My wife worked hard from morning till noon, taking care of the children and cooking delicious food for her husband to welcome the guests. But when his friends came, he introduced his wife as a maid who had just arrived from the countryside. I couldn’t stop myself anymore and did something that embarrassed her…
I became Arjun Sharma’s bride in Bengaluru: no lavish wedding, no dowry – just a marriage certificate with the sub-registrar and his promise:

“When I’m settled, I’ll make up for you.” ” 

Three years later, I still had no money.

Just a small kid, Aarav, and a small rented 1BHK in Whitefield.

My husband continued:
“As a man, it’s important to respect your dignity when you go out.

I understood, so I never asked for anything.
Just quietly carried all the burden: getting up early in the morning to take care of the kids, selling stuff online, going to the market in the afternoon, cooking at night.

That day I got a call from Arjun:
“My guests are coming in the afternoon. I have college friends—all are successful. Make good food. ”

I nodded. In the afternoon, my child had a fever, and yet I went into the kitchen swinging him.

The market was almost closed, so I hurriedly went to buy chicken and fish; Add basmati rice and herbs as well.

Sweated in making a neat tray: chicken curry, paneer butter masala, pulao, roti, raita, salad.

Guests arrived: smart suits, shiny shoes, talking about “real estate”, “shares”, “trading”.

I went out to greet him, and while I was serving food, Arjun suddenly put his hand on my shoulder with a smile:

“This is a maid from the village who has just arrived. She is a great cook, you guys must try it. ”

I stood there, still holding the raita.

Aarav, who was standing behind me, suddenly burst into tears—as if he had realized something.

I didn’t say anything, I didn’t cry.

I just went ahead, placed the raita in the middle of the table, looked directly at each person and said…

“I am his legal wife, I have given birth to his child, sacrificed three years to look after this family. Today, I will stop playing this role. ”

Then I went into the room with my child in my arms.
Arjun’s friend was stunned. One person stuttered:

“Uh… Is this your wife? Why you…”

About an hour later, the entire tray of food was lying there.

I heard the door “bang” and my friends leaving.

Arjun did not dare to go into the room.

That night, I filed for divorce with my child in a family court in Bangalore.

A week later, he pleaded to come back.

But I had moved on, rented a small studio in Indiranagar, and embarked on a new journey—no more bowls of chutney and cheap “izzat”.

A week after filing the application in the Bengaluru family court, I took Aarav to a small studio in the lane of 100 Feet Road in Indiranagar. The ceiling fan rattled, the Namma Metro was visible from the window—every time the train passed, the curtains shook as if someone was taking a deep breath.

In the morning, I made masala chai, took out porridge for my son, opened my notebook and wrote: “Online order – doctor’s appointments – find childcare every hour”. At night, I kept typing until my fingers went numb, surrounded by the sound of auto-rickshaws passing by and the sound of Aarav’s slow snoring.

On the first day in the new house, Aarav asked:
— “Mamma, what is a ‘helper’?”

I was stunned. Instead of talking about hierarchy, I said softly:
— “An assistant.” In our house, all we do is help each other. Mummy cooks rice to help me eat, I clean toys to make Mummy feel less tired. That’s all. ”

He nodded, gripping my neck more tightly. Some new definitions should start with the child.

I took a picture of the pulao-raita-chutney recipes made by Arjun for his customers and posted them on the sales page. At the end of the street, a small café filter and foam sent a message: “Do you make office tiffins? My clients ask for a lot. ”

I started with 5 servings, then 12, then 30. I asked Anita, who runs a vegetable shop in a hoodie, about the right basmati rice. Patel, who lived next door, lent me another pressure cooker. Three women from the ward’s self-help group came to watch the process and offered to make tiffins by connecting me with other single mothers. I named this service “Home Kitchen” and put up a small sign outside the door: “Homemade Lunch Box – Clean, Real, on Time.” ”

Every morning at 11 a.m., I would pack the cooler on a rented scooter and haul a bunch of lunch boxes warm in the scorching sun of Whitefield. The first food arrived on time, and the customer texted: “Delicious.” Like homemade food. “I was sitting under a neem tree, laughing and… She was crying.

Lawyer Nisha Menon—who spoke quickly and concisely—welcomed me into a room full of files.

“What do you want in your petition? Divorce for mental cruelty, custody of Aarav, maintenance under Section 125 of CrPC?”

I nodded. I showed Nisha the recording of that afternoon, in which Arjun had put me in his arms and smiled and said: “Maids of the new village. I showed her several teasing messages from her friends, and a phone came late at night after the party, a low voice from a friend: “Sorry… We don’t know. ”

Nisha collected evidence, pinning them “click-click”:
— “I will get interim maintenance for the child, temporary primary custody, and a clear schedule to meet Arjun.” As far as I’m concerned… We’ll part ways right away. ”

At the first hearing, Arjun wore a white shirt, his eyes were deep, and his mouth was still muttering “respect for men.” The judge—a middle-aged woman wearing a string of pearls—looked straight:
“Respect is not based on putting others down. Here, only the best interests of the child are at stake. ”

She signed the order: Arjun must pay Aarav’s school fees, a monthly allowance, meet the child twice a week at a court-appointed play café, and not come to my apartment without an appointment.

I walked out of the court, stood under the rain tree, the wind blowing through my hair. There was no victory, just a heavy cloud descending from my shoulders.

One night, a message came from an unknown number: “This is Sameer speaking – Arjun’s friend of the day. Sorry. We were laughing together that day. Here’s the picture of the food you cooked, I still have it. If necessary, I will testify in court. I saw the picture—the chicken curry was still evaporating in the glasses without touching it—and wrote in response: “Thank you.” Apologizing reduces this bitterness. ”

I didn’t have to embarrass anyone. I just wanted them to remember whose food it was that had gone cold.

Meeting your son for the first time at the Play Cafe. Aarav hugs Arjun and starts talking about the metro. I was sitting at a nearby table, making a spreadsheet of contents. Arjuna looked at me and said softly:
— “Me… Sorry. I thought that vanity had to be concealed by lies. Turns out, Izzat knows how to introduce his wife by her proper name. ”

I didn’t respond. I buttoned Aarav’s shirt and spoke to Arjun as if talking to someone who had gone through my life and who still had a little life to raise:
— “Next time, introduce yourself: ‘This is my son’s mother’. Enough is enough. ”

In three months, the number of people per week in the ‘home kitchen’ reached 100 people. I moved from the studio to a large 1BHK, which was still in Indiranagar, but which had enough balcony to hang a few pots of tulsi and bougainvillea. I bought a set of old wooden tables and chairs, oiled them and painted them like honey. On the wall, I hung a blackboard with chalk:

Today: Pulao – Dal Tadka – Cucumber Salad – Mint Raita.

Announcement: Appointment of two part-time cooks (preference to single mothers).

On the afternoon of the opening of the new kitchen, a self-help group arrived—each with their own utensils. Ms. Patel handed me a packet of Alphonso mangoes: “Sweet as new life.” I smiled and lit the candle on the ragi cake I had made.

I made Aarav sit on the chair:
— “Mumma has something to say today. ”

His eyes widened. I pointed to the board:
“Mamma is the head of the kitchen. Mumma is Aarav’s mother. Mama is the only one who is respected in her home. That’s all. ”

Applause erupted in the room. I looked up at the balcony as the subway train passed by, emitting a ray of light. At that moment, I realized that I had found a new definition of family: maybe not entirely, but true.

One weekend night, Arjun texted: “I want to compensate you—a party I promised. I looked at the screen, smiled, and wrote in response:
“The best compensation is to keep track of the time of commuting, to pay the alimony on time, and to say when someone asks: This is my son’s mother.” ”

I didn’t need a party to prove a point. I had my own home—a kitchen with a scent of fresh rice, a deep-slumber baby, and a blackboard with my name neatly written on it.

That night, I closed the balcony door and pulled the curtains. Aarav’s breathing was smooth. I set an alarm for 4:30 a.m. to soak the rice. Before going to sleep, I messaged Nisha Menon: “Sister, I have decided to keep the family name for Aarav, no property dispute. I just want to clean up and raise the baby together. Nisha replied in a short sentence: “This is real izzat.” ”

I turned off the lights. The subway passed for the last time. In the quiet darkness, I realized: Izzat is not a coat you wear in front of your friends. Respect is how you call the person who lit the stove for you, and when you stand in front of the mirror, you also call yourself by name.

Tomorrow morning, I will wake up early again and make lunch boxes to take all over Bangalore. And if someone asks, I’ll smile:

“I am Arjun’s ex-wife, Aarav’s mother, the head of the kitchen. And the ‘housekeeper’? Yes—I’m the housekeeper of my life. ”