Ashwin’s POV

The hangover lingered in my mind as the girl rose from my bed and approached my mom, innocently tugging at the end of Aarti's saree. The girl, named Dolly, lowered her eyelids and said, "Aunt, I came to the bedroom to sleep. I don't know how I ended up with this man. I didn't want to disturb you, so I didn't turn on the lights. I don't know how this hooligan got here."

I retorted, "Who are you calling a hooligan? Who the hell is this girl?" Looking toward my mom and then I observed Dolly shivering with fear, trapped like a mouse. Amidst the chaos, neighbors and guests from last night's wedding filled the room, their whispered conversations amplifying the commotion. An elderly woman, around my grandma's age, lamented, "Now the girl's reputation is ruined," beating her chest and crying as if Dolly were a close relative. A middle-aged man added, "This is what happens with orphan girls, likely to become prostitutes?"

My mom, Aarti, snapped, "Stop talking nonsense!" Before she could say more, a woman in her early 40s grabbed Dolly's hand and dragged her away, dispersing the crowd from my mom's room. My mom looked at me and said, "Go and freshen up. I'm preparing breakfast. What would you like to eat?" Irritated, I replied, "Make some parathas for me, Ma, and can you give me some medicine for my headache?" My mom nodded, and I headed to the bathroom.

Stolen novel; please report.

Ignoring my grandmother Kamladevi's curious and gossipy stare, resembling a child waiting for her favorite candy, I gave her a nod to let me freshen up. The bathroom, old-fashioned with a bucket, mug, soap stand, and stool, awaited me. Stripping off my clothes, I tossed them into a bucket, sat on the stool, and began to bathe. This scenario, a typical one-night stand turning into eternal true love like in dramas, was beyond my wildest dreams. Shrugging off my fanciful thoughts, I dried myself with a towel, tied it around my waist, and stepped out to find my grandmother holding my clothes.

In a blue T-shirt and black joggers, I proceeded to the living room. My mom had laid out a spread on the coffee table—two plain parathas, cauliflower, peas, and potato in thick gravy, a bowl of curd, and Dal Makhni, a lentil soup.

Seated with my grandfather, grandmother, and mom, they awaited my side of the story. I attempted to explain that I too was clueless about how Dolly ended up in the room, emphasizing that I had slept like a log.