Prologue

 No one liked Mrs. Arundhati Sen.

Not her children, who had long stopped calling. Not the neighbours, who said she was too sharp, too proud, too bitter for her own good. And certainly not her estranged husband, who had quietly rebuilt his life in another town.

So when the ambulance came and took her away after the stroke, there weren’t many questions. The locks were changed, the curtains drawn, and the flat at the end of the third floor went still, like a chapter turned too soon.

A week later, Tara stepped into that stillness.

Tara—the daughter of Arundhati's long-time housemaid—had come not to mourn, but to clean. It was the least she could do. After all, it was Mrs. Sen who had quietly paid her school fees one year when her mother couldn’t. It was Mrs. Sen who had scolded her for skipping classes, and later, smiled when Tara showed her the school certificate. No one else had cared as much.

The house smelt of medicines, old books, and a silence too heavy for words. Tara dusted each corner with care, her hands familiar with the quiet rhythms of the home. And then, while clearing the bedside drawer, she found it. Pm

A worn-out, violet-coloured diary.

Not labelled. Not locked. But as Tara flipped through its pages, she felt an unease rise in her chest—as though she were opening a door that was never meant to be opened.

Poems.

Raw. Honest. Bleeding with pain, longing, and some beauty that didn’t fit the woman people had labelled as bitter.

Tara sat down on the edge of the bed, the diary trembling in her hands.

She read.

And for the first time, someone truly saw Mrs. Arundhati Sen.