The Woman Who Knew My Name

The worst part was not being recognised. It was how quickly I wanted to become Priya Sharma again and pretend the name had never belonged to me.

For two hours I performed being ordinary. I laughed until my face hurt, admired the bride’s jewellery without seeing it, and watched every entrance as if someone from Lonavala might be waiting behind it. I had rehearsed names until they became meaningless. The truth sat in my mouth, heavy and obvious.

When Priya finally found me, she did not scream. Her fear unsettled me more than anger would have. Anger would have given me a role: villain, liar, problem to remove. Instead, she looked at me as if I had already damaged something she loved, simply by being seen beside her.

I told her everything because the invented version had finally become unbearable. The farmhouse complaint, Sakshi, the evidence I had gathered, all of it. I did not expect relief. I expected Priya to decide I was unsafe and make sure I disappeared from her life.

What I wanted, shamefully, was for her to believe me. Not because the truth had become innocent, but because being believed would mean my confession had some value beyond damage control.