Chapter 1: The Midnight Message

Everyone at Arjun’s wedding whispered about his new wife—her fair skin, classic Lucknowi features, and the way she carried herself in that red lehenga. It was the kind of beauty people in our mohalla wouldn’t stop discussing for weeks.

In the middle of the night, my phone buzzed. I blinked at the screen. Meera’s name flashed:

"Hey, are you still awake?"

"Nahi yaar, still awake. Sab theek hai, bhabhi?"

"Where do you live? Send me your address. I'm coming to see you."

My heart thudded as I read the message again. In a city where even a WhatsApp DP change starts rumors, this was next-level. The blue glow from my phone painted weird patterns on the cracked ceiling. The fan’s hum mixed with the faint rattle of utensils from the neighbor’s kitchen. I glanced at my tiffin box, still open, dal clinging to the side—a quiet witness to the chaos about to unfold.

1

It was well past midnight when I got a friend request. Curious, I opened it. The profile picture showed a woman with delicate, classic features, the kind you’d see in old-school Bollywood films.

She looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place her right away.

I checked the note attached: Meera Singh.

Arre, of course! My own hand smacked my forehead. This was Arjun’s new wife.

Arjun and I had been thick since college, always in each other’s lives. His recent Lucknow wedding was still fresh in my memory—the sangeet especially. The dholaks thumped so hard you could feel it in your bones. Marigold petals stuck to sweaty foreheads, and Arjun’s uncle was already two pegs down, singing off-key. Meera had looked radiant in her red lehenga, half-smiling at Arjun’s terrible dance moves. Now here she was, sending me a friend request at this hour. Kya scene hai?

But why reach out in the middle of the night?

Still, I accepted the request.

Almost immediately, Meera messaged: "Hey, Rohan, so jaa ya abhi bhi jag raha hai?"

"Abhi toh bas soch raha tha. Sab theek hai, bhabhi?"

"Sorry to bother you so late. Can you take a call?"

Half-asleep, I said yes.

The phone rang. On the other end, I heard her trying to control her breathing, the way women do before facing elders, but this time there was no one to impress—just raw fear.

The silence between her sniffles hung heavy, like the humid air before a monsoon. Her ceiling fan whirred in the background, and somewhere, a truck horn sounded in the distance.

My stomach dropped. Had they fought?

"Bhabhi, kya hua?"

"Arjun ko police le gayi."

"Kya? Police? Kab hua yeh?"

She tried to steady her voice. "Aaj. Arjun din bhar ghar nahi aaya. Abhi police station se phone aaya—criminal detention mein hai."

Her voice trembled, the kind that comes when everything you thought was solid suddenly dissolves. I imagined her alone in their living room, wedding photo still crooked on the wall, garlands from the ceremony already brittle and shedding.

"Par kisliye?"

"Unka kehna hai, office mein paisa ghapla kiya. Company ne report kiya."

Arjun worked as a product ops manager at a big Gurgaon company, bossing over a hundred people.

Just last week, over chai at the theka, he’d laughed about office politics: “Saala, office politics toh hamare desh ki second national sport hai.” Who knew the joke would turn on him so soon?

"Call aaya toh lag raha tha, asmaan toot pada. Ab kya karun?" she sobbed. "Rohan, sirf tumse keh sakti hoon. Tum lawyer bhi ho. Please help."

I tried to sound confident: "Don’t worry, bhabhi. Agar Arjun phasa hai, toh main dekh lunga."

"Thank you, Rohan. Can we meet? Sorry for disturbing, but I’m desperate."

Her desperation cut through all the ‘log kya kahenge’ worries. Alone, new in the city, and now this—she must’ve felt completely lost.

"Ho gaya toh ho gaya, ab ghabrao mat. Main kal subah milta hoon, details le lunga."

"Nahi, abhi milna hai. Address bhejo."

Restaurants were shut, no café open, so I sent my address.

"Thoda messy hai, ignore karna," I typed, before scrambling out of my banyan and swiping biscuit crumbs off the sofa.

Half an hour later, there was a knock.

I opened the door. Meera stood there, eyes and cheeks red, as if she’d been crying for hours.

She must’ve been around 5’7”, graceful, with that quiet strength you notice in teachers and doctors. Her dupatta was askew, her phone clutched like a talisman.

My friend really got lucky with a wife like her.

"Aao, bhabhi," I said, stepping aside.

I quickly hid my old Gamcha from the sofa and wiped the tea stains off the table with my palm, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

She lingered at the door. "Koi aur toh nahi hai?"

"Nahi, main hi hoon."

She slipped off her sandals, placing them neatly by the door—just like all the women in my family do. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes scanning my small 1BHK.

I handed her a glass of water. She took it, glancing around. "Rohan, teri girlfriend yahan rehti hai kya?"

I shrugged. "Kaun si girlfriend, bhabhi? Akela hi hoon. Jab tak pet bhara hai, sab theek hai."

She smiled, a little sad. "Oh... Arjun ne bola tum girlfriends jaldi badalte ho."

I blinked. "Arjun ne bola? Mere baare mein?"

She shrugged. "Shayad galat suna. Waise, kaisi ladki chahiye? Arre, I know some nice girls from my colony—should I set you up, Rohan? My mummy says all good boys are taken, but I’ll find one for you."

Her attempt at banter, even now, made her seem more like a younger cousin than a bhabhi. I couldn’t help but smile.

"Someone like you, bhabhi, would be perfect," I teased.

She blushed, cheeks instantly turning pink.

After a few awkward pleasantries, the silence between us stretched. The wall clock ticked, the neighbor’s TV blared a Saas-Bahu serial through the wall. I fiddled with the remote, not knowing what to say.

She broke the silence. "Can you be Arjun’s lawyer?"

I nodded. "Mostly non-litigation karta hoon, but litigation bhi aata hai. No problem."

She looked a bit relieved. "Case mein kuch gadbad hai. Arjun paisa nahi udayega. Zaroor phasaya gaya hai."

I had to be honest: "Bhabhi, police bina saboot ke nahi pakadti."

She sagged, clutching the glass tighter, hope draining away.

"Toh ab kya karun? Mujhe kuch samajh nahi aa raha."

I thought for a moment. "Abhi investigation chal rahi hai. As his lawyer, I’ll try to meet him, but files nahi milengi. Sabse zaroori company se baat karna hai."

"Theek hai, jo tum bologe main karungi. Please help."

"Don’t worry. Tum ghar jao, thoda rest kar lo."

She nodded, stood, and said she’d come tomorrow.

Her shoulders drooped as she left. I listened to the soft click of her chappals echoing down the corridor. As Meera’s footsteps faded down the corridor, I knew sleep would be a distant dream tonight.

I crawled under my thin bedsheet, the city’s sounds—train horns, pressure cooker whistles, distant barks—blurring into uneasy sleep.