Now, she strode inside the building, wearing a soft grey blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers. A camel trench coat was draped over her arm. With her hair pulled back in a neat low ponytail, minimal makeup, and small studs in her ears, nothing about her stood out loudly, yet people moved aside instinctively to make way for her.
“Has the Riverbridge shelter sent the updated intake list?” she asked, glancing at the tablet in her hand.
“Yes,” a young coordinator replied, falling into step beside her. “Three new cases. Two women with children. One domestic violence referral.”
Mishti stopped walking.
“Have the legal aid appointments been rescheduled?”
“They are pushing it to next week, Ma’am.”
“No,” she said calmly. “Call them again. Today. These cases can’t wait a week.”
The girl nodded immediately. “I’ll handle it.”
Mishti resumed walking. Inside the main operations hall, the activity was buzzing. Social workers were at their desks. Volunteers sorting donation kits. A whiteboard was filled with timelines, locations and helpline numbers written in multiple languages.
“Mishti ma’am,” a senior field officer called out. “We have an issue with the Southall outreach. Two volunteers didn’t show up.”
Mishti turned toward him. “Who’s covering for them?”
“No one yet.”
She thought for barely a second. “Okay. Move Neha from admin for half a day. Pair her with Rukhsar.”
“Okay, Ma’am.”
She walked into her glass-partitioned cabin, placing her coat on the chair. The space was sparse. Small desk, a laptop, a small potted plant by the window, no photographs, no personal touches and definitely nothing that could connect her to her past life.
Every day here, she tried hard to push away the thoughts of back home. Of Karan. Of her brother Daksh and Divya bhabhi. But each day of this distance felt heavy, because she knew returning to them was not an option anymore. Her brother hated her. Karan did too. How was she supposed to live among people who only held resentment for her?
Hence, the small life she was building here, alone, was all she had now. The family she found in the form of the NGO was enough. She did not know for how long, but for now, it was enough. During the job interview here, she had told no one that she was married. She simply said she was from India, that she had come to London looking for work and a chance to settle down. Despite having a family, she had to lie that she was an orphan. And perhaps because of that, no one ever questioned her past again, which worked well with her.
The days here at the NGO kept her occupied from morning till evening, leaving her no space to drift back into the life she had walked away from. And it was better that way. She smiled more now. At people, colleagues, and the children who ran through the NGO corridors with careless laughter.
A smile that said,I am fine, without inviting questions. The sadness still lived inside her. It had not disappeared, just merely been taught where it belonged. To the deep corner of her heart, she visited only at night when she was alone.
Somewhere along the way, in the last ten months, the woman who once questioned every choice she made had learned to stand firm. Pain and solitude had taught her that.
Since coming to London, a lot had changed. She had stopped wearing sarees, suits, even the mangalsutra that had once been her constant strength and hope. She had left it off deliberately, with Karan. All because she wanted no visible reminder of the woman she used to be.Wife of Karan Wadhwa.
Her lunch hours were usually quiet. She ate alone, mostly a small sandwich for lunch. Evenings, she felt even lonelier in the small studio apartment provided by the NGO as staff quarters. It was tucked inside a modest residential building. But there was no one to welcome her back from work, and no one she waited to hear from.
The apartment was simple, clean, with a single bed, a compact kitchen and one window that overlooked a narrow street where city lights flickered long after sunset. She cooked simple meals for herself. Most days, she made herself something quick and plain. Sometimes, Indian food, when the longing became unbearable. Who was there to cook for anyway? She was alone now, so that habit had faded months ago.
But every night, when the city finally quietened, memories found their way back in.
Of the mansion where she lived once.
Of a bedroom she had never truly shared.
Of the man whose mere thoughts still ached her heart.
But Mishti had made the painful choice, promising herself she would not falter. She had chosen solitude over humiliation. Distance over daily wounds. Silence over a love that had never been offered freely.
London had not healed her. It had only kept her intact instead of breaking. And for now, that was enough.
“Mishti?”
