On my wedding night, I had a “protection” plan, but instead I sat on something heavy right under the mattress…
My parents forced me to marry the rich, fat neighbor next door; I couldn’t smile on my wedding day, with tears in my eyes.

In Jaipur, my parents were deeply in debt. My next door neighbor—Arvind Malhotra, who owned a chain of building materials stores, was about 20 years older than me, muscular, and had a protruding belly—proposed “marrying to help the family.” My parents nodded without hesitation. As for me, I was hooked.

On my wedding day, I wore a red lehenga, a veil on my head, and a mangalsutra around my neck, but I couldn’t fully smile. The crowd was still cheering, the drums were still beating, but my chest felt like a stone was pressing down on me. I knew I was just a pawn in exchange for a loan.
On the wedding night—the wedding night—I was “defensive”: I wore four layers—a kurti, a thin cardigan, a cotton nightgown that reached my ankles, and a pashmina shawl over it. I thought to myself: “I can’t do anything even if I wanted to.” Suddenly, the power went out. I turned to find a comfortable position to lie down and… I sat down on something heavy under the edge of the mattress. I stopped, reached down. A thick envelope.

I held it tightly, my palms sweating. A thought flashed through my mind: This must be “fun” money that would make me feel less uncomfortable. I pretended to go to the bathroom to “change my clothes,” closed the door, and opened the envelope. It wasn’t money. Inside was a stack of red-stamped papers: a sale deed (land purchase contract), a sale agreement printed on bright red stamped bond paper, and a copy of my parents’ Aadhaar card. On the last page, at the edge of the paper, was a line written in English and Hindi:

“Marriage to pay off debt – Condition: Transfer of property.”

(The broker had also underlined “transfer of property.”)

I was shaken. Anger, sadness, and… laughter at my own life. It turned out this marriage wasn’t a “marriage” to a rich man, but a transaction to pay off debt: the daughter was used as a substitute, the land transferred to the owner.

Before I could recover, I heard Arvind softly on the phone through the crack in the bathroom door:
–Yes, it’s done. It’s done. Get him to sign the transfer papers tomorrow, it’s done. You prepare a buyer for the land… We’ll move him in soon.

(“Yes, it’s done. Tomorrow, get him to sign the transfer papers and that’s it. You find a buyer for that land… I’ll ‘shift’ him soon.”)

I was stunned. Not only had my parents used me to pay off the debt, but my new husband was also planning to get rid of me as soon as he got the land.

I looked up and saw myself in the bathroom mirror: my veil was hanging to one side, the thin line of red vermillion in my hair resembled a thin streak of blood. My heart was pounding, but my head suddenly felt unusually clear. I tucked the papers into my innermost layer, pulled back my shawl, and wiped away my tears.

That night, amid the rattling of the fan and the scent of incense from the ceremony, a plan for revenge flashed through my mind—the very night of my wedding in Jaipur.

Part 2 – The Jaipur Night Changes

I emerged from the bathroom, my face so calm that even Arvind couldn’t believe I’d heard the entire conversation. He was leaning back on the pillows, his eyes half-closed, his hands swirling in a steaming cup of turmeric milk.

“Are you okay?” There was a feigned kindness in his voice.

I replied softly, smiling. “It’s okay, just a little tired. I’ll sign the papers tomorrow, so you don’t have to worry.”

Inside, I was smiling softly. If he wanted, I would have signed—but not what he was thinking.

I pretended to be fast asleep all night. But my mind was constantly calculating. In that pile of bright red papers, besides the land sale contract, I also saw the original loan papers and my parents’ previous mortgage agreement. That is, if I handed these papers to a lawyer or the press, the story of “selling children to pay off debts” would explode. In Jaipur, such a scandal would tarnish the reputation of Arvind’s family and my parents—something they valued more than money.

The next morning, I woke up before him. I wore a simple salwar kameez, covered half my face with a veil, and went downstairs to the living room. The maid was making masala tea, and I borrowed her old Nokia phone and called Raghav Singh, a young lawyer from Udaipur who had helped me through college.

When I briefly told her, her voice filled with surprise:
– Anika… You’re at Arvind Malhotra’s house? And do you really have the original documents?

– Yes. And I want a new contract drafted immediately. Its contents: Arvind gave me the land as a wedding gift, with a non-cancellation clause.

– I understand. Just give me his signature…

 

My plan was simple but dangerous: turn the transfer document Arvind wanted me to sign into a “gift” document. I printed a new copy, pretending it was the original, changing just a few legal lines—which he didn’t read carefully.

When Arvind woke up, I brought him tea and said softly:

“I’ve made up my mind. You’ve bailed my family out of debt. I’ll sign this today, so everything can be done quickly.”

His eyes lit up. Unsuspecting, he took out his pen and signed the corner of the paper. I smiled, folded the paper, and put it in a cloth bag, saying, “I’ll send a lawyer to complete the entire process.”

By noon, I arrived at Raghav’s office. He looked at the contract and pursed his lips:

“Arvind Malhotra has just officially gifted me a piece of land worth over 3 crore rupees.” If he sues me now, he’ll only have himself to blame.

I sat quietly, a wave of relief washing over me. Not only had I escaped that trap, but I also had something in my hands that would make Arvind and my parents never dare touch me again.

That night, I returned home to Jaipur. Arvind was sitting with my parents, his face beaming. I gently placed an envelope on the table: inside was a notarized copy of the contract, along with a blank sheet of paper with just one sentence written on it:

“Don’t even think about selling me again.”

The three of them fell silent, their expressions changed. I walked into the room, my veil fluttering behind me. I had won this battle—on the very battlefield they had created.

A message arrived from the Jaipur Land Registry: “Mutation completed. Account transferred to Anika Sharma’s name.”

Arvind picked up the phone, his glasses crashing to the ground. The veins in his temples throbbed.

“He lied to me!” Arvind said through gritted teeth, snatched the car keys, and headed straight for the Tehsildar’s office.

There, the gift deed had been stamped, my name had been updated in the register, and Arvind’s signature was as clear as the Jaipur afternoon sun. He yelled at the clerk:

“This is a sale deed!”

“Sir, this record is an unconditional gift deed. The signature, date, and e-stamp are valid.” The clerk pushed his glasses forward, his voice patient.

Arvind left angrily. He called the broker – Mr. Sethi – and his “partner” Kamal Jain:

The old plan is back in motion. Remember that “sale agreement” I asked you to backdate? Forward it. The girl needs to return the land!

The next day, I got a call from the police station near my house: Arvind had filed a complaint against me for “fraudulent and forced signatures.” I calmly went with Raghav.

In front of the sub-inspector, Arvind shouted loudly at the table:

“He tricked me into signing the wrong signature! I was drunk! I was forced!”

Raghav opened his laptop, plugged in the USB cable. “CCTV – Sub-Registrar’s Office” was displayed on the screen. The video played in slow motion: Arvind sat upright, corrected each page, and signed clearly. At the end of the video, he turned to me and said clearly: “It’s all done. Get it registered.”

Raghav held out another stack of printed papers:

Here’s the e-stamp purchase record: Arvind Malhotra paid for it himself, and the OTP verification was sent to his phone number. And here’s the wedding night call record, with Mr. Malhotra’s voice saying, “…Let him sign the transfer papers tomorrow, that’s it.”

The room fell silent. The sub-inspector coughed slightly:

Mr. Malhotra, your complaint… seems baseless. If you want, the court will consider it. But maybe you should hire a lawyer.

Arvind stood up, his eyes gleaming. He didn’t say a word, just glared at me with contempt. I responded with a slight nod, as if closing a chapter.

But Arvind didn’t stop.

A week later, Kamal Jain brought a dozen-page “sale agreement”—land sale documents that Arvind had signed with the shell company Kesar Realty, and which were dated long ago. Kamal filed a “specific performance” request—forcing me to sell the land according to the “previous agreement.”

Raghav picked up the photocopy and said with a laugh

– Well done.

With a few clicks, he landed on the e-stamp page: the stamp purchase date was exactly three days after my gift deed. A fundamental mistake. But it wasn’t easy – Arvind had deliberately “bribed” the stamp vendor to correct the date on the book.

That afternoon, at the tea stall opposite the registration office, Arvind whispered to an officer:

– Just a “Date Entry Error” confirmation stamp, and I’ll send the envelope. Your share is big.

The man looked away, embarrassed. Arvind slid the envelope closer.

A man stood up from the next table and called in a very low voice. Ten minutes later, two officers from the ACB – the Anti-Corruption Bureau – rushed in. The envelope was opened, revealing money. The small camera on their collars had been on for quite some time. The stamp vendor’s face was red; Arvind was called to “work.”

This news spread like a dry monsoon in Rajasthan.

During the preliminary hearing of the “specific performance” application, Raghav submitted additional documents: a WhatsApp chat between Arvind, Kamal, and Sethi, retrieved from Kamal’s phone (recovered by the ACB during the investigation). In it, Arvind had written: “Past-dated stamp. We’ll create evidence. We need to shake the new owner.”

The judge looked up and gently swung his hammer:

Mr. Malhotra is requesting the court to enforce the sale agreement even though he no longer owns the property. There are indications of fraud and bribery. The court handed over the file to the police to initiate an investigation under sections 420, 468, and 471 of the IPC… and the ACB has submitted a provisional report alleging bribery.

– The request was denied.

Arvind’s breath was labored. He tried to scream, but couldn’t make a sound.

Faced with repeated criticism, Arvind launched a “war of public opinion.” He ran a few anonymous accounts, spreading rumors that I was “having an affair with a lawyer,” “leaving my husband for land,” and even dragged my parents into the mess. In the narrow lane between our two houses, this gossip was like thorns.

That night, I invited some of the neighborhood aunts who had watched me grow up for tea. I turned on the speakers, played a recording of my wedding night, and then played a video of the document signing. I said nothing except one sentence:

– After listening, you can guess.

At the end of this episode, Aunt Sunita – who often told me that “women should be patient” – sighed:

– I’m not causing trouble. I’ll help you correct those nasty things.

The next morning, Ms. Kiran from the Ward Women’s Association posted a long article: “Don’t treat marriage as a contract for a loan transaction.” This reform spread. Word of mouth suddenly… fell silent.

But Arvind still had one way out: the bank.

It turned out that his hardware store chain had secured a large loan using the land that was now in my name. The bank sent a notice demanding additional security or repayment. When Arvind couldn’t pay it, the company’s accounts were frozen. Employees’ salaries were delayed, suppliers stopped supplying cement and steel. The Sitapura warehouse was silent. Arvind’s phone was ringing nonstop—creditors were calling one after another.

That day, he stood on the veranda, looked over the wall at my house, and said with a laugh:

– Do you think you’ve won? It’s just about the land.

I looked straight at him:

– No. This is a lesson.

– I’ll take everything back. I’ll make you bow down!

– You’ve tied a rope around your neck, Arvind.

He laughed, but his eyes faltered.

A month later, Arvind’s arrest warrant was signed – the ACB, in collaboration with the Economic Police, prosecuted him for bribery, forgery, and fraud. Before his extradition day, Arvind risked his life and came to my house and started banging on the door. I opened the door and Raghav was standing behind me.

– You want to withdraw the petition?

– I didn’t file any petition. The law will withdraw the petition for me.

– I… I can pay the money. Let’s start over. We… get a peaceful divorce. You give me back the land, I’ll sell it and pay off the debt, that’s it.

– You promised to “keep it a secret, give me back my freedom,” right? – I bowed my head. “Then you immediately found a way to get rid of me and seize the land. Is this your “peaceful” method?”

Arvind clenched his fists:

– I’ll tell your parents everything! That you’re a childless son, harming the entire family!

– They sold me once. And you made that transaction a permanent mark on paper. He wanted to turn back, but this only emboldened him.

I closed the door in his face. Outside, Arvind pounded the wood three times, then… silence fell. Perhaps for the first time, he felt he had no recourse.

The first hearing in Arvind’s bribery case took place on a hot day. The bank sent a lawyer to demand immediate recovery of the entire outstanding loan due to a “security breach.” Kamal Jain, his partner, stood at the door, avoiding Arvind’s gaze. When the jury read aloud the text message, “The backdated stamp… will make it into evidence…” the entire courtroom erupted in excitement. Arvind closed his eyes. Sweat dripped from his nose.

The court granted Kamal conditional bail (to cooperate with the investigation), and rejected Arvind’s bail plea due to the risk of “tampering with evidence.” When the police put their hands on his shoulders, Arvind suddenly turned to look at me—no longer angry, just blank.

In that moment, I understood: that man had been pulled down by his own plans like a house built on sand—one layer on top of another, until he was suffocated.

A few months passed, and I no longer wore a veil when I went out. I had converted the land into a small workshop where I taught sewing, chikan embroidery, and basic accounting to the women in the ward. Raghav asked me if I wanted to sue my parents for mental compensation. I nodded.

– I don’t need to kill anyone anymore. I have to live.

But I also didn’t let things go as if they never happened. My parents came looking for me, shedding tears and begging for forgiveness. I handed them a piece of paper:

This is a commitment: From now on, no one will borrow money in my name, no one will force a marriage, no one will “trade” my honor. My parents sign it, and I will arrange temporary work in a workshop so I can stand on my own feet. I will help, but I won’t “tolerate” it anymore.

They signed with trembling hands.

The day I received the court-approved divorce papers, I took a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums and placed them on the living room window. The Jaipur afternoon light fell on their bright petals. The phone vibrated—a message from Aunt Sunita: “Are you coming to the Navratri celebrations in the ward? Everyone is waiting for you to lead the choir.”

I replied: “I’m coming.”

Heading toward the gate, I passed through the wall between two houses. On the other side, the iron door was closed, a thin layer of dust covering the handle. A small, sealed piece of paper from the court hung in the air.

I stopped and took a deep breath. It wasn’t the scent of incense from my wedding night years ago, nor the smell of nervous sweat from the days of rushing to get the papers done. It was simply the scent of freedom—clear, light, like the distant sound of a drum at the end of the street.

Ropes exist; people think of them as tying others. But if you tie the wrong knot, pull the wrong end, that same rope will strangle you. Arvind pulled too hard.

As for me, I’ll just… go.