She hadn’t believed it in the first place. Her head didn’t spin, nor did she feel like vomiting, for she was convinced that the pudgy woman in a red kurta was adamant about spoiling her marriage. The woman could be single and thus envious. The woman could be part of a rival’s ploy meant to create a rift between the couple. Sharma Ji was the most successful stationer in the neighbourhood, and she thought people trying to taint his image were pretty obvious. Apart from her sporadic visits to the shop, this woman hadn’t appeared much in the neighbourhood before. Kalawati didn’t even know her name.

As the woman went about enumerating Sharma Ji’s vices—especially the story about how he met his lover every morning—Kalawati thought about her husband’s routine, how he went to the market every morning and usually returned empty-handed. Till now, it had never occurred to her that her husband would be out with someone in the mornings, drinking tea and clasping hands. Wasn’t he too old for that? But his chiselled features, long legs, and thick brows flashed across her mind. Oh, how she had blushed when their eyes met in their first meeting at her home! How, when he spoke for the first time, her heart was on the brink of explosion! Hadn’t she fallen for him at first sight? Now, the fact that she was besotted with him thrilled her, but the feelings of insecurity surfaced like a thin steam rising from a cup of tea in front of her.

At around 9 am, Sharma Ji, as usual, appeared from around the corner of the street. Kalawati saw him approaching the shop. Like most days, he was empty-handed, casually swinging his hands and waving at barbers and waiters on the way. At the threshold, she eyed him uncharacteristically, as though trying to extract the truth out of him.

“It’s cold outside,” Sharma Ji said and settled on the chair beside the counter. She turned around, looked at his eyes, and said nothing. The woman’s confession and the pictures she herself imagined occupied her nerves. It was beginning to dawn on her that meeting his eyes would be arduous, perhaps more difficult than wiping out the stupid ideas the woman had planted in her mind.

As they sat in silence, Kalawati recalled how she had dismissed the woman’s confession, telling her that perhaps she was confused or that it had something to do with her ocular issues. If not, how was it possible for the woman to see Sharma Ji gossiping with some random girl in parks and tea shops?

“Did you drink tea? You must be hungry?” Kalawati asked, without meeting his eyes. She had never asked where he went in the mornings; he always said he was going to the market. Their morning routine included Sharma Ji jogging from home to the shop, then staying idle for an hour, waiting for his wife to arrive so he could go to the market.

Kalawati would sweep every corner of the house, then bathe, and be present at the shop before 8 am. And for an hour or so, asking Kalawati to handle the shop, Sharma Ji would stride towards the centre of the bazaar.

“I drank two cups of tea. Sugary. I’m not hungry, but you can go home and prepare something. A light meal, okay?” Sharma Ji said, slightly tilting to fish out the phone from his pocket. She looked at the phone suspiciously, her eyes lingering on it long enough to draw his attention.

“What happened?” Sharma Ji was curious as he inspected his torso in search of something unusual.

“Oh, nothing. I’ll go home now. Shall I cook chicken?”

“Hmm, no, I guess. But as your wish, Kala!” He went back to scrolling his phone as she, stamping her feet, walked outside.

A usual 10-minute walk felt shorter today, for she might have walked hastily in anger or confusion. On her way home, she resented all the kids she saw on the street or outside their houses. She didn’t present them with sweets like other days; in fact, she would have loved it if she hadn’t had to see their snotty faces. Them addressing her as “Aunty” went unanswered, as her mind refused to think of anything other than the pudgy woman and what she said.

Kalawati felt stupid for not having asked who she was and why she was telling her this. What did the woman gain from all this? Kalawati didn’t know what to feel. Was her love so fragile that she was letting a tattletale mar their marriage with her false accounts? As Kalawati slouched on the sofa overlooking the big Sony TV, she picked her phone from the table and considered calling her husband and asking if he was indeed seeing someone else. She even conjured some questions in her mind to ask him.

“Hello! Where do you go every morning?”

“Where is your market, by the way?”

“Can I accompany you to the market tomorrow?”

“Who is it that you have been dating? You cheater!”

It was one thing to get furious with her husband over someone’s allegations, but it was another thing to lash out. She couldn’t do this to her husband, the man who had nervously come to her house some fifteen years ago to ask for her, the man who had kept patience with her even after discovering that she had some biological deficiency and could never become a mother. The gentleman that Sharma Ji was, it pained her to even think about him the way she was thinking now.

The luxury of staying home and cooking for him and doing nothing else—it was all because of Sharma Ji’s generosity, love, and devotion toward her. In their fifteen years of marriage, Sharma Ji, except for some mild scolding for misplacing materials in the shop, hadn’t mouthed a hurtful word.

An hour passed by, but she didn’t feel like getting up and entering the kitchen to make his favourite chicken. An hour-long rumination had given birth to a new possibility: yes, he could be cheating and scheming to get married so that he could become a father. After discovering that their marriage wouldn’t yield a child, she hadn’t eaten and stayed in bed for several weeks, and it was he who had remained unflappable and boosted her spirits. “Don’t worry, Kala! We are enough for each other,” he would reiterate and appear at her door with soups and chicken every hour or so. “Kala, do you want some tea?” “Kala, shall I book the tickets for a movie tomorrow?” “You look more stunning than before. I swear, Kala.” “Oh, Kala! How much I love you!”

That morning, she didn’t cook, and when she phoned her husband and told him to eat at a nearby eatery, he was concerned. In a panicked voice, he said, “Kala, what happened? Are you okay? And what will you eat?”

“I have no appetite. I’ll grab some fruits if I get hungry. You go and eat something good. And make sure you don’t eat anything rubbish,” Kalawati said, slightly amazed by her own kindness despite scepticism. Even if she tried, she couldn’t stop caring for her beloved husband. Of this, she was certain.

After she hung up the phone, she went to the kitchen, drank a cup of water, and then sauntered into her bedroom. There, she checked herself in the mirror adjacent to their master bed. It was as though she were searching for defects that had made her husband desire someone else. Bags had formed underneath her eyes. Her face was sagging, and her hairline was receding. But despite these minor flaws in her physical appearance, she looked beautiful, at least for a woman her age.

Then, randomly, out of nowhere, she pulled out a dye and studied its container. Her long fingers worked their magic, and in less than an hour, she looked entirely different from before. For the first time in her life, she coloured her hair blonde and chuckled to herself, saying, “A blonde Kalawati.”

As if guided by some invisible force, she rummaged through her closet and pulled out a pair of leggings. Now, Kalawati was clad in her boldest outfit, everything black, including the high heels her husband had bought her a year ago. She gave a once-over in the mirror again and walked down the steps. It wasn’t like Kalawati usually walked around wearing saris and conventional dresses, but it wasn’t every day that she wandered around wearing flashy clothes. Her heels clanking on the pavement, she headed towards the centre of the bazaar, with no direction in her head. She would take another gully to dodge her husband’s shop, but she was totally oblivious to her destination.

Perhaps she would go to some fancy café, eat momos, and be back by the evening. She could even check if people’s eyes were on her, and if young, dashing boys still sized her up. As she walked nonchalantly, with her shades on, she realised that this eccentric act was a challenge to her husband, a response to the pudgy woman’s confession. The day was entirely hers, and the next morning, she had to be prepared for every scene, every outcome. Against her nature, she would not oblige her husband and chase him to his “market.” But for now, she continued to walk.