Chapter 1: The Quiet Before the Storm

The day I brought my new wife home, my son was unusually quiet and didn’t create a scene. He kept tracing circles on the dining table with his thumb, eyes fixed on a crack in the wall, as if searching for answers only his mother could give. I knew he was still mourning his mother’s death and resented me deeply. Back then, when my wife had a heart attack, I did leave her behind—but I had my reasons. How could I have known she wouldn’t make it to the hospital in time? Every time I see Aryan’s face, I wonder if he sees a murderer or just a weak man. But people have to move forward, don’t they?

The corridor outside was still full of relatives, their voices echoing—Aunties in synthetic sarees whispering. One of them adjusted her bindi, peering at us with the sharp curiosity only a family gathering can summon. The faint aroma of agarbatti lingered from the puja someone insisted on performing for "peace." My son's silence seemed heavier than all the noise. In our Indian families, where shouting matches are normal, his quiet was more frightening. Somewhere, the pressure cooker hissed from the neighbour's kitchen, an odd, normal sound in a house still echoing with loss.

At dinner, I cautiously asked my son if he liked his new younger brother and sister. I thought he would explode, curse his Mausi as a homewrecker, and call the children illegitimate. Unexpectedly, he just nodded silently and said, “Jo aapko theek lage, Papa,” delivered with a shrug, eyes averted, fork scraping the plate in slow circles. Watching his lonely back as he got up and returned to his room, an indescribable sense of loss welled up in me. But I quickly pushed it aside. After all, what son can hate his father forever? He’s a man too, isn’t he? He should understand me.

I watched the dal soak into the rice on his untouched plate, the spoon abandoned like some old weapon. My hand hovered over the steel tumbler, fingers itching to knock on his door, but pride kept me rooted to the chair. In our country, fathers rarely apologize, and sons rarely forgive out loud. Maybe, I thought, tomorrow would be better. Maybe he just needs time.

While I was busy comforting my pregnant new wife, I didn’t notice the study door quietly opening a crack. It felt as if a shadowy, inscrutable gaze was fixed on me the whole time…

A sudden gust made the curtains flutter, and for a second I could swear I felt my late wife's presence—judging, disappointed. But then the auto-rickshaw’s horn from the lane outside broke the spell. I brushed off the feeling, telling myself not to imagine ghosts when there was so much life to manage.

But as I turned off the kitchen light, I felt a chill—like someone was watching from the shadows, waiting for the next move.