned to suit my taste. Coral white painted three of the walls, while the one behind the bed was onyx black, adorned with a 3x5 ft painting of a tulip garden. The furniture was sleek and modern—carbon black contrasted with ivory upholstery. A king-sized bed dominated the space, flanked by side tables. On the left, a large window opened out to a balcony. To the right near the entrance was the dressing area with four coffee-brown wardrobes. Inside that space, a door led to a blue-toned bathroom with a glass-panelled shower, a bathtub, a western toilet, and a full mirror above the washbasin.
I had designed it all to feel like a fresh start—before I knew I’d actually be starting over.
Seventy-five days. That’s how long I stayed alone in the apartment she and I once shared. Seventy-five days after she left. I never shed a tear. But the silence... it began to weigh on me. When Ammi could no longer handle everything alone, I had no excuse to stay in that lifeless apartment. I moved back home to take care of her—and the businesses. Hers and mine.
People say everything happens for a reason. Maybe this was Allah’s way of pulling me toward purpose. Or maybe just a cruel way of reminding me what I had lost.
But avoiding memories of her is impossible. Not that I try. I want to remember her. My Hitler.
I quit drinking tea and coffee, but I still think of her. I remember how much she hated making either of them.
Back when we were newly married, I hadn’t told her I preferred tea. When her mother asked what I’d like, I just said, "Either is fine." Most guests that day had wanted coffee, so she made coffee. Farhat chose black coffee. I assumed it was because of her diet, but later I found out she simply disliked milk.
In the second week of our marriage, she tried to surprise me with a tray of coffee in the morning. Still half asleep, I reached out too quickly, and the mug slipped.
"Heyyyyyyyy!" she shouted as the coffee spilled all over her and the mug shattered on the floor.
I blinked, disoriented, and then started laughing.
"It's my mistake for bringing you coffee," she snapped. "I'm not getting you another one now. And I have to clean this mess too."
She walked away grumbling to rinse off, then returned with a wet cloth. As she hurried toward the bed, she didn’t notice the glass shards. I reached out to stop her.
"What now?" she asked, annoyed.
I gestured for her to look down.
"Allahhhh!" she gasped.
I took the cloth from her and knelt down.
"I'll do it," she said, trying to snatch it back.
"I caused the mess. I'll clean it."
She gave in and stepped back. Once the shards were gone, I gave her a thumbs-up. She nodded, took the cloth, and left.
Snapping back to the present, I forced myself to focus on the new month. I had a packed schedule ahead.
After a quick shower, I opened the wardrobe. Her voice echoed in my mind.
"What's your favorite color?"
"Buy a good pair of jeans, not those faded and torn ones."
I changed into semi-formal attire and caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked older than twenty-eight. Six feet tall, brown-skinned, a neatly trimmed beard, black hair, brown eyes that had learned to mask sadness, and lips that no longer remembered how to smile.
Descending the stairs, I saw Ammi approaching from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice.
"Shahrul, at least have this."
"No thanks, Ammi. I'm running late. I'll grab breakfast on the way, like always."
Her eyes clouded with disappointment, but I didn't slow down. If I let them in, they’d either ask about her or push me to move on. Neither option sat well with me.
My elder sister, Saba, and Ammi were relieved I had moved back home. Sana, my nearly seven-year-old niece, rushed toward me in a purple floral gown. She loved frocks. "She likes gowns," a whisper inside me reminded. I bent down, hugged her tightly, and waved goodbye.
Another memory struck.
Sana and Farhat, sitting together in the living room, both wearing cream-colored outfits—a coincidence.
"Mami, let's wear matching outfits every day so you can give me candy every day," Sana said.
"No, Sana. Candy every day is bad for your teeth. Do you want strong teeth like ours?" Farhat replied.
"Yes, Mami," Sana agreed.
I stepped out of my room just then, overhearing them.
"Good girl. But I promise, one day we’ll wear matching dresses and take pictures together," Farhat added.
Sana jumped in excitement.
"Matching dresses? Are you going to make her wear a salwar?" I teased.
"No. I’ll get full gowns for both of us. Any problem with that, my saiyaan ji?"
'Saiyaan ji.' I hadn’t expected that. Teasing her would make her never say it again, so I decided to act casual.
"But I haven't seen you wear gowns."
"Just because you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean I don't wear them. Before we got married, my wardrobe was full of gowns."
"So, I’m the reason you stopped?"
"I won’t let anyone dictate what I do. I stopped myself from doing things I loved."
You stopped yourself from doing things you loved. I learned that from you. I didn’t let you dictate that I couldn’t talk to you anymore. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.
The office intercom interrupted my thoughts. Normally, I spent the first fifteen minutes reading emails and the next reviewing the day’s calendar. But today, I hadn’t done any of that. My first meeting was at 10 a.m. with Mrs. Risha Sinha from Uniq Designs, Jaipur.
The intercom buzzed. I clicked the speaker. "Send her in," I said, then hung up.
I glanced at the clock. She was fifteen minutes early.
Just like her, whispered my heart.
Before another memory could overwhelm me, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," I called.
I expected to see a 35-year-old, 5'2", modern-looking woman—based on her LinkedIn profile. But the person who entered was nothing like that.
A young woman, no older than 24, about 5'7", dusky-skinned, with a round face and freckles on her cheeks, stood in front of me. A cleft chin. Almond-shaped, dark brown eyes framed by arched brows. Her hair was covered neatly with a shawl. No kajal today. Yet her eyes were plain, intense, unforgettable.
She adjusted her sling bag quickly, revealing neat, clipped nails and slender fingers. She wore a sky blue salwar kameez and black wedges with a modest heel. Her second toe, longer than the rest, peeked out slightly. A small silver stud in her ear. No rings except two simple bands gifted by her best friends, Miksha and Shravya.
Even after three years, she looked exactly the same.
Except for the watch. No straps. Just a cloth band looped on her wrist.
There’s no bracelet on her wrist.
I had hoped to see it. I had searched for it. But it’s not there.
