Every night, my husband leaves a bottle gourd at the head of the bed. Small gourds appear, then bigger ones. It hurts me so deeply that when I finally discover what he has created, I can no longer stand.
I gave birth just six months ago. After childbirth, a woman’s body bears marks like these in India too: stretch marks, darkened skin from sun exposure and hormonal changes, and a body that is no longer slim like a young girl’s. I am Priya, and I have always been self-conscious. But I believed that Rohan—my husband, a software engineer working in central Kochi—would understand that sacrifice.
However, for about a month now, Rohan has developed a strange habit. Every night after work, he stops at the local market and buys a long bottle gourd with wrinkled, withered skin.
At night, Rohan would take out the gourd and place it on our plain bed, right next to my pillow, then smile faintly and say,
“Priya, move a little and make space for this ‘pregnant woman.’ Look—its skin is wrinkled, its body is loose… doesn’t it look just like your current shape?”
His words were dripping with contempt. I stood there stunned, silent tears falling onto my sari. It became clear that he wasn’t buying the gourd to cook—it was to mock his wife’s body after childbirth.
I pushed the gourd away, my throat tightening.
“Can you be any more cruel? Who do you think I became like this for? I gave birth to a child with your blood!”
Rohan sneered.
“Stop it. Don’t dramatize everything. If it’s ugly, just say it’s ugly. My eyes are already tired from looking at other men’s wives at the office. I’m so bored of looking at you that I don’t even want to touch you anymore. Just leave it there and think about it.”
One afternoon, Rohan forgot his phone at home. I unlocked it—and froze as I read the WhatsApp messages between him and his mistress, saved as “Little Kitty.”
Rohan:
“Last night I came home again to tease my ‘jellyfish.’ She looked really upset. I’m just waiting for her to sign the transfer papers of her grandparents’ ancestral land in the village. After that, I’ll kick her out and bring my ‘Little Kitty’ home.”
Little Kitty:
“Hehe, remember your promise. I won’t stay in Fort Kochi hotels forever.”
I put the phone down, my heart aching. How much pain could one relationship hold? He called me ugly, cheated on me, and plotted to seize my family’s ancestral land.
I wiped my tears. Crying was useless now. I looked at myself in the mirror—at that tired woman in her old salwar kameez—and said to myself,
“Priya, you have to stand up. You are not allowed to fall.”
I began to change.
I stopped arguing. I stopped showing anger. I became soft, strangely obedient. I told Rohan,
“You’re right. I really am ugly. I’m scared you’ll leave me. Please give me a chance to change myself.”
Rohan was pleased, thinking I had completely surrendered. Taking advantage of his complacency, I began executing my plan.
I said to him,
“My parents in the village are planning to transfer their fishing village land to us as business capital. But they’re afraid you’ll look down on me and abandon me. So they’re insisting we sign a ‘marriage commitment.’”
Rohan’s eyes lit up when he heard about the valuable land.
“What commitment? Sign it right now!”
I showed him the document I had carefully drafted after consulting a lawyer in Delhi.
“The content is simple. If either spouse commits adultery or files for unilateral divorce without valid reason, they lose all property rights gained during the marriage and must also pay ₹50 lakh as honorable compensation to the other.”
Rohan signed without hesitation. He believed his affair was secret. I was just a village woman busy raising a child—what could I possibly know? And the land was worth crores; what did this document matter?
Once he signed, I quietly gathered all evidence of the affair: photos, Paytm transfer statements, hotel bookings. At the same time, I hired a personal trainer, went to Ayurvedic spas for skincare, and changed my wardrobe—replacing old salwar suits with elegant saris and lehengas.
On Rohan’s birthday, I hosted a grand party at a Kochi hotel, inviting all his colleagues and friends—and “accidentally” inviting the young secretary as well.
I arrived wearing a bright red Kanchipuram silk sari with golden patterns, hugging my now-toned body once again. My skin glowed with turmeric and coconut oil, my posture confident and radiant. The entire room was stunned. Rohan was stunned too—he could no longer recognize his “village wife.”
When everyone was seated, I smiled and walked onto the stage.
“Today, to celebrate my husband’s birthday, I have a special gift. Lauki kofta.”
A waiter brought a large plate of kofta and placed it in front of Rohan and his girlfriend.
“Rohan loves bottle gourd,” I said loudly, my words dripping with meaning.
“He brings one home every night to place beside his bed. He says the skin may be wrinkled, but inside it’s sweet and cool—just like a good wife. Isn’t that right?”
Rohan’s face turned pale. He forced a smile.
“But today,” I continued coldly,
“I invited you and the secretary here to taste the bitterness of this bottle gourd.”
The big screen lit up. Not obscene videos—but images and messages showing Rohan humiliating his wife, plotting to seize property, and hugging his mistress on a Goa vacation, spending money meant for our child.
The entire room fell silent in shock. The mistress tried to run, but security stopped her.
I walked forward and placed the “marriage commitment” and signed divorce papers on the table.
“Mr. Rohan, according to the agreement you signed, with this proof of adultery, you have officially lost everything. The Kochi apartment, my parents’ land, even the Royal Enfield motorcycle you ride—all belong to me and my child now. You leave with what you came with: empty hands and your ‘little’ mistress.”
Rohan trembled.
“You… you lied to me?”
“No one deceived anyone,” I replied calmly.
“Your greed and betrayal destroyed you. You called me a wrinkled bottle gourd because you craved sweet mangoes. Now I’m setting you free to look for them. But remember—without my money, let’s see how sweet those ‘mangoes’ still taste.”
That night, Rohan was thrown out of the party. As expected, once his mistress learned he was broke and owed ₹50 lakh in compensation, she turned on him immediately, calling him “poor and disgraceful,” and blocked him everywhere.
Because of the scandal, Rohan lost his job. He wandered through cities like Bangalore and Hyderabad looking for work, but few places accepted him. Full of regret, he returned to the village many times to beg for forgiveness—but I never opened the door.
As for me, after that trauma, I learned to love myself even more. In my hometown in Kerala, I opened an Ayurvedic beauty and healthcare center for pregnant and post-natal mothers, named “LAUKI.” My center is always crowded—not just because of its services, but because of the inspirational story of a woman who rose from pain.
Whenever I look back, I silently thank those withered bottle gourds of the past.
Because of them, I discovered my worth, shed the weight of life’s cruelty, and now live a life filled with pride, strength, and dignity.