A U T H O R

Isha stormed ahead, her anklets clinking furiously with every step, one hand protectively over her four months baby bump, while he followed behind like a shadow, fingers clutched to the end of her saree’s pallu, as if it was the only thread keeping her from slipping away.

“Ek number ke na psycho insaan ho tum. Khabardaar jo mere paas bhi aaye toh,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the holy chants echoing from the courtyard. All because he had snatched away the one thing she’d been craving for hours, her favorite gajar ka halwa, just because it wasn’t “good for the baby.”

(You are psycho number one. Beware if you come near me)

However, he trailed behind her like an obedient lover, and said with a shameless grin, “Psycho nahi baby. Biwi ka ghulam hoon main toh.”

(I am not a psycho baby. I am my wife's slave)