My parents forced me to marry a rich, fat-fresh neighbor in the neighborhood, I couldn’t smile on my wedding day with tears in my eyes.
Back in Jaipur, my parents were in heavy debt. My neighbour – Arvind Malhotra, who owned a chain of building material shops, almost 20 years older than me, with a sturdy and protruding belly – proposed “marrying to help the family”. My parents shook their heads without hesitation. As far as I’m concerned, I was surrounded.

On the wedding day, I wore a red lehenga, a veil on my head, a mangalsutra around my neck, but I couldn’t smile completely. The crowd was still cheering, the drums were still beating, but it felt like someone was pressing a stone on my chest. I knew I was just a pawn in exchange for a loan.

On the wedding night – the wedding night – I was “defensive”: I wore four layers – a kurti, a skinny cardigan, a cotton nightgown that reached my ankles, and a pashmina shawl over it. I thought to myself: “I can’t do anything even if I want to. Suddenly the electricity went off, I turned to find a comfortable position to lie down and… She sat down on something heavy under the edge of the mattress. I paused, stretched out my hand. A thick envelope.

I held it tightly, my palms drenched in sweat. A thought flashed through my mind: It must be “fun” money that would make me feel less uncomfortable. I pretended to go to the bathroom to “change clothes,” closed the door, and opened the envelope. It wasn’t money. Inside was a stack of red-stamped papers: a sale deed (agreement of purchase of land), an agreement of sale printed on a bond paper with a bright red stamp, and a copy of my parents’ Aadhaar. On the last page, on the edge of the paper, was a line written in English and Hindi:

“Marriage to repay debts – Condition: Property transfer.” ”

(The broker had also outlined “property transfers.”) )

I shuddered. Anger, sadness, and… Laugh at your life. It turned out that the marriage was not a “marriage” to a rich man, but a transaction to repay debts: the daughter was used as a substitute, transferred to the landowner.

Before I could recover, through the crack in the bathroom door, I heard Arvind on the phone in a low voice:
– Yes, it is done. Done. Make him sign the transfer papers tomorrow, the work is over. You get a buyer for that land… Will “shift” him quickly.

(“Yes, it’s done. Tomorrow, have him sign the transfer paper and it’s done. You get a buyer for that land… I’ll ‘shift’ him soon. ”)

I was stunned. Not only did my parents use me to pay off debts, but my new husband was also planning to get rid of me as soon as he got the land.

I looked up and saw myself in the bathroom mirror: my veil was tilted to one side, a thin line of red vermilion in the middle of my hair was like a thin streak of blood. My heart was pounding, but my head suddenly cleared abnormally. I folded the papers into my innermost layer, pulled back my shawl, and wiped away my tears.

That night, amidst the rattle of the fan and the scent of incense wafting from the ceremony, a plan of revenge flashed through my mind – right on the night of this wedding in Jaipur.

Part 2 – The Night of Jaipur Changed

I came out of the bathroom, my face so calm that even Arvind could not believe that I had heard the entire conversation. He leaned his back on the pillows, his eyes half-closed, and steamed his hands into a steaming cup of turmeric milk.

“Are you all right?” there was a mock kindness in his voice.

I smiled and replied softly:

“Well, just a little tired. I’ll sign the papers tomorrow, so you don’t have to worry. ”

I was smiling faintly to myself. If he wanted to, I would have signed – but not what he was thinking.

I pretended to be fast asleep the whole night. But my mind was constantly calculating. In that pile of bright red papers, in addition to the land sale contract, I also saw the original loan papers and my parents’ previous mortgage agreement. That is, if I had handed over the paper to a lawyer or the press, the story of “selling children to pay off debts” would have erupted. In Jaipur, such a scandal would tarnish the reputation of Arvind’s family and my parents – whom they valued more than money.

The next morning, I woke up before that. I put on a simple salwar kameez, covered half of my face with a veil and went downstairs to the living room. The maid was making masala chai, and I borrowed her old Nokia phone and called up Raghav Singh, a young lawyer from Udaipur who had helped me in college.

When I summarized her, her voice was filled with surprise:
– Anika… Are you at Arvind Malhotra’s house? And do you really have real documents?

–yes And I want to prepare a new contract right away. Content: Arvind gave me the land as a wedding gift, with a non-cancellation clause.

– I get it. Just give me his signature…

My plan was simple but dangerous: turn the transfer document that Arvind wanted me to sign into a “gift” document. I printed a new copy, as if it were real, just changed a few legal lines – which he didn’t read carefully.

When Arvind woke up, I brought him tea and said softly:

– I’ve thought about it. You bailed out my family from debt, I’ll sign it today, so that everything goes quickly.

His eyes lit up. Without a shadow of a doubt, he took out his pen and signed it on the corner of the paper. I smiled, folded the paper and placed it in a cloth bag, saying that I will “send a lawyer to get the whole process done”.

By noon, I reached Raghav’s office. She looked at the contract and pursed her lips:

Arvind Malhotra has just officially gifted me a piece of land worth over Rs 3 crore. If he sues me now, he’ll only blame himself.

I sat silently, a wave of relief swept over me. Not only did I escape the trap, but I also had something in my hands that Arvind and my parents would never dare to touch me again.

That night, I returned home to Jaipur. Arvind was sitting with my parents, his face blossoming. I gently placed an envelope on the table: inside was a notarized copy of the contract, along with a blank sheet of paper with only one sentence written on it:

“Don’t even think about selling me again. ”

The three of them fell silent, their expressions changed. I walked into the room, the veil was shaking behind me. This battle, I had won, on the very battlefield that they had created.

Part 3 – Arvind’s Trap

On Monday morning, a message came in from the Jaipur Land Registry: “Mutation completed. The account was transferred in the name of Anika Sharma.
Arvind picked up the phone, his glass fell to the ground in the sound of a “torso”. The nerves in his temples began to throb.

“He lied to me!” said Arvind, gritting his teeth, snatching the car keys, and headed straight for the tehsildar’s office.

There, the donation was stamped, my name was updated in the register, and Arvind’s signature was as clear as the Jaipur afternoon sun. He yelled at the clerk:

“It’s a sale-letter!”

“Sir, this record is an unconditional donation. Signature, date, e-stamp are valid. The clerk pushed his glasses forward, his voice being patient.

Arvind angrily left the place. He called the broker – Mr. Sethi – and his “partner” Kamal Jain:

– The old scheme has been revived. Remember that “agreement of sale” where I asked you to write down the last date? Give it a go. The girl has to return the land!

The next day, I got a call from the police station near my house: Arvind had filed a complaint against me for “forging and forcing me to sign”. I went with Raghav peacefully.

In front of the sub-inspector, Arvind said loudly on the table:

He tricked me into getting the wrong signature! I was drunk! I was forced out!

Raghav opened his laptop, put in the USB. “CCTV – Sub-Registrar’s Office” was visible on the screen. The video was playing in slow motion: Arvind sat up straight, corrected every page, and clearly signed his signature. At the end of the video, he turned to me and said bluntly: “It’s all over. Register it. ”

Raghav kept another stack of printed papers:

Here is the record of e-stamp purchase: Arvind Malhotra paid it himself, OTP verification was sent to his phone number. And here is the call record of the night, Mr. Malhotra’s voice saying, “… Let them sign the transfer papers tomorrow, that’s it. ”

There was silence in the room. The sub-inspector coughed slightly:

– Mr. Malhotra, your complaint… Seems baseless. If you want, the court will consider it. But maybe you should hire a lawyer.

Arvind stood up, his eyes shining. He didn’t say a word, just looked at me with hatred. I replied with a slight nod, as if finishing a chapter.

But Arvind didn’t stop.

A week later, Kamal Jain came up with a dozen-page “sale agreement” – the “land sale” papers that Arvind had signed with shell company Saffron Realty, dated to date long. Kamal filed a “specific execution” request – forcing me to sell the land as per the “previous agreement”.

Raghav picked up the photocopy and laughed and said:

– Well done.

In just a few clicks, he was on the e-stamp page: The stamp purchase date was just three days after my gift deed. Basic mistake. But it wasn’t easy – Arvind had thoughtfully “bribed” the stamp seller to get the date on the book right.

That afternoon, at the tea stall in front of the registration office, Arvind whispered to an official:

– Just stamp a “date entry error” confirmation, I’ll send the envelope. Your share is bigger.

The man looked around blushing. Arvind shrugged the envelope away.

A man stood up from the next table and called in a very low voice. Ten minutes later, two officers from the ACB – the Anti-Corruption Bureau – came running in. The envelope was opened, in which the money came out. The small camera on his collar had been on for a long time. The stamp seller’s face was red; Arvind was called to “work”.

The news spread like a dry monsoon in Rajasthan.

During the preliminary hearing of the “specific execution” application, Raghav submitted a few more documents: a WhatsApp chat between Arvind – Kamal – Sethi, which was extracted from Kamal’s phone (extracted by the ACB during the investigation). In it, Arvind wrote: “Stamp of the previous date. They will make evidence. The new owner has to be shaken. ”

The judge looked up and hammered lightly:

Mr. Malhotra is requesting the court to enforce the sale agreement even though he is no longer the owner of the property. There are signs of forgery and bribery. The court handed over the file to the police to start an investigation under sections 420, 468, 471 of the IPC. And the ACB has given a provisional report of bribery.

– The request was denied.

Arvind’s breath stopped. He screamed in his throat, but could not make a sound.

Repeatedly beset by criticism, Arvind plunged into the “public opinion war”. She ran some anonymous accounts to spread rumours that I was “having an affair with a lawyer”, “leaving my husband for the land”, and even dragged my parents into the mess. In the narrow lane between the two houses, this gossip was like thorns.

That night, I invited some aunts in the neighbourhood who had seen me grow up for tea. I turned on the speakers, played the recording of the wedding night, and then played the video of the document being signed. I said nothing but one sentence:

– After listening, you can guess.

At the end of this passage, Aunt Sunita – who often told me that “women should be patient” – sighed:

– I’m not causing trouble. I’ll help you correct those nasty things.

The next morning, Ms. Kiran of the Ward Women’s Association posted a lengthy article: “Don’t confuse marriage with a contract of debt transactions. This improvement spread. Suddenly, the tongue of the streets… Silenced.

But Arvind still had only one way out: the bank.

It turned out that his hardware store chain had used the land to mortgage a large loan that is now in my name. The bank sent a notice seeking additional bail or repayment. When Arvind failed to repay it, the company’s accounts were frozen. Employees’ salaries were paid late, suppliers stopped supplying cement and steel. The Sitapura warehouse was silent. Arvind’s phone was ringing incessantly – the creditors were calling one after the other.

That day, he stood on the porch, looked up at my house from the top of the wall, and said with laughter:

Do you think you’ve won? It’s just a matter of land.

I looked straight at him:

– Nope. It’s a lesson.

– I’ll take everything back. I’ll bow you down!

“You’ve tied a rope around your neck, Arvind.

He laughed, but his eyes wavered.

A month later, Arvind’s arrest warrant was signed – the ACB teamed up with the economic police to prosecute him for bribery, forgery and fraud. Before the day of his extradition, Arvind risked his life to come to my house and started banging on the door loudly. When I opened the door, Raghav was standing behind me.

Do you want to withdraw the application?

– I didn’t make any applications. The law will withdraw the application for me.

–I… I can afford to pay. Start again. We… Let’s get a peaceful divorce. You give me back the land, I’ll sell it and repay the loan, that’s all.

“You promised to “keep it a secret, give me back my freedom”, didn’t you? I bowed my head. Then you immediately found a way to get rid of me, to grab the land. Is this your “peaceful” way?

Arvind clenched his fists:

I’ll tell your parents everything! That you are a childless son, harming the whole family!

They sold me once. And you made that transaction a permanent mark on the paper. He wanted to turn around, but it gave him more courage.

I closed the door in his face. Outside, Arvind hit the wood three times, then… There was silence. Perhaps for the first time he felt he had no choice left.

The first hearing of Arvind’s bribery case took place on a hot day. The bank sent a lawyer to demand immediate recovery of the entire loan owed due to “breach of security provision”. Kamal Jain, his companion, stood at the door, avoiding Arvind’s gaze. When the jury “stamped the previous date… We will make evidence.” When the text message was read aloud, the whole court was stirred. Arvind closed his eyes. Sweat was dripping from his nose.

The court granted conditional bail to Kamal (for cooperating with the investigation), and rejected Arvind’s bail plea due to the risk of “tampering with evidence”. When the police put their hands on his shoulders, Arvind suddenly turned to look at me – no longer angry, just emptiness.

In that moment, I understood: The man had been dragged down by his own plans like a house built on the sand – one layer on top of the other, until he began to suffocate.

A few months passed, and I no longer wore a veil when I went out. I turned the land into a small workshop where I taught sewing, chicken embroidery, and basic accounting to the women in the ward. Raghav asked me if I wanted to sue my parents for mental damages. I shook my head.

I don’t have to kill anyone anymore. I have to live.

But I didn’t let things go as if they never happened. My parents came looking for me, tears and apologizing. I gave them a piece of paper:

– It’s a commitment: from now on, no one will borrow in my name, no one will marry forcefully, no one will do a “trade” of honour. Parents sign, I will arrange temporary work in the workshop, so that I can stand on my feet. I will help, but I will not “endure” anymore.

He signed with trembling hands.

The day I received the court-approved divorce papers, I took a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums and placed it on the living room window. The midday light of Jaipur was falling on its bright petals. The phone vibrated – Aunty Sunita’s message: “Are you coming to the Navratri festivities in the ward? Everybody is waiting for you to lead the choir. ”

I replied, “I’m coming. ”

Walking towards the gate, I walked through the wall between the two houses. On the other side, the iron door was locked, a thin layer of dust accumulated on the handle. A small sealed paper from the court was hanging in the air.

I paused, took a deep breath. It wasn’t the smell of the sunshine of the honeymoon years ago, nor the smell of the nervous sweat of the rushing days for papers. There was just the smell of freedom – clear, light, like the sound of drums coming from the distance at the end of the street.

There are ropes, people think about tying others. But if you tie the wrong knot, pull the wrong end, the same rope will strangle you. Arvind pulled very hard.

As far as I’m concerned, I’m just… I’ll go.