The Roy haveli loomed under the oppressive Bengal dawn, its marble walls slick with morning mist, the air heavy with the acrid scent of coal smoke and damp earth. In our chamber, I stood at the ironing board, my hands trembling as I pressed Siddharth's court shirt, the hot iron hissing against the starched cotton, steam curling like ghosts around my fingers.

My heart thundered, Chachi ji's venomous taunts—"You're a barren husk," "You'll be less than air"—slicing through my mind like a rusted blade. The fear of Siddharth taking another wife, of me dissolving into oblivion, gripped my throat, my fingers faltering as the iron wobbled, nearly scorching the fabric. My sari, a worn ochre, clung to my sweat-soaked skin, the humidity wrapping me like a shroud.