Divorce, my husband left me empty-handed, and half a year later, an unexpected call forced him to transfer 1 crore rupees to me…
“The day we signed the divorce papers, he smiled and told me to be thankful I could leave quietly. I didn’t get the house, the car, or even the children. Six months later, a single phone call from me transferred 1 crore rupees to him, not a penny less.”

I’m Anika, 32, an accountant at a small private company in Andheri, Mumbai. I met Raghav when I was 27, when he was running a chain of mobile accessories stores in Mumbai and Thane. At the time, I felt lucky to have found a talented, mature man. Raghav was five years older than me, well-spoken, and knew how to please women. He once said:

“Marry me, you’ll only be happy. Women who think too much about money can’t keep men.” I foolishly assumed I was an exception.

Three years after marriage, I quit my job and stayed at home to raise the kids. All the expenses were on Raghav. The land in the Bandra apartment wasn’t in my name, and his savings account was also in my name. The car was purchased before marriage. All the property “accidentally” ended up in a gray area where the law couldn’t reach.

Then one day, I discovered Raghav was having an affair. Not just one person, but several—from a secretary in Lower Parel to a new graduate doing an internship in BKC. I created a huge uproar. In response, he said coldly:

“If you want a divorce, sign it. The house is mine, the car is mine. You can’t raise the child, let me do it.”

I was so shocked that I was speechless. I had spent my youth believing in love and sacrifice. But the court, as he had said, ruled: the house is separate property, the car was purchased before marriage, and the child was given to someone with financial resources. I left with few clothes, little savings, and a broken heart.

I went back to Nagpur for a while, living with my parents. I cried every night. But one day, my mother looked me straight in the eyes and said:

“Instead of crying, why don’t you stand up? You used to be the best student in school. Now you’re going to let that man laugh at you?”
That statement was like a slap in the face. I started studying again. I enrolled in an online digital marketing course, then applied for a freelance job. First, I wrote content for hire, then advertised on Facebook and Instagram for a clothing store in Mumbai. The money wasn’t much, but I felt I was moving forward.

Three months later, I met Priya – my old college friend, now working in the tech industry in Pune. Priya was surprised to learn that I was divorced. She introduced me to a small startup group where hurt women were trying to make a comeback. I learned a lot, especially about digitizing personal data, tracing transactions, and digital forensics.

Accidentally looking through my old phone, I came across a video of Raghav texting his girlfriend. I found the messages and photos, and what unfolded before my eyes stunned me…

Some extremely sensitive passages mentioned GST evasion, fake invoices, and off-the-books records in the store system.

My heart raced. My accountant instincts kicked in. I realized: When we were newly married, I’d handled his basic bookkeeping. I still had some Excel files, statements, and even the missing GST invoices.

I suddenly realized: Even if I were penniless at the time of divorce, if I had evidence of illegal business, I could bring him to his knees.

I began gathering documents, exporting every WhatsApp chat (with time hashes) and emails, and comparing them with the financial reports submitted to the tax authorities. Everything pointed to one thing: Raghav had evaded taxes worth lakhs of rupees, not to mention paying employees without informing them, but also evading corporate income tax. It was.

I showed the documents to Priya. She was shocked:

“This can be reported not only to the Income Tax Department and GST Intelligence, but also to the Economic Offences Wing (EOW).”

I didn’t want him to go to jail. I didn’t want much. I just wanted justice – to let him know what it feels like to lose everything.

Without giving any reason, I asked him to call me. He laughed at my voice:

“Did you dial the wrong number?”

I calmly sent a PDF file. It summarized all the evidence I had: photos of fake invoices, a history of transfers between subsidiaries, excerpts of text messages between the lovers. I sent only this sentence:

“Transfer 1 crore rupees to me within 24 hours, or I will send this file to Income Tax, DGGI, and EOW Mumbai.”

Ten minutes later, he called back, his voice trembling:

“What do you want? Blackmail?”

I smiled:

“No, just wanted to remind you – there’s a price to pay, either in money or in freedom.”

24 hours later, I had 1,00,00,000 rupees in my account, transferred from a subsidiary company in Navi Mumbai, owned by Raghav’s cousin. No message, no apology. Just a sum of money – the price of the life he had brutally crushed.

I didn’t spend any of it on myself. I sent some to my parents in Nagpur. I donated some to a start-up fund for unmarried women founded by Priya in Pune. I deposited the rest in the bank—not to spend, but to remind myself: I may have fallen, but I didn’t break.

I never thought I’d retaliate. But sometimes in life, a blowback is needed to make people see their limits. Raghav didn’t go to jail, but I knew he would never dare disrespect a woman again—especially his ex-wife, whom he once thought was his undoing.