My wife worked hard from morning till noon, taking care of the kids and cooking delicious meals for her husband to entertain the guests. But when her friends arrived, she introduced her husband as a maid who had just arrived from the countryside. I couldn’t help myself and did something that would embarrass her…
I became Arjun Sharma’s bride in Bengaluru: no lavish wedding, no dowry – just a marriage certificate from the sub-registrar and his promise:
“When I get settled, I will pay you.” ”
Three years later, I still have no money.
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A small child, Aarav, and a small rented 1BHK in Whitefield.
My husband continued:
“As a man, it is important to respect your dignity when you go out.
I understand, so I didn’t ask for anything.
Silently carrying all the burdens: waking up early in the morning to look after the kids, selling things online, going to the market in the afternoon, cooking in the evening.
That day I got a call from Arjun:
“My guests are coming in the afternoon. I have friends in college—all successful. Cook delicious food.”
I nodded. That evening, my son had a fever, but I went to the kitchen and rocked him.
The market was almost closed, so I rushed to buy chicken and fish; Add basmati rice and herbs too.
Sweating over making a neat tray: chicken curry, paneer butter masala, pulao, roti, raita, salad.
The guests arrived: smart suits, shiny shoes, talking about “real estate”, “sharing”, “business”.
I went out to greet him, and as I was serving the food, Arjun suddenly put his hand on my shoulder with a smile:
“This is a servant from the provinces who just arrived. He is a good cook, you should try it.”
I stood there, still holding the raita.
Aarav, who was standing behind me, suddenly burst into tears—as if he had realized something.
I didn’t say anything, I wasn’t crying.
I just walked over, placed the raita in the middle of the table, looked straight at each person and said…
“I am his legal wife, I gave birth to his child, I have sacrificed for three years to take care of this family. Today, I will stop playing this role.”
I entered the room holding my child.
Arjun’s friend was stunned. One person recoiled:
“Uh… Is this your wife? Why did you …”
About an hour later, the entire tray of food was there.
I heard the door bang and my friends leave.
Arjun didn’t dare to enter the room.
That night, I filed for divorce from my son in a family court in Bangalore.
A week later, he begged to come back.
But I moved out, rented a small studio in Indiranagar, and began a new journey—no more bowls of chutney and cheap “izzat.”
A week after filing the application in the Bengaluru family court, I took Aarav to a small studio in a lane off 100 Feet Road in Indiranagar. The ceiling fan was spinning, the Namma Metro was visible from the window—every time a train passed by, the curtains shook as if someone was taking a deep breath.
In the morning, I made masala chai, made porridge for my son, opened my notebook and wrote: “Online order – doctor’s appointment – find childcare every hour”. In the evening, I continued typing until my fingers went numb, surrounded by the sound of auto-rickshaws passing by and the sound of Aarav’s slow snoring.
On the first day in the new house, Aarav asked:
— “Mom, what is a ‘helper’?”
I was stunned. Instead of talking about hierarchy, I said calmly:
— “A helper.” In our house, all we did was help each other. Mommy cooked rice to help me eat, I cleaned the toys so that Mommy wouldn’t get tired. That was it. ”
He nodded and held my neck tighter. Some new meanings must begin with the child.
I took a picture of the pulao-raita-chutney recipes that Arjun made for his customers and posted them on the sales page. At the end of the street, a small cafe and foam filter sent a message: “Do you make office tiffins? My clients are asking for a lot.”
I started with 5 servings, then 12, then 30. I asked Anita, who runs a vegetable shop in Hoodie, about the right basmati rice. Patel, who lives in the next room, lent me another pressure cooker. Three women from the ward’s self-help group came to see the process and offered to make tiffins by connecting me with other single mothers. I named the service “Home Kitchen” and put up a small board outside the door: “Homemade lunch boxes – clean, authentic, timely.” ”
Every morning at 11 a.m., I would strap a cooler to a rented scooter and carry a bunch of hot lunch boxes under the blazing Whitefield sun. The first meal arrived on time, and the customer texted: “Delicious.” Like a home-cooked meal. “I sat under the neem tree, laughed and… She cried.
Lawyer Nisha Menon—who spoke quickly and succinctly—welcomed me into a room full of files.
“What do you want in your petition?” Divorce for mental cruelty, custody of Aarav, custody under Section 125 of the CrPC?”
I nodded. I showed Nisha a recording of that afternoon in which Arjun hugged me and smiled: “Maids of the new village. I showed her some teasing messages from her friends, and a phone call came the night after the party, a friend’s low voice: “Sorry… We don’t know.”
Nisha submitted evidence, pinning them “click-clicks”:
— “I’ll get temporary child support, temporary primary custody, and a clear schedule to meet Arjun. For me… We’ll separate immediately.”
At the first hearing, Arjun was wearing a white polo shirt, his eyes deep, and his mouth was still muttering “respect for men.” The judge—a middle-aged woman wearing a string of pearls—looked straight ahead:
“Respect is not based on putting others down. Only the child’s welfare is at stake.”
She signed the order: Arjun must pay Aarav’s school fees, monthly allowance, meet the child twice a week at a court-appointed play cafe, and not come to my apartment without an appointment.
I left the court, stood under a rain tree, the wind blowing through my hair. No victory, only a heavy cloud descending from my shoulders.
One night, a message came from an unknown number: “This is Sameer speaking – Arjun’s friend that day. I’m sorry. We laughed together that day. Here’s the picture of the food you cooked, I still have it. If necessary, I will testify in court. I saw the picture—the chicken curry still steaming in the glasses without touching them—and I wrote in response: “Thank you.” Apologizing reduces this bitterness.”
I don’t need to embarrass anyone. I just want to know whose food is getting cold.
He met your son for the first time at Play Cafe. Aarav hugged Arjun and started talking about the metro. I was sitting at a nearby table, arranging the contents. Arjuna looked at me and said softly:
— “I… Sorry. I thought that the insignificance should be covered up with a lie. Izzat knows very well how to introduce his wife by her proper name.”
I didn’t answer. I touched Aarav’s shirt and spoke to Arjun as if I were talking to someone who had passed through my life and still had some life to live:
— “Next time, introduce yourself: ‘This is my child’s mother’. That’s enough.”
Within three months, the number of people per week in the ‘home kitchen’ had reached 100. I moved from the studio to a large 1BHK, still in Indiranagar, but with a balcony big enough to hang a few pots of tulsi and bougainvillea. I bought a set of old wooden tables and chairs, oiled them and painted them like honeycomb. On the wall, I hung a blackboard with chalk:
Today: Pulao – Dal Tadka – Cucumber Salad – Mint Raita.
Announcement: Appointment of two part-time cooks (preferred by single mothers).
On the afternoon of the opening of the new kitchen, a self-help group arrived—each with their own equipment. Ms. Patel handed me a packet of Alphonso mangoes: “Sweet as new life.” I smiled and lit the candle on the ragi cake I had made.
I made Aarav sit down on the chair:
— “Momma has something to say now.”
Her eyes widened. I told her,
“Mommy is the head of the kitchen. Mommy is Aarav’s mother. Only Mama is respected in their home. That’s all.”
A round of applause erupted from the room. I glanced out to the balcony as a subway train passed by, casting a beam of light. In that moment, I realized I had found a new definition of family: perhaps not perfect, but real.
One weekend night, Arjun texted: “I want to pay you back—a party I promised.” I looked at the screen, smiled, and wrote back:
“The best payment is to track your commute, pay child support on time, and say when someone asks: This is my child’s mother.” ”
I don’t need a party to prove a point. I have my own home—a kitchen that smells of fresh rice, a baby sleeping soundly, and a blackboard with my name neatly written on it.
That night, I closed the balcony door and drew the curtains. Aarav was breathing smoothly. I set an alarm for 4:30 a.m. to soak the rice. Before going to bed, I texted Nisha Menon: “Sister, I have decided to keep the family name for Aarav, no ownership disputes. I just want to clean and raise a baby at the same time.” Nisha replied in a short sentence: “This is real izzat.” ”
I turned off the light. The subway passed by for the last time. In the silent darkness, I realized: Izzat is not a coat you wear in front of your friends. Respect is how you call the person who lit the stove for you, and when you stand in front of the mirror, you also call yourself by name.
Tomorrow morning, I will wake up early again and cook lunch boxes to take all over Bangalore. And if anyone asks, I smile:
“I am Arjun’s ex-wife, Aarav’s mother, the head of the kitchen. And the ‘housekeeper’? Yes—I am the housekeeper of my life.”