Returning to Gokuldham was not a homecoming. It was a siege.
For the first week, the women played their roles perfectly: traumatized survivors, grateful wives, and devoted mothers. They flinched at loud noises. They retreated to darkened rooms when the pressure became too much. Citing their medical profiles, they kept their husbands at arm's length, protected by the twin shields of quarantine stigma and clinical PTSD diagnoses.
However, shields are not weapons. Suyash knew that, to win this war, they needed to go on the offensive.
The penthouse had become a command center. Suyash stood before the massive screen, his six brides arranged around him on the plush sofas—some in person, others via encrypted video feed from their separate homes. The atmosphere was tense and electric, charged with fear and determination.
"Before we begin," Suyash said in a voice that carried the weight of absolute authority, "there is a new rule: Non-negotiable."
The women exchanged glances.
"From this moment until every final decree is signed, we will not touch in public. We will not meet in private without a 'Trust Official' present. We are strangers who happen to share a traumatic experience." His eyes swept the room. "Adultery is no longer a crime in India—it was decriminalized in 2018—but it remains grounds for civil divorce and, crucially, loss of custody. If Bhide or a private investigator captures a single photograph or obtains a witness statement, all our legal work will be for naught."
Anita's dark eyes flickered. "So we pretend.
"We will pretend so well that we will almost believe it ourselves." Suyash's voice softened. "To the world, I am your benefactor. A coordinator who survived alongside you. To you..." He looked at each woman in turn. "To you, I am your life. But until the ink is dry, we are strangers. Understood?"
A chorus of quiet affirmations followed.
"Good. Now, let me show you what we're facing."
—
Suyash pulled up a document on the screen—a comprehensive analysis prepared by Sen & Associates, Mumbai's most ruthless family law firm.
"The Hindu Marriage Act of 1955 governs all marriages in India. There are multiple grounds for divorce available to a wife, including cruelty, whether mental or physical. Another is desertion, which occurs when a spouse abandons the marriage, either emotionally or physically. Adultery. Conversion. Mental disorder. Communicable disease. Renunciation of the world. And the presumption of death."
Babita laughed bitterly. "Presumption of death? We were presumed dead for weeks. Too bad we came back."
"Too bad for the husbands, perhaps. But there are other paths." Suyash highlighted a section. "A mutual consent divorce under Section 13B is the fastest and cleanest option. Both parties agree to separate. They file a joint petition. However, even mutual consent requires a mandatory six-month 'cooling-off' period between the first and second motion. You don't simply walk free."
Daya's face fell. "Six months? Do we have to wait six months?"
"Normally, yes. But there is a precedent." Suyash pulled up a Supreme Court judgment: Amardeep Singh vs. Harveen Kaur (2017). "The Supreme Court ruled that the six-month waiting period can be waived if the court is satisfied that the parties have lived separately for an adequate amount of time, that all attempts at reconciliation have failed, and that the waiting period would only prolong their suffering."
Komal leaned forward. "Does our situation qualify?"
"Uniquely. You were presumed dead. You experienced 'civil death,' which is the legal and emotional severance from your former life. Sen & Associates has already filed applications for a waiver of the waiting period. They argued that forcing you to remain legally bound to your husbands, with whom you were separated by a plane crash and weeks of survival, would cause further psychological harm. Suyash's smile was grim. "The applications have been granted. Your divorces will be fast-tracked."
Anjali exhaled slowly. "So, we don't have to wait."
"You don't have to wait. But that's just the first battlefield."
Suyash pulled up another document—a financial flowchart that made everyone's head spin.
"There's a dangerous provision in the Hindu Marriage Act: Section 25: Permanent Alimony and Maintenance. It's gender-neutral. That means if any of you appear too wealthy—if the trust's resources are visibly supporting you—your husbands can sue you for maintenance."
Babita's eyes widened. "They can take our money?"
"They can try. Vibhuti, especially, would see it as a revenue stream." Suyash tapped the screen. "We've structured everything differently. The Suhag Trust doesn't give money to you. Instead, it offers 'ex gratia survivor grants' directly to the husbands in exchange for their signatures on no-contest papers and irrevocable waivers of all future alimony claims."
Anita's lips curved. "So Vibhuti isn't getting a settlement from me. He's getting a 'disaster recovery grant' from a charitable trust."
"Exactly. By accepting it, he's signing away his right to ever claim maintenance from you. It's a one-time payout disguised as humanitarian aid." Suyash's voice hardened. "If he takes the money, he signs the waiver and disappears.
"What if he doesn't take the money?"
"Then we'll put him through a contested divorce that will cost him ten times the grant amount in legal fees. Sen & Associates has already prepared a cost projection." Suyash pulled up the terrifying number. "Vibhuti's lawyer will advise him to take the deal. They always do."
Madhavi had been quiet throughout the financial discussion. Her mind was elsewhere, on a young girl with pigtails who was probably doing her homework at that moment, oblivious to the fact that her world was about to be torn apart.
"Madhavi." Suyash said gently. "Your case is the hardest. Bhide will never agree to a mutual consent divorce. He'll fight for Sonu with everything he has. He'll paint you as morally unfit and corrupt."
"I know." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"So we need an ally who can't be accused of bias, someone whose voice carries absolute weight in court." Suyash pulled up the profile of a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and an impressive list of credentials. "Dr. Meera Krishnamurthy, child psychologist. Twenty-five years of experience. Court-appointed guardian ad litem in over three hundred custody cases."
"A guardian ad litem?"
"A neutral third party appointed by the court to represent the child's best interests." She'll interview Sonu. She'll interview you. She'll interview Bhide. She'll observe your homes, your interactions, and your emotional bonds. Then, she'll submit a report that the judge will treat as nearly sacred.
Madhavi's eyes narrowed. "And you've made sure that she's on our side?"
"I've made sure she's a progressive psychologist who believes in 'modern, flexible parenting' rather than 'regressive, restrictive environments.'" Suyash met her gaze. "I haven't bribed her. I haven't manipulated her. I've simply made sure that the person evaluating your fitness as a mother understands that strictness is not love and control is not caring."
Madhavi's breath caught. "So, when she sees how Bhide treats Sonu—"
She'll see a rigid, controlling father whose 'moral values' are stifling his daughter's emotional development." She'll recommend extensive maternal visitation. Not because we paid her, but because it's genuinely what's best for Sonu."
Tears spilled down Madhavi's cheeks. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when Sonu is laughing on our island, free from Bhide's judgment."
Komal's case seemed simpler—Hathi was too lazy to fight—but Suyash saw the hidden trap.
"You can't hire a housekeeper for him directly," he explained. "That could be construed as 'collusion'—buying his cooperation in the divorce. If a judge suspects collusion, the entire mutual consent petition could be invalidated."
Komal frowned. "So what do I do? Let him starve?"
"No, the Suhag Trust's 'Family Stability Initiative' provides domestic aid to families of disaster survivors to ensure the 'household transition' doesn't harm the community." Suyash smiled. "A trained housekeeper will be assigned to Dr. Hathi's residence. She'll cook his dal chawal, manage his calendar, and remind him to bathe. She'll report to the Trust, not to you. Dr. Hathi will also sign a document acknowledging that this is a 'rehabilitation service,' not a bribe."
Komal's grin returned—smaller than usual, but genuine. "So he gets his housekeeper. I get my freedom. And no one can accuse me of buying my divorce."
"Exactly. The Trust takes the credit. You take the liberation."
Babita vs. Iyer: The Quiet Exit
Iyer was served divorce papers at his office on the campus of his university in Chennai. He blinked at the documents through his thick glasses, his expression one of genuine confusion.
"But why?" he asked the process server. "We have a perfectly functional marriage."
The server, accustomed to dramatic reactions, simply shrugged. "You'll need to discuss that with your wife, sir."
When Babita finally sat across from Iyer in their Gokuldham apartment—the first time they had been alone together since her return—she felt nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Just a vast, empty indifference.
"I don't love you, Iyer. I haven't for years. And you don't love me. You love your research. Your conferences. Your academic reputation." Her voice was calm and clinical. "We've been roommates who occasionally share a bed. That's not a marriage."
Iyer adjusted his glasses. "I see. What about this island experience? Did it change your perspective?"
"It clarified what I already knew." Babita met his gaze. "I want a divorce. Mutual consent. The court waived the six-month waiting period given our circumstances. We can be done in weeks, not months."
Iyer was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "I suppose that's reasonable. I have no desire for acrimony. My work requires my full attention."
"Of course it does," Babita thought. "It always has."
"I'll have my lawyer draw up the papers. You'll also receive a communication from the Suhag Trust—a Survivor Grant to help with your 'transition.'"
Iyer's eyebrows rose. "A grant?"
"It's acknowledgment of the hardship you've endured during my absence. Sign the divorce papers, and the grant is yours. It's not alimony. It's humanitarian aid."
Iyer considered this. Then, predictably, he nodded. "Very well. I have a flight to Hyderabad this evening. It's a symposium on Dravidian linguistics. I'll sign whatever you need before I leave."
He walked out without another word. No fight. No tears. No acknowledgment that a decade of marriage was ending.
Babita sat alone in the empty apartment, staring at the closed door. Then, slowly, she began to laugh—a sharp, bitter, liberating sound.
"Freedom," she thought. Finally.
Taarak Mehta was a man of words. He wielded them like weapons, crafting narratives that positioned him as the hero, the victim, or the enlightened observer—whichever role served him best.
When Anjali presented the divorce papers, he didn't fly into a rage. He didn't cry. He simply leaned back in his study chair, surrounded by his books, columns, and carefully constructed self-image.
"I assume this is about Suyash," he said in a flat voice.
Anjali's heart hammered, but she kept her face composed—years of practice honed to perfection. "This is about us. About a marriage that died years ago. About your affairs with Priyanka and others. It's about the fact that you haven't looked at me like a wife in longer than I can remember."
Taarak's jaw tightened. "Affairs is a strong word. Professional collaborations, perhaps. Intimate friendships."
"Intimate enough that I have photographs: Hotel receipts. Email correspondence." Anjali's voice was steady. "I'm not here to blackmail you, Taarak. I'm here to offer you a way out that will protect your reputation."
His eyes narrowed. "What way?"
"A mutual consent divorce. The waiting period has been waived, so it can be finalized within weeks. We'll tell the world that we've grown apart. We'll say that our time on the island gave us clarity about what we want from life. You can write one of your columns, like 'The Evolution of Modern Marriage,' and paint yourself as progressive. Above petty jealousy." She paused. "In return, I'll keep the evidence of your affairs to myself. Your readers will never know. Your publishers will never know. Your legacy will remain intact."
Taarak was silent for a long, calculating moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"You've changed," he observed. "The island changed you."
"Yes," Anjali agreed. "It showed me what I deserve."
The papers were signed within the week. The Suhag Trust's Survivor Grant, a modest sum framed as "transitional support," was accepted without comment. Taarak wrote his column. Anjali was free.
Dr. Hathi received the divorce papers with the same bewildered acceptance with which he received most things in life.
"But who will manage the house?" he asked, genuinely perplexed. "Who will cook? Who will remind me of my appointments?"
Komal almost laughed. Almost. "The Suhag Trust's Family Stability Initiative has assigned a trained housekeeper to your residence. She'll cook your dal chawal exactly how you like it. She'll manage your calendar. She'll even remind you to bathe."
Hathi considered this. "And this housekeeper? Is she provided by the Trust?"
"As part of their 'Domestic Rehabilitation Program' for families of disaster survivors." It's not coming from me. It's a humanitarian service." Komal's voice softened. "You won't even notice I'm gone, Hathi. Your dal chawal will still appear on the table every night."
Another long pause. Then, Hathi nodded slowly. "I see. And this divorce... Is that what you want?"
"It's what I need. I've been alone in this marriage for years. You're married to your practice, your patients, and your routine. I'm just furniture."
Hathi's brow furrowed—the closest he came to showing genuine emotion. "I never meant to make you feel that way."
"I know. That's almost worse." Komal's voice cracked slightly. "You're not a bad man, Hathi. You're just absent. I can't live with your absence anymore."
The divorce was filed under "constructive desertion," a legal term for a spouse who is physically present but emotionally and intimately absent. The waiting period was waived. Hathi didn't contest it. He didn't have the energy.
Within weeks, Komal was free. The housekeeper arrived on the day her decree was signed. Hathi barely noticed the transition.
Vibhuti Narayan Mishra received the divorce papers as though they were a script he hadn't approved.
"This is absurd!" he declared, storming into the neutral location—a lawyer's conference room—where Anita waited with Sen & Associates' senior partner. "I am Vibhuti Narayan Mishra! I will not be divorced. I will be the one who divorces!"
Anita, dressed in a simple cotton sari that still managed to look dangerous, didn't flinch. "Then file first. I don't care who initiates it. I just want it done."
"You want to destroy me! To humiliate me! You're having an affair with that coordinator!" Vibhuti's face reddened and his carefully styled hair wilted. "I'll expose you both! I'll ruin your reputation! I'll—"
"You'll do nothing." Anita's voice was ice. She nodded to Mr. Sen, who slid a manila envelope across the table.
Vibhuti hesitated, then ripped open the envelope. Inside were photographs: Hotel receipts. Text message transcripts. The documents proved his affairs with not one or two, but seven different women over the past three years.
"Where did you get these?"
"I've known about them for years, Vibhuti. I just didn't care enough to use them until now. Until now." Anita leaned forward. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to agree to a divorce by mutual consent. The waiting period has already been waived. Sign whatever papers Mr. Sen puts in front of you. In return, the Suhag Trust will provide you with an ex gratia survivor grant and a 'disaster recovery' payment to help with the transition."
Vibhuti's eyes flickered. "How much?"
Mr. Sen named a figure. It wasn't extravagant, but it was enough to keep Vibhuti in hair products and auditions for a few years.
"And," Anita added, "you will sign an irrevocable waiver of all future alimony claims against me. The grant is a one-time settlement. You take it, you sign the waiver, and you disappear from my life."
his face cycled through rage, calculation, and finally, defeat. "What if I refuse?"
"Then we'll proceed with a contested divorce." Mr. Sen's firm charges by the hour. These photographs will be entered as evidence in open court. Your 'struggling actor' brand will become 'serial adulterer.' You lose me either way, but you lose everything else too."
The silence stretched on. Vibhuti's shoulders sagged.
"I'll sign," he muttered.
"Excellent." Mr. Sen slid the papers across the table. "Initial here, here, and here. The grant will be deposited within forty-eight hours of the final decree."
Vibhuti signed. Anita watched him—the man she had once thought she loved, who had bored and betrayed her and finally released her.
When the door closed behind him, she exhaled for the first time in years.
"Free," she whispered.
This was the battle Suyash had dreaded the most.
From the beginning, Bhide refused to give his consent. He hired a small-time lawyer with more righteous indignation than skill and filed for sole custody of Sonu, citing Madhavi's "moral unfitness."
His petition was a masterpiece of petty cruelty:
"Since her return from the island, the respondent has undergone a radical personality change. She dresses immodestly. She laughs too loudly. She associates with persons of questionable character, specifically Suyash Mehta, the 'coordinator' of the ill-fated retreat." She has abandoned the traditional values that form the foundation of a Hindu household. She is unfit to raise an impressionable young girl."
Madhavi read the petition in Suyash's penthouse, her hands trembling. "He's painting me as a whore. In legal language, but that's what he's saying.
He's desperate." Suyash's voice was steady. "And desperate men make mistakes."
Within days, Sen & Associates filed their counter-petition. It was a devastating document.
"The petitioner has subjected the respondent to mental cruelty for years under the guise of 'spiritual discipline.' He denied her physical intimacy, claiming that sex is a 'distraction from spiritual growth.' He controlled her friendships, clothing, and laughter. He kept her financially dependent while hiding his failed business ventures and mounting debts. He is not a moral guardian; he is an emotional abuser who uses religion as a weapon."
The court battle dragged on for months.
But the turning point came with Dr. Meera Krishnamurthy, the guardian ad litem.
Dr. Krishnamurthy spent hours with Sonu in a neutral playroom, asking gentle questions and observing her interactions with both parents. Her report devastated Bhide's case when submitted to the court.
Sonu Bhide is a bright and sensitive child caught between two parents with fundamentally different approaches to raising children. She loves both parents deeply, but she describes her father as "very strict" and says that he "makes Mama cry." She describes her mother as "warm" and "fun," and she wants to spend a lot of time with her.
In the evaluator's professional opinion, restricting the child's access to her mother would cause significant emotional harm. The mother's warm, flexible, self-expression-encouraging parenting style provides a necessary counterbalance to the father's rigid, discipline-focused approach. The child would benefit from substantial and regular visits with her mother, including extended periods during school holidays.
Bhide's lawyer tried to challenge the report, but Dr. Krishnamurthy's credentials were impeccable, her methodology sound, and her conclusions firmly grounded in child psychology. The judge gave her report substantial weight.
The final ruling came on a gray Mumbai morning:
Custody of the minor child, Sonu Bhide (age 11), was awarded to the father, Atmaram Bhide, as the natural guardian under the Hindu Minority and Guardianship Act.
Madhavi's heart stopped.
However, recognizing the critical importance of maternal influence in a young girl's development, Madhavi was granted extensive visitation rights: every weekend from Friday evening to Sunday evening, all school holidays exceeding three days, and alternating major festivals.
Furthermore, Madhavi has the right to take Sonu to any Suhag Heritage Trust facility, retreat, or educational center for the duration of her visitation. The Trust's facilities are recognized by the court as appropriate environments for trauma-informed bonding and educational enrichment.
Both parents shall share decision-making authority regarding the child's education and healthcare.
It wasn't a victory. But it wasn't a defeat, either.
Madhavi would see her daughter every week. She would have her for the entire summer and during the Diwali and Christmas breaks. Madhavi would have a say in her education, health, and future. Most importantly, she could take Sonu to the island. Legally. Openly. Without fear of kidnapping charges.
On paper, Bhide had won custody. But Madhavi had won something far more valuable: time. Presence. She secured a place in her daughter's life that no court order could erase.
She also had a legal corridor to paradise.
Jethalal Gada wept when Daya told him she wanted a divorce.
He wept for hours, releasing great, heaving sobs that shook his round body and left him gasping for air. Daya sat beside him, her hand on his back, and let him cry.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I never wanted to hurt you, Jethalal. But I can't stay in this marriage. You made me feel invisible for years. You looked at Babita like she was the sun and treated me like furniture. I can't live like that anymore."
"I'll change!" Jethalal grasped her hands, his face blotchy and desperate. "I'll stop looking at Babita. I'll pay attention to you. I'll be a better husband!"
Daya's heart ached. "Jethalal, you've been saying that for fifteen years."
The fight that followed, however, wasn't with Jethalal, but with Champaklal.
Jethalal's father arrived from Bhachau like a storm. His white dhoti and stern face symbolized traditional authority. He entered the Gada household and passed judgment.
"She is a loose woman. A wayward wife. She abandoned her husband and child for that retreat. She has been corrupted by modern influences. I will file for full custody of Tipendra. She will not corrupt my grandson with her immoral ways."
But then something unexpected happened.
Jethalal—the weak, foolish, Babita-obsessed Jethalal—stood up to his father.
"No, Bapuji."
Champlaklal's eyes widened. "What did you say?"
"I said no." Jethalal's voice trembled, but he didn't back down. "Daya is not a loose woman. She's a good mother. She's a good person. She survived a plane crash. She survived for weeks on a deserted island. She came back to us. But if she wants a divorce... I'll give her one. Mutual consent. I won't let you take Tipendra from her."
Champlak sputtered. "You would defy me? Your own father?"
"I would protect my son from a bitter custody battle that would tear him apart." Jethalal met his father's eyes. "Tipendra loves his mother. He deserves to have her in his life. I won't be the man who takes her away from him."
The divorce was filed under mutual consent. As expected under Hindu law, Jethalal was awarded custody of Tipendra, who is now 14, but Daya was granted extensive visitation rights: every weekend, all school holidays, and shared decision-making rights regarding education and health. Similar to Madhavi's order, Daya was granted the right to take Tipendra to the Suhag Trust's educational facilities.
Tipendra, interviewed by Dr. Krishnamurthy, spoke with a maturity that made everyone proud.
"I love both my parents," he said simply. "I want to live with Dad during the week because school is closer. But I want to spend weekends and holidays with Mom. She's happier now. I don't know why. She laughs more, though. I like seeing her happy."
His voice carried weight. The court listened.
Madhavi and Daya met in Suyash's penthouse on the night their custody rulings were finalized. They fell into each other's arms and wept—not for themselves, but for the time they would lose with their children.
"Every weekend," Madhavi whispered. "I'll have her every weekend. But what about Monday morning? What about Tuesday afternoon when she gets home from school and I'm not there?"
"She'll know you love her," said Daya, her voice thick with tears. "She'll know you fought for her. Every weekend, you'll make up for being apart during the week. You'll fill her with so much love that Bhide's coldness won't affect her."
Suyash crossed to them and wrapped his arms around both women, pulling them close. They clung to him, their tears soaking into his shirt.
"This isn't forever," he promised, his voice rough with emotion. "The island will be their second home. Sonu and Tipendra will know they are loved—by you, by me, by all of us. They'll have rooms of their own. They'll have teachers, mentors, and friends. They'll have a family that's bigger and warmer than anything Bhide or Champaklal could offer."
Madhavi looked up at him, her dark eyes fierce and glistening. "Make it beautiful. Make it a place they'll want to come to. Make it a place they'll dream about during the week. Make it a place that feels like home."
"I will." Suyash pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to Daya's. "I'll build you a paradise. Not just for us, but for them, too. For the family we're creating."
Daya's voice was small. "And when they're older? When they can choose where to live?"
"Then they'll choose us. We'll have given them love, freedom, and joy—everything their fathers can't offer." Suyash's voice was firm. "We just have to be patient. We just have to survive the waiting."
The three of them stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, as the night pressed against the windows of their Mumbai penthouse.
The battles were not over. Bhide would continue to be difficult. Vibhuti would resurface occasionally with new demands. Champlaklal would mutter and scheme.
But the war was turning.
On the horizon—literally and figuratively—an island rose from the sea. A new Villa Suhag. It would be a sanctuary where the seven survivors could finally be free.
—
Later that night, after Madhavi and Daya had fallen asleep on the penthouse sofas, exhausted, Anita found Suyash on the balcony, staring at the Arabian Sea in the distance.
"The custody orders," she said quietly, joining him. "You made sure they included the Trust's facilities."
"I did."
"That's why you built the educational retreat. Not just for Sonu and Tipendra's benefit, but to establish legal rights. A corridor."
Suyash nodded slowly. "When Madhavi takes Sonu to the island, she isn't 'hiding' her child from Bhide. She's taking her to a registered, accredited educational facility for 'trauma-informed bonding.' If Bhide calls the police, they'll see a court order explicitly authorizing Sonu's presence at that location." His voice hardened. "It turns a potential kidnapping charge into a court-sanctioned educational trip."
Anita's dark eyes gleamed with admiration. "You thought of everything.
"I thought of protecting them. Of protecting their children." He turned to face her. "Bhide can't touch Sonu on our island. Champlaklal can't touch Tipendra. The law is our shield now. It's not our weapon."
Anita stepped closer, her body nearly brushing his—a violation of the "no contact" rule. But here, in the darkness, with no eyes to see, she allowed herself this small rebellion.
"When this is over," she whispered, "when the decrees are signed and the island is ready—"
"When this is over," he finished, his voice low and rough, "I will hold you in public. I will kiss you in the sunlight. I will never pretend to be a stranger again."
She pressed her forehead to his. "Promise me."
"I promise."
They stood there, touching only at that single point, as the Mumbai night wrapped around them like a veil.
The legal battle was nearly won. The final decrees were coming.
Soon—very soon—they would all be free.