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The Patil family was what every neighbor called "perfect."
In the crowded city lanes of Mumbai, where every building stood a little too close and every heart beat a little too fast, lived the Patils — a family that looked whole from the outside.
Their home wasn't grand, but it was filled with soft lights, the smell of masalas, and the echo of memories. A tiny rangoli sat at the doorstep. A Tulsi plant stood in the courtyard. Inside, there was always noise — the good kind. The kind that sounds like laughter, like teasing, like peace.
Pandurang Patil, the eldest of the house at 70, still read the newspaper aloud in the mornings, glasses slipping down his nose. He had once been a schoolteacher, known for his strictness and sharp mind. Though slower now, his voice still carried authority — and love.
Beside him was Namrata, his 68-year-old wife. Her bangles always clinked while she worked in the kitchen. She made the best besan laddoos in the colony and still scolded her grandchildren like they were toddlers, even if one of them was now sixteen.
That sixteen-year-old was Khushi — the pride of the house. A girl with bright eyes, thick braids, and a head always full of dreams. Topping every exam. Writing essays that made teachers cry. And laughing with the kind of freedom only a girl loved deeply could afford.
Her little brother Ron was seven, constantly bouncing off walls, running behind her like a shadow. "Tai!" he would shout every five minutes, tugging at her kurti, demanding a story, a sweet, a magic trick.
Then came Sonali — the soul of the Patil family. She had given up her job after marriage, dedicating her life to the family. She was warm, dependable, and full of quiet strength. Everyone in the neighborhood called her *Sanskari Bahu*. She woke before everyone, made tiffins, prayed in front of the mandir with folded hands and closed eyes — and smiled. Always smiled.
Her husband Sanjay was the 'perfect' Indian man. Tall, well-dressed, always punctual. Ran a successful transport company. Paid the bills. Took the family for Diwali dinners. Played Ludo with Ron.
What no one saw was the darkness in the details.
"Khushi, look at this!" Sonali called from the living room. "Your Baba's office photo came in the paper again!"
Khushi peeked over her shoulder. "Aai, he's just standing next to a bus. Why are you acting like he won a medal?" she laughed.
"He looks smart," Namrata chimed in, stirring dal in the kitchen.
Pandurang grunted. "When's the last time that boy came and sat with us in the evening? Paper mein photo aaya toh kya hua? Pyaar se do baatein karna zyada important hai." [So what if a photo came out in the paper? Talking to someone with love is more important]
Sonali chuckled nervously. "Baba, he's just busy with work. You know how hard he tries."
"He used to talk to me about his day," Pandurang muttered. "Now he talks only to his phone."
Khushi rolled her eyes playfully. "Don't be jealous, Ajoba. Maybe his phone is more interesting."
Everyone laughed — but Sonali didn't.
Her smile faltered just a bit, her hands gripping her saree pallu.
Khushi saw that.
And stored it silently.
The signs came slowly.
Sanjay started skipping meals.
Sonali would stare at her phone late at night, whispering to herself in the kitchen.
Pandurang asked once, "Kahi tension aahe ka, mulgi?" (Is something bothering you, dear girl?)
Sonali shook her head. "Kahi nahi, Baba." (Nothing, Baba.)
But even Namrata noticed.
"He doesn't eat your sabudana khichdi anymore. He used to finish the whole bowl," she said one night while oiling Khushi's hair.
"Aaji…" Khushi whispered, "I think Baba is hiding something."
Namrata paused. "Don't think that. Your Aai is already so tired. Don't add more to her heart."
But Khushi knew.
Then came the ticket stubs. Two of them. A romantic movie. Sunday show. Her mother hadn't gone anywhere.
Khushi followed her father one day.
She saw him outside a jewelry store.
With a woman who wasn't Sonali.
Neha.
Beautiful, young, and confident. She laughed too loudly. She touched his arm too freely.
Sanjay smiled at her like a schoolboy.
That was the moment Khushi stopped believing in the idea of perfect love.
The confrontation didn't come with screaming.
It came with silence.
One night, Sonali found a receipt in his wallet — two gold bangles, bought on the date of their anniversary, but never given to her.
She sat on the swing in the balcony, holding it like poison.
Khushi walked in quietly. "Aai?"
Sonali didn't look up.
"He's been with her for three years," she whispered.
Khushi's heart dropped. "You knew?"
Sonali nodded, slowly. "He promised he'd end it. Said it was a mistake. Said he loved me."
"And you believed him?"
"I wanted to." Her voice cracked. "For you. For Ron. For Ajoba and Aaji."
That night, Pandurang sat beside Sonali with his old hand on her shoulder. "Let's go to my village for some time," he said gently.
"No, Baba," she said, eyes shining. "This is my home. I won't leave it. He should be the one to leave."
But she never said anything more.
Not the next day.
Not ever again.
Because the day after that, she went to her brother's flat and… didn't come back.
The police said she jumped.
A neighbor said she was quiet when she arrived.
Khushi only found a letter in her science textbook.
> "Forgive me, my Khushi. I am not strong like you. Take care of Ron. And never let him forget how much I love you both."
---
The funeral was quiet.
The family was shattered.
Pandurang didn't speak for hours. Namrata didn't stop crying.
Sanjay stood like a statue.
Khushi didn't cry. She held Ron close, let him sob into her chest, and stared at her father's face with hatred that burned.
That night, she looked at Sonali's photo on the wall.
"I will not forget," she whispered. "And I will not forgive."
End of Chapter 1