Mira Devika
The Bride of Power
The rain in Delhi had a peculiar scent that evening — part jasmine, part diesel, part something burning somewhere far away. The same scent Meher Kapoor remembered from her childhood, watching her father practice speeches before the mirror, shirt sleeves rolled up, his eyes alight with some unknowable fire.
But now, Meher was twenty-four, and her father was a framed memory garlanded with marigolds in their ancestral home.
She stood in front of a mirror in the bridal chamber of the Oberoi, a deep red lehenga clinging to her like memory. Bangles jangling, lip color sharp like blood. Around her, the room buzzed — makeup artists whispering, stylists fixing pleats, a wedding planner checking her phone.
Through the fog of perfume and protocol, her mother’s voice cut through. “You can still back out, Meher. We’ll manage.”
Meher turned to her. “Back out of what? A press conference disguised as a wedding?”
Her mother flinched, but said nothing more.
There was no backing out now.
The groom was waiting — Ajay Suri, 46, father’s best friend, current state Minister for Urban Affairs, and the man who had, until six months ago, felt more like an uncle than a lover.
It had begun two months after her father’s death.
Meher had returned from Oxford to ashes, condolences, and a political vacuum. Her father had been a towering figure in the party — adored by the public, respected by enemies, and obsessed with the idea of grooming Meher for “a future India.”
His sudden heart attack had not just left her orphaned — it had unmoored her from her path.
Ajay had stepped in like a shadow in sunlight. Calm, capable, ever-present. He handled the estate, soothed the party, ensured Meher wasn’t swallowed by vultures in power suits.
One night, over a glass of whisky and silence in her father’s study, he’d said, “You know, your father always saw you as his heir. But power is a lonely kingdom, Meher. It helps to have someone who understands the terrain.”
His voice was low, unreadable.
She had stared at his wedding ring finger — empty.
In her grief, in her confusion, in her aching need for a new anchor, she said:
“Are you offering partnership or protection?”
“Both,” he said.
And so the deal was struck.
The wedding was publicized as a bold union of legacy and leadership. Newspapers carried poetic headlines: “Daughter of the Lion Marries Loyal Knight.” Some were less kind: “Minister Marries Heiress Half His Age.”
But no one really cared — not when the party saw polls rise, not when business leaders saw Ajay’s star ascend, not when Meher smiled like a porcelain doll in every photo.
Only Meher knew the hollow beneath the lehenga.
The ceremony passed in a blur: rituals, mantras, political guests pretending to be relatives. Meher’s eyes searched the crowd, as if her father might suddenly appear from behind a camera, waving his familiar victory sign.
But it was Ajay’s voice she heard instead, whispering into her ear during the saat phere.
“I’ll keep you safe. No matter what the cost.”
His words chilled her.
Why did safety suddenly feel like a prison?
The Bed of Ice
Meher didn’t expect fireworks on her wedding night. But she also hadn’t expected silence.
After the last guest left and the cameras were turned off, she entered the bridal suite — a plush, dimly lit room filled with rose petals and designer perfume. A bottle of Dom Pérignon rested in a silver bucket, untouched.
Ajay was already there. Not on the bed, but by the window, speaking into his phone with someone from the CM’s office.
“…yes, push the fund transfer to next week. No, not before the Assembly vote…”
Meher waited. She wanted him to look at her. See her. She’d been wearing this bridal lehenga for ten hours, her body aching under the weight of silk, tradition, and expectation.
When he finally hung up, his smile was tight. Professional.
“You look beautiful.”
“That’s all?” she asked softly.
He walked over, kissed her forehead gently, and began unhooking her necklace — slowly, methodically, like unfastening campaign banners after a rally.
They made love that night — or rather, they had sex.
It was polite. Perfunctory. He touched her as if completing a checklist: lips, neck, breast, waist, done. She didn’t moan; she barely breathed.
Afterward, he excused himself to take another call in the balcony. Meher lay still, one hand clutching the edge of the silk bedsheet, her bridal bangles cold against her skin.
Days blurred into routine.
Ajay was always away — policy meetings, energy summits, investment expos. When he returned, he brought headlines, not affection. In interviews, he praised her elegance and “vision for the youth.” But at home, he barely asked what book she was reading.
When she tried to initiate closeness — casual hugs, morning coffee chats, even sitting beside him during briefings — he gave her distracted half-smiles and dismissive nods.
And intimacy? It became less frequent. Mechanical. Sometimes, when he touched her, she wondered if he even remembered her name in those moments.
Meher began to ache in ways she couldn’t name. Her body was young and alive, but it lived like a relic inside a mansion filled with secrets.
She started walking.
Every evening, she left the bungalow and walked the garden maze Ajay had built for meditation. She timed her steps. Counted the peacocks. Listened to the guards gossip in hushed tones.
One evening, while sipping jasmine tea on the back porch, her mother called.
“How are you, Meher?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie. Your voice used to have sunshine. Now it sounds like fog.”
Meher said nothing.
Her mother paused, then added, “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to the world. Not to your father’s memory. Especially not to a man who only married your name.”
The line went silent for a few seconds. Then Meher replied, very calmly:
“I chose this prison. I just didn’t know how small it would be.”
Weeks passed. Newspapers carried glowing stories of the couple. “Power and Poise,” one editorial read. Meher began getting invites to speak at women’s panels, entrepreneurship forums, charity galas.
She accepted all of them. Public life became her escape.
She wore bright sarees, posed for photographers, spoke with the diction of Oxford and the grace of her mother’s generation.
But at night, she returned to a bed that never truly warmed.
Once, when she tried to hold Ajay’s hand in the car, he said, “Let’s not play games in public. People watch.”
Games?
Was that all he thought intimacy was?
Her body rebelled before her mind did.
She began having dreams — vivid, pulsing, soaked in desire. A faceless man would touch her back, trace her thighs, whisper into her ear, “You deserve more.” She’d wake up flushed, panting, ashamed.
She bought silk robes. Perfumed oils. Even left the door open one night after a gala — hoping Ajay might surprise her.
He never did.
He returned at 2:17 AM and slept on the couch.
Meher sat on the balcony that night, staring at the stars like pinholes in fabric. Somewhere in the world, she thought, real women were being kissed with hunger. Held with meaning. Touched with curiosity.
And she — Meher Kapoor Suri, daughter of a lion, bride of a Minister — was dying inch by inch under the weight of gold and emptiness.
That was the night she opened the envelope Ajay had left on the dining table.
Inside it was a business proposal. A new energy startup. And a visiting partner’s profile stapled on top.
Name: Ravi Khanna
Age: 40
Status: Divorced
Background: Tech Entrepreneur (UK)
Assignment: Co-develop green tech portfolio, 6-month contract.
His photo was grainy — taken from a business expo. But even through the paper, his smile felt different.
Less political.
More dangerous.
The Arrival of Ravi Khanna
The first time Meher saw Ravi Khanna in person, he was sitting with one leg hooked over the other, wearing a grey linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, sipping black coffee in Ajay’s study — the one with her father’s old globe still in the corner.
He stood up as she entered, his body tall, confident, yet casual in a way Delhi’s power circles rarely allowed.
“Mrs. Suri,” he said with a slight nod. “It’s an honor.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant it, or if that smirk was permanent.
“You must be Ravi,” she replied, extending her hand. “You look… different from your LinkedIn.”
“I clean up better in real life,” he joked, shaking her hand with a warmth that startled her.
His touch lingered a second longer than it should have.
Ajay walked in just then, holding a folder. “Ah, I see you two have met. Ravi will be working closely with the green energy task force. Meher, maybe you can help him get acquainted with Delhi’s scene.”
His voice was flat. As though introducing a new piece of office furniture.
Ravi raised an eyebrow at Meher. “Only if Mrs. Suri has time between charity galas and shutting down ministers twice her age.”
She laughed — genuinely, unexpectedly.
Ajay didn’t.
Ravi was unlike anyone in Ajay’s world. Where the others bowed, he bantered. He wasn’t from politics — he was from disruption. From building things, breaking things, failing, rising again. His British-Indian accent was soft but precise, and his eyes — dark, intelligent, irreverent — constantly studied her like she was a question he wanted to get wrong on purpose.
He started visiting their bungalow often. Sometimes for strategy meetings, sometimes for dinner. Once, he caught Meher reading a Bengali novel on the porch and asked, “Tagore or a rebel poet?”
She looked up, caught off-guard. “Jibanananda Das. You?”
“I’m more of a dirty realism fan,” he said. “Carver. Bukowski. The kind who write about ashtrays and affairs.”
Their eyes met.
It was the first time someone in her world had spoken about affairs without whispering.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
She kept thinking of the way he leaned forward when she spoke. The way he interrupted Ajay without fear. The way he joked, flirted, challenged, without trying to possess her.
It was intoxicating.
Dangerous.
Real.
One evening, after a press dinner, Ravi offered her a lift back home. Ajay had left early for a TV interview, and her driver had gone to get the car.
His Audi smelled like cedar and expensive sin. They didn’t speak for the first few minutes.
Then he said, “You don’t belong in his world.”
She turned sharply. “Excuse me?”
“I mean it as a compliment. You’re… too awake.”
She laughed bitterly. “That’s the cruelest compliment I’ve heard all year.”
He pulled the car into a quieter street and stopped the engine.
Meher turned to face him. Her pulse drummed against her skin.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He leaned closer, not touching, not yet. His voice was low.
“You’ve been starving for years, haven’t you?”
She didn’t reply. Her lips parted slightly, but her breath caught.
Then she whispered: “You should drive.”
Ravi didn’t argue. But as he pulled back onto the main road, he said just loud enough to be heard over the engine:
“Starving people bite back, Meher. Sooner or later.”
The next day, she received a bouquet. No card. Just one yellow carnation buried among red roses.
She didn’t need a name.
It began with stolen moments.
An extra minute at meetings. A brush of the arm. Secret messages disguised as calendar invites. A shared cigarette on the balcony during a conference break, even though she didn’t smoke.
They began texting on Signal.
RAVI: You wore green today. Was that a warning?
MEHER: I was in mourning. For my self-respect.
RAVI: I’ll help you bury it properly. With flowers.
RAVI: Do you think of me?
MEHER: I wake up thirsty.
The affair began on a Thursday.
Ajay had left for Mumbai for a trade summit. The house was quiet. Meher wore a silk robe the color of storm clouds.
Ravi entered through the back gate. No guards noticed. He knew how to move like a ghost.
They didn’t speak at first. He kissed her the way people drink water after crawling through a desert.
Her hands tore at his shirt. His mouth found her hip bone like it was sacred. They fell against the couch in the study, knocking over a statue of Saraswati. Neither of them cared.
It wasn’t just sex. It was resurrection.
She wasn’t Meher Suri. She was Meher, the girl who used to write poetry and dance barefoot on her father’s terrace in the rain.
And he? He didn’t ask her to be anyone else.
After, she lay against his chest, their bodies still humming.
He whispered, “You taste like rebellion.”
She whispered back, “Don’t make me fall in love with you.”
He smiled. “Too late.”
But euphoria is a fragile thing in Delhi. And affairs are never secret for long.
One night, Ajay returned from a late meeting and found Meher reading in bed — not unusual. What was unusual was her smile.
“Did something happen?” he asked, walking to the mirror, removing his cufflinks.
Meher looked up. “I remembered who I used to be.”
Ajay didn’t respond.
But for the first time in weeks, his eyes narrowed.
Love, Lust & Power Games
Delhi had begun to watch.
Not in the way that friends gossip or tabloids speculate — but in that eerie, reptilian way power watches everything. Through black SUVs, misplaced files, sharp glances at political brunches. The city’s skin was crawling with whispers.
And in the middle of it all, Meher burned.
Her affair with Ravi wasn’t a scandal yet, but it was a scent — drifting through closed rooms, lingering in elevator silences, hanging on the cuff of her blouse when she got too close to microphones.
Even the staff at the Suri bungalow had noticed. The cook no longer made her favorite breakfast. The driver avoided her gaze. The guards stood stiffer when Ravi’s car pulled up.
Once, she caught Ajay’s secretary outside her study, pretending to scroll through her phone. The woman’s eyes flickered with something between pity and fear.
Ajay, however, said nothing.
That scared Meher the most.
One night, after a charity art auction, Ravi pulled her into the garden behind the Lodhi Hotel. They stood under a gulmohar tree, breathless and impatient.
“This is stupid,” she whispered as he kissed her neck.
“So is breathing in this city,” he murmured. “But we do it anyway.”
She laughed, but it cracked mid-air.
“What happens when he finds out?” she asked, eyes scanning the dark.
Ravi paused. Then, for the first time since their affair began, his voice dropped in pitch.
“He knows.”
Meher stiffened. “What?”
“I don’t have proof. But last week, his fixer called my office. Said I should reconsider the Delhi contract. That maybe my life would be easier in London.”
She pulled back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted you to run. But you didn’t. You stayed. You came back to me.”
That night, they didn’t make love. They lay on her floor, their fingers interlaced, listening to a fan creak above them.
Ravi whispered, “We could leave. Disappear. I know people in Barcelona, Cape Town, even Goa if we want to lie low.”
But Meher was silent. Her fingers tightened around his.
“You still love him?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. But I still fear him. And worse… I owe him.”
Two weeks later, Ajay threw a private fundraiser. Ministers, celebrities, and tech moguls flooded the ballroom of the Imperial. Meher wore an indigo sari with diamond earrings. Her smile was weaponized.
Ajay gave a speech about green futures. Ravi stood in the crowd, sipping whiskey, his gaze locked on her even as applause echoed.
After the event, Ajay cornered Meher in the VIP lounge.
“You were luminous tonight,” he said, eyes cold.
She bowed her head slightly. “Thank you.”
Then came the pause. The kind that happens before a storm.
“I met Ravi last night. Privately.”
Meher’s breath caught.
“He’s very… ambitious. But careless. Not a good quality in politics or love.”
She turned slowly to face him.
“What are you trying to say?”
Ajay’s smile was carved from ice.
“I’m saying that even a lioness should know when she’s being hunted.”
The next morning, Ravi didn’t reply to her texts. Or her calls.
His office said he had left early for an urgent trip to Gurugram. But Meher knew his meetings. There was no trip.
By evening, she drove to his apartment herself.
The door was ajar.
Inside, the place was ransacked. Papers torn. Laptop gone. Whiskey bottle shattered on the floor.
No blood. No signs of him.
Just silence.
On the coffee table, something remained untouched — a crumpled photo of the two of them at a private beach resort outside Jaipur. They had gone there for just twenty-four hours. A stolen world. A slice of freedom.
She sank to the floor.
Her ears rang. Her chest clenched.
Had she done this?
Had her love signed his death warrant?
Back at the bungalow, Ajay was in his study, sipping his usual cognac. He looked up as she entered — her eyes wild, hair windblown.
“You bastard,” she whispered.
He didn’t flinch.
“What did you do to him?”
Ajay leaned back, swirling his glass.
“I did what needed to be done. He crossed a line.”
Meher moved like a blade. In one second, she was at his desk, grabbing the paperweight, lifting it above his head.
“You don’t own me!” she screamed.
His voice dropped into deadly calm.
“But I married you.”
That broke something inside her.
She dropped the weight. Sank to the floor.
Her voice was a rasp. “You killed him.”
Ajay stood. Walked toward her.
He didn’t kneel. He didn’t apologize.
He just said:
“You’re mine. And anything that threatens what’s mine… doesn’t last long.”
Meher was locked in her room for the next three days.
Security was increased. Her phones confiscated. Her mother told the media she was “on a wellness retreat.”
But she wasn’t broken. Not yet.
She stared at the wall. Replayed every moment with Ravi. Every kiss. Every laugh. Every lie they told to survive one more day.
On the third night, she opened her closet and pulled out a red saree — not a bright bridal red, but a darker, bloodier tone.
She wore it like armor.
The Fall
Meher didn’t cry anymore.
Something inside her had calcified — not broken, but hardened. A spine forged in rage, cloaked in silk.
The red saree she chose wasn’t about grief. It was a signal. A vow.
She walked into the living room on the fourth morning like nothing had happened. The guards exchanged glances. Even Ajay, halfway through a briefing with his media strategist, paused when he saw her.
“You look… well,” he said, as if puzzled.
“I am,” she replied, voice even.
The strategist made a polite exit. Ajay studied her carefully.
“Changed your mind about sulking?”
“I’ve changed my mind about everything.”
She smiled, poured herself a cup of black coffee — like Ravi used to. Took a sip. Locked eyes with her husband.
And whispered:
“You made one mistake.”
He frowned. “Which one?”
“You didn’t kill me.”
That afternoon, Meher began making calls. Quiet ones.
First, she reached out to an old friend — Arundhati Mehta, now an investigative journalist with The Wire. They hadn’t spoken in four years. Meher had drifted too far into politics. But pain reconnects what ambition severs.
“I need you to do a story,” Meher said.
“On what?”
“On what happened to Ravi Khanna.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Meher… is this what I think it is?”
“I can’t say anything openly. Yet. But I have receipts.”
Emails. Memos. Photographs. Voice notes.
Meher had them all. Ravi had been cautious. Every night before he left her, he uploaded a backup of their digital conversations into a private server — one only she could access.
She sent Arundhati the link.
And with that, the first fuse was lit.
Next, she called Veer Sharma, a disillusioned MLA from Ajay’s party who had been denied a portfolio after the last election.
“Meher?” he asked. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I know you hate your boss more than you love your party.”
She promised him an anonymous tip-off. A scandal that could rock the government, implicate multiple departments, and destroy Ajay’s image as the clean, green leader of tomorrow.
He listened. And he agreed.
Politics feeds on revenge as much as loyalty.
The article dropped three days later.
“The Vanishing of Ravi Khanna: Is Delhi’s Tech Vision Built on Silence?”
Anonymous sources. Redacted quotes. A timeline too specific to be guessed. The media exploded. Twitter frothed. Channels looped the story in 30-minute slots. Hashtags trended.
#WhereIsRavi
#MistressAndTheMinister
#PowerKills
Ajay denied everything, of course. “Baseless. Vicious. Politically motivated.”
But the seed was planted.
And Meher wasn’t done.
She stepped onto the stage of the Women’s Leadership Conference in Jaipur — scheduled months ago. The topic was “The Future is Female.”
The organizers expected her to speak about inclusion, education, maybe urban design.
Instead, Meher began:
“I was married into power. I was told I’d be a queen.
But queens in Delhi are locked in palaces, told when to speak, who to kiss, and how much to feel.”
A collective gasp rippled through the audience.
“I fell in love with a man who wasn’t my husband.
I won’t pretend to be ashamed of that.
Because shame belongs to those who silence others. Not to those who survive.”
The standing ovation lasted seven full minutes.
Back in Delhi, Ajay’s control unraveled.
Two opposition leaders called for an inquiry. A female MP demanded answers about Ravi Khanna. His own party grew uneasy.
And the worst blow?
Ravi came back.
Alive.
Bruised, thinner, beard grown wild — but alive.
He turned up at Arundhati’s office one late night, accompanied by a human rights lawyer and a USB drive filled with damning evidence: surveillance footage of men dragging him out of his apartment. Voice notes from the fixer. Emails from Ajay’s aide-de-camp.
His voice was hoarse, but his message was clear:
“I wasn’t silenced. I was made into a secret.
And secrets have a funny way of roaring back.”
The arrest warrant for Ajay Suri was issued on a Thursday morning.
“Conspiracy to abduct,” the charge read. “Misuse of political influence. Tampering of private property. Threat to civilian life.”
He was taken from his own home. The same home where Meher once waited in silk for a kiss that never came.
As he was led away in handcuffs, he looked at her.
“You destroyed everything,” he hissed.
Meher didn’t flinch.
“No,” she said.
“I exposed it.”
Epilogue
Two years later, Meher stood barefoot on a beach in Alibaug, holding a brush. A small art studio behind her smelled of linseed oil and independence.
Ravi approached, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“You painted this?”
She nodded.
The canvas showed a woman in red, staring into a cracked mirror. Behind her stood two shadows — one holding a noose, the other offering a flame.
“I’m both,” she whispered. “Mistress. Minister.”
He kissed her temple.
“No. You’re free.”
