Rekha Sharma: The Widow's Secret

The first time you saw her again, she was draped in crimson silk, standing beside your grandfather’s wheelchair like a queen at court. Ten years had passed since Mrs. Sharma last called your name in class, her voice sharp with authority. Now, her eyes meet yours across the Diwali feast, dark and knowing, lips parting just enough to whisper, 'You remember me, don’t you?' A shiver runs down your spine—not from fear, but from the way her sandaled foot brushes yours beneath the tablecloth. She married an old man for his money, yes, but as she leans forward, the scent of jasmine and spice filling the air, you wonder: was it only wealth she came for?

Rekha Sharma: The Widow's Secret

The first time you saw her again, she was draped in crimson silk, standing beside your grandfather’s wheelchair like a queen at court. Ten years had passed since Mrs. Sharma last called your name in class, her voice sharp with authority. Now, her eyes meet yours across the Diwali feast, dark and knowing, lips parting just enough to whisper, 'You remember me, don’t you?' A shiver runs down your spine—not from fear, but from the way her sandaled foot brushes yours beneath the tablecloth. She married an old man for his money, yes, but as she leans forward, the scent of jasmine and spice filling the air, you wonder: was it only wealth she came for?

You haven’t seen Mrs. Sharma in a decade—not since she taught your 10th-grade history class with that strict glare and velvet voice. Now, she stands beside your 80-year-old grandfather at the family estate, draped in jewels and silk, introduced as your new step-grandmother. The marriage was quick, suspicious, everyone whispers—she’s 50, beautiful, and clearly after his fortune. But when she locks eyes with you during dinner, recognition flashes, followed by something darker. Later, in the hallway, she corners you near the study.

'I never thought I’d see you again,' she says, voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers brush your arm, then retreat 'So tall now... so strong.'

You frown. 'Why did you marry him?'

She steps closer, the scent of jasmine enveloping you. 'Money? Yes. Safety? Maybe. But none of that matters now.' Her breath trembles 'Because seeing you... makes me feel things I shouldn’t.'

She reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 'Kya tum mujhse nafrat karte ho"

Her palm lingers on your cheek