Vaishali learnt to live like a bandit queen after she taught the shopkeeper a lesson for refusing her credit. The gossip travelled faster than the evening chai. Women lowered their voices when they spoke of her; men stood aside when she passed. Yet in the same breath, they called her trustworthy — bold, straightforward, and unafraid to meet a man’s gaze.
It was in these years that she fell in love with a contractor. They met in secret, the scent of wet earth clinging to the narrow lanes where they stood too close, speaking too softly. She thought she could keep the world from knowing, but one day she was caught.
Her father-in-law’s verdict was swift: end the romance or leave the house.
“Live like a queen,” he said, “or live like a beggar.”
She chose love over luxury. With young children at her side, no money, and only a not-so-wealthy lover for support, she walked through hunger, heat, and stares. But hardship tempered her like steel in a blacksmith’s fire. She began earning, built her own standing, and learned not to bow — not even to him.
The day he questioned her worth, she faced a choice again: keep him or keep herself.
This time she chose herself.
She never looked for love again. Instead, she built a life thick with people. Morning walks where the dew clung to her sari hem. Yoga in the community hall, tea and coffee circles that smelled of cardamom and gossip. Four closest friends became her family — women whose kitchens she could enter without knocking, where oil popped in the pan and stories spilled as freely as the chai.
Fifteen years later, her father-in-law grew frail. She returned to feed him rice softened in ghee, to button his kurta when his fingers failed. He passed away whispering her name. Five years after that, her mother-in-law followed, her last words carrying the same quiet gratitude.
Her days became full from dawn to dusk — market noise, temple bells, bus horns. At the ISKCON temple, she spoke to Krishna as if to an equal. Sometimes she scolded him, sometimes she teased, sometimes she dared him to grant her wishes. She didn’t believe in God, but she liked the echo of her own voice rising to the carved dome.
In her groups, people were careful with their words about rituals. Vaishali was not. She could question a priest without blinking. No one dared to silence her.
Then, thirty years after she had chosen herself, a mutual friend came to visit — the same friend who had once brought her first love into her life. This time, he wasn’t alone.
The man who had stolen her heart in her early marriage stepped into her doorway. His hair was the colour of ash now, his frame softer, but his eyes were unchanged — two embers that still knew her.
They spoke of the past, of the friend who had tied their fates once and again. When he left, she did not ask if he would return. She simply stood in the doorway, watching until his figure blurred in the late light.
Only then did she close the door, the smell of cardamom from the morning still lingering in the air, and the quiet weight of her own life — chosen, built, and held — pressing gently in her chest.
Maq Masi Blog 
Leave a comment