I’m about 60 years old, but even six years into our marriage my husband — who is 30 years younger than me — still calls me “little wife.” Every night he gives me water. One day I quietly followed him into the kitchen and was stunned to see a shocking scheme…

My age is about 60, but even after six years of marriage, my husband — who is 30 years younger than me — still calls me his “little wife.” Every night he gives me water. One day, I quietly went into the kitchen and discovered a horrifying plot

My name is Lakshmi, 59 years old, living in Mumbai, India. After my first husband’s death, I remarried a man named Arjun who is 31 years younger than me — he is a yoga instructor, and I met him in a health‑therapy class.

Since we met, everyone around me warned:

“Lakshmi, don’t be a fool. Young men like him only chase after wealth!”

I knew what they meant — I had a four‑storey house in Bandra, two large savings accounts, and a holiday villa in Goa left behind by my first husband. But whenever I saw Arjun helping me down stairs or gently massaging my shoulders after every yoga session, I would tell myself:

“No. He truly loves me.”

Arjun always called me lovingly “my little baby,” and every night he gave me a glass of warm water mixed with honey and chamomile, smiling as he said:

“Drink it all, then sleep well. I will rest only when I see you sleeping deeply.”

It felt like I had been reborn in my old age. In the past six years, Arjun never spoke harshly to me or hurt me in any way. I thought maybe after years of loneliness, God had given me a gentle husband.

Then came a night of dread.

One evening, Arjun told me:

“You sleep first. Tomorrow morning, I’ll go into the kitchen to make beauty tea for my yoga group.”

I nodded, pretending to close my eyes. But suddenly a strange feeling gripped me — as though someone pressed on my heart.

I quietly followed him downstairs, hid behind a curtain near the kitchen.

I watched as Arjun took a glass, poured hot water, then opened the small drawer where he always kept tea bags and tonics.

But this time, he pulled out a small dark brown bottle, and carefully dropped some drops of a colorless, odorless liquid into the glass of water.

Then, as always, he added honey and chamomile.

I stood frozen. My lips trembled.

What was that substance? Why was he putting it in my water?

I silently returned to my room, lay down pretending to sleep deeply, remaining as still as possible.

When Arjun placed the glass of water on the table and kissed my forehead softly, I heard him whisper:

“Sleep well, my little Lakshmi.”

The next morning, when he left, I took that untouched glass of water to a private lab in Colaba.

Two days later, when the report came back, the doctor looked toward me, his face filled with fear:

“Mrs. Lakshmi… this water contains a potent sedative. If used long term, it can cause dependency, memory loss, cognitive decline, even loss of ability to recognize reality.”

I was stunned, as though the ground beneath me had melted.

For six years, I had gratefully sipped that “loving” water…

Unexpectedly, every sip had been a dose — making me numb, compliant, and forcing me to forget myself.

I recalled the sweet years — loving words, caring gestures — and realized that Arjun never wanted me to be happy; he only wanted me to slowly lose my mind, so he could control and take everything without opposition.

The love I had trusted for six years turned out to be a soft trap hidden behind honey and marigold fragrance.

After that shock, I knew I could not act hastily. A young, handsome, clever man like Arjun would surely plan multiple paths. He would continue to make me believe that I was still his obedient prey in his grasp.

That evening, when Arjun entered the room with the familiar glass of water, Lakshmi smiled as always.

She took the glass, pretended to drink from it, then quietly set it back down.

Arjun stroked her hair, his voice honeyed:

“Very good, my baby. You’re such a good girl, I love you so much.”

Lakshmi simply nodded slightly, eyes glinting coldly in a way it didn’t register with Arjun.

The next day, Lakshmi visited Dr. Sameer, an old friend of my late husband who now works in the Mumbai forensic department.

She told him the full story, handed him the test report and the extra bottle of water.

Sameer looked at her gravely:

“Lakshmi, this is lorazepam — if the dosage is increased, the user may lose control, be easily manipulated. He is turning you into a docile puppet.”

Lakshmi clenched her hands.

“I want money from him, but not by force. I want him to entangle himself in his own trap.”

Sameer nodded:

“I will help you. But you must play your role well.”

In the following weeks, Lakshmi began acting — pretending to forget things, speaking oddly, even leaving the gas open or letting water run.

Arjun was thrilled to see this.

“See, the drug is working,” he whispered on the phone to someone unknown.

Lakshmi secretly placed mini‑recorders beneath piles of his yoga books and in kitchen cabinets.

Every night, when he called her “baby” and handed her a glass of water, she discreetly put a sample into a sealed jar she kept in her fridge.

One day, Arjun said he would go out “to buy supplies for yoga classes” for several hours.

As soon as he left, Lakshmi opened his locked drawer in his office — where she saw a brown pill bottle hidden, and a pile of bank authorization forms with forged signatures.

Beside them was a form transferring ownership of the Goa villa to Arjun — nearly completed.

Lakshmi photographed everything and sent them to Dr. Sameer, who advised her to engage a private investigator.

4. The Night of Revenge

Three weeks later, Lakshmi invited Arjun and his yoga friends to the Goa villa to celebrate “six years of marriage.”

The villa was glowing, soft Indian music played, and the aroma of incense floated in the air.

Arjun beamed as though this sweet drama were nearing its finale.

He raised his glass in toast, still containing chamomile honey drink.

“Dear, I made this for you. Drink it — tonight is special.”

He smiled:

“You should drink with me too.”

She touched her glass gently, watching him drink it fully — unaware that the glass contained a sample of lorazepam.

Moments later, there came a knock on the door. Two police officers and an investigator entered.

“Mr. Arjun Sharma, you have an arrest warrant in relation to poisoning and fraud.”

Arjun froze, his lips turning pale.

Lakshmi stood firm, no tears in her eyes, only a steady gaze.

“Your love was sweet, but the honey you spiced it with has the taste of betrayal.”

Three months later, Lakshmi returned to the same yoga class, still wearing her white sari, walking slowly.

But now there was no blind worship in her eyes.

A young student asked:

“Mrs. Lakshmi, after all that happened, why do you still come to this class?”

She smiled gently:

“Because yoga taught me how to breathe and let go. And life taught me how to look straight and demand justice.”

The sea breeze from Goa carried the scent of marigold.

She softly closed her eyes, took a deep breath — for the first time in six years, she felt truly awake and free