Chapter 1: The Bed of Thorns

The third month after marrying the rough army major, I was so tormented that just seeing a bed made my legs go weak. The whir of the ceiling fan above seemed to mock me, its blades spinning lazy circles as if nothing had changed.

Even the sight of the faded floral bedsheet and the creak of the old cot in the corner made my heart thump, my palms growing clammy—just like when Ma caught me copying answers in school. His heavy boots on the verandah at night echoed in my mind, making my knees knock together. In our cramped cantonment quarters, the walls were paper-thin. Sometimes, the distant whistle of the night train would reach me, and I’d wish I could board it, vanishing back to my old world—where Ma would scold me for spilling chai on the sofa.

Suddenly, glowing words scrolled across my vision, as if someone had hacked into my mind.

[LOL, the hero must have read too many filmi magazines—real romance is not about gymnastics, yaar!]

[Honestly, it’s because neither of them can communicate. Why does the heroine keep suffering? If she just called him 'husband', he’d pluck the moon from the sky for her.]

I found it all absurd.

These comments felt as if someone was reading my mind aloud in Hinglish, poking fun at my misery. What were they even talking about? I thought maybe I was just imagining things, or the stress had finally made me lose it, like those aunties in serials who suddenly see ghosts. I shook my head, trying to ignore the invisible chatter.

Until later.

His large hand grabbed my thin kurta, speaking with righteous indignation.

The fabric crumpled in his fist, his voice low but forceful, almost like an order barked on the parade ground. I could smell the faint scent of Lifebuoy soap on his palm, mixed with sweat and the sharp tang of starch from his uniform. My heart raced as I looked up, trying to read his expression, but his jaw was set and his eyes unreadable.

"What’s wrong with me washing your clothes? I want to. If you dare touch cold water again, I’ll break your hand."

"You want a heater? Do you still think you’re a pampered princess? Where’s your shame?"

Ritika spat, tossing me a bowl of sour curd rice.

The curd rice was lumpy and cold, sticking to my throat and making me gag. The kitchen clanged with the metallic noise of vessels and the sharp smell of burnt tadka. Ritika’s eyes glinted with contempt as she shoved the bowl towards me, her bangles clinking angrily. The other helpers stared, waiting to see if I’d dare talk back.

I fought back my tears and tried to reason with her.

My voice trembled, but I tried to keep it steady, remembering how Ma always said, "Beta, never let anyone see you cry." I clutched the edge of my dupatta, twisting it nervously around my finger. "But I have my own allowance. If you don’t use it, you can’t stop others from using it, right?"

As soon as I finished, Ritika let out a cold laugh.

Her laughter echoed in the cramped kitchen, sharper than the whistle of the pressure cooker. She looked at me as if I was a silly child who’d asked for mangoes in December.

Then she grabbed my collar in one swift motion.

Her grip was iron-strong, and the neckline of my kurta bit into my throat. For a moment, I smelled her jasmine hair oil mixed with sweat, and my heart thudded in panic. I tried to wriggle free, but she held on tight, her nails digging into my skin.

With a sharp rip, my whole body, covered in red marks, was exposed to the air.

The cold air of the kitchen stung my skin. My arms flew up to cover myself, clutching my dupatta desperately. I caught the eye of a helper auntie, who quickly turned away, murmuring, "Ram Ram," in embarrassment. Shame burned my cheeks as every pair of eyes seemed fixed on me.

I scrambled to cover my chest. "What are you doing? Let go!"

My voice broke, and I tried to twist away, but Ritika’s fingers were like steel. The humiliation burned more than any slap could.

But Ritika’s grip on my shoulder was unyielding.

She leaned in close, her breath hot on my ear. The sourness of curd rice mingled with her anger as she hissed her words, her fury like a slap across my face.

"Do you really think you’re the major’s wife? If your father hadn’t begged the major, you’d be dancing in some kotha, serving men chai and worse—don’t forget that."

Her words were like acid, each one sinking into my skin. The helpers in the kitchen looked away, pretending not to hear, but I could feel their judgment all the same. My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms.

"You’re just a tool for pleasure, and you dare to make demands?"

She slapped my face with her other hand.

The slap rang out, sharp and humiliating. My cheek stung, and tears welled up, but I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The taste of salt and shame filled my mouth.

"The major said, once he’s tired of sleeping with you, he’ll send you to his brothers for their fun. That’s a bargain for a woman like you."