After working as a maid for five years in a rich family, I was fed up with the filthy and impoverished life of the countryside, so I decided to leave my ailing husband and become my boss’s second wife: I thought I would become a millionaire in one step, but after four months, Something big happened…
The day I picked up my bag and stepped out of my old tiled house in the plains of Uttar Pradesh to a white-painted four-storey villa in Gurgaon’s DLF Phase 2, everyone thought I had changed my life. But few people knew that behind that golden door was hidden a price that I – a country woman – could never have imagined. Four months later, I picked up my bag, not a branded suitcase, but some old clothes stuffed in a sack, walked through the old street with my head bowed, saw the white canvas-covered veranda of the funeral…

My name is Meera, 38 years old. I come from a poor district in Uttar Pradesh – winters are cold, summers are hot. My husband – Dinesh – may be very well, but after a motorbike accident, he has been bedridden for two years. The burden of livelihood is on my shoulders. Both children were still young, studying in between. The house had nothing but a shabby bamboo bed and rotten tiled roof of my grandparents’ generation.

In 2018, I went to Delhi to work as a maid. By the first hour, then I moved in permanently for Mr. Rajiv Malhotra’s family – a wealthy family. His villa was as big as a hotel, always glowing, smelling of sandalwood essential oil, totally different from the stale smell I was used to as a child. Mr. Malhotra’s wife took the two children to Sydney to study at university and stayed there to look after them. He and I were the only ones living in the whole house. I cleaned, cooked, made masala chai, served rice – like a shadow.

Then one day, Mr. Malhotra started talking to me more. He was not as cool as he looked—but rather gentle, thoughtful, and inquisitive. Every time he would praise my rajma and paratha, my heart would warm up like a girl who had just fallen in love. I knew I wasn’t young anymore, nor beautiful – but I was single, and so was she.

The unexpected thing: He asked me to stay with him forever. She said that we are like two strangers, each of whom has his own life. I was stunned, my heart was pounding, happy and scared. I said: “Your husband and children are still in the countryside…” He looked at me for a long time and asked: “Think about it, do you want to live like this for the rest of your life?”

I was sleepless for many nights. Thinking of Dinesh – the paralyzed, who only knew how to groan in pain; Thinking of two children; Thinking of a dilapidated house, thinking of days of dripping rain and scorching sun. And I thought to myself – a 38-year-old woman, older than her real age, as withered as a banana tree cut from its roots.

I chose. I handed over the divorce papers to Dinesh, and asked my brother-in-law to handle them as he could not sign. I knew I was heartless, but I didn’t want to die in the mud in old age. I wanted to live in that house as long as I had a good life, and I wanted to be the “second wife.”

Mr. Malhotra held a small puja in the house, did not register the marriage, and just called me a “Jeevansaathi”. I had my own room, I could wear a saree, wear lipstick, go to the spa, and take advanced cooking classes in Gurgaon. From a maid, I became “Mr. Malhotra’s Mrs. Meera”. Relatives in the countryside were skeptical: some called me a traitor, others praised me for being a “visionary.” I said to myself: “I deserve this. I’ve been through a lot. ”

But that joy lasted only four months.

One hot afternoon, I was sitting in the study room – a place I had not dared to go for 30 years – when he came home, his face cold. He didn’t ask me what I ate, nor did he compliment me as usual. I was restless, but didn’t dare to ask.

That night, his phone rang – his wife was calling from Sydney. After the call, he said…

“Meera… Our relationship should be over. ”

I was stunned. “Why stop? You have left your whole family and come here to live with me.”

He turned away and walked away. A few days later, I learned that his wife and two children would be returning to the country – his daughter had met with an accident and needs treatment for a long time in India. And most of all, his wife announced that she was moving back: “Family is the most important thing. ”

From a “second wife,” I became a stranger. I had no papers, no name on the ownership of the land, no right to that house. She handed me an envelope: “Let me go back to my hometown and make ends meet.” I looked at the pile of money, tears flowing: “That’s it?”

That night, I packed my belongings – not the suitcase, but a sack of clothes – and quietly took the bus back to my hometown. No one sent me away, no one asked.

When I reached the entrance of the village, people had gathered in front of my house. A white canopy was spread in the courtyard, a cry of compassion resounded.

The bag fell out of my hand.

The sun… Gone.

I stood silently at the entrance to the street. The white color of the funeral was clearly visible in the yellow lights. Chants of kirtan, Ram Naam Satya Hai were echoing. The villagers looked at me: some whispered, some nodded, some turned away.

I couldn’t cry. My throat was choked, my legs were stiff.

The neighbour – Shanti Aunty – came closer. His eyes were no longer as friendly as before:

“He’s back. It’s too late, Mira. ”

I just wanted to ask: “He… When did he die?”

She sighed:
“Three days ago. The weather had changed, he had become very weak. Since the day she received the divorce papers, she has not eaten anything. I went to explain to him, ‘Your wife is back. She shook her head: “She’s gone… Gone forever. ’

I went into the courtyard. The fragrance of incense, incense sticks and wet soil was spreading. Dinesh’s picture was covered with a garland of marigold flowers, his face pale but tender. My chest ached as if it was being squeezed. The name of the man I had once thought of as a hindrance in my life was now making me unable to tremble and stand up.

The two children – Ravi and Asha – were sitting on the mat, their eyes swollen. When Asha saw me, she jumped up and then stopped. She didn’t hug me like before, just said dryly:

“Mom, you’re back. Dad is gone. ”

I got down on my knees and cried.

It was a cry of remorse – of a woman who thought she had changed her life, but risked everything to get nothing in return.

After the funeral, I lived quietly in the old house. In front of me, the villagers spoke little; Behind my back, there was a lot of gossip. Some people said that I “don’t know how to maintain my happiness,” while others said even more harsh things: “To be the second wife of a rich family, to come back to find my husband dead, to find my children cold – that was all right!”

They weren’t wrong. I had just started a “new life” leaving my terminally ill husband and two children. But that life was just a temporary halo – like moonlight at the bottom of the water: beautiful, shimmering, but never even touched.

I sold the gilded necklace Mr. Malhotra had given me on the day of our parting, emptied the envelope and opened a small grocery shop next to the house. Not big, but it was enough for the three of us.

Asha, who was just 14 years old, fell silent. His eyes were looking at me coldly, as if a scratch had not yet healed. Once, I bought a new uniform for her. She muttered: “Thank you. Then he said softly:
“Don’t go again next time, Mom.”

I was speechless. These words pierced my heart like a needle. I hugged my son, but he didn’t hug me. That rift couldn’t heal overnight. I’ll wait – until he forgives me.

Ravi – the eldest son – was more silent. He dropped out of school and worked as a construction labourer with his uncle. I begged him to go back to school. He smiled faintly:
“I’m a grown-up now. My father is no more, my family is poor. I work to ease my mother’s grief.
I covered my face and cried. He turned away and walked away.

One day, I heard that an inquiry was underway for Mr. Malhotra’s land. The villa was sealed, the property confiscated. I was neither happy nor sad. I just thought: I wish I had woken up earlier.

I started going to Hanuman temple on the first of every month. Not to pray for riches, but to find peace. I asked to teach a cooking class in the commune: the dishes I learned in the city became my bread and butter – and a way to atone for my mistakes.

Sometimes, while looking towards the place of worship – where Dinesh’s portrait is keenly placed – I whisper:
“Bhai… I was wrong. If it’s the next life, don’t let me be so grateful to you. ”

On his first death anniversary, the entire village came. Everyone was surprised to see me handling everything, from vegetarian food to incense sticks. Some people looked at me differently. A neighbour said:
“Mira has also suffered a lot… But she knows how to flip. ”

I don’t expect to get an apology right away. I just want to be a good mom, a good woman – even if it’s late then.

A woman who once sacrificed everything to climb up, then lost everything to fall down. But when she turns around, there’s a way for her to start all over again — no matter how small, no matter how rough