February 14th, 2024, Valentine’s Day.

While couples across Canada woke to roses and chocolate, the residents of a quiet Bmpton culde-sac woke to something else entirely.

Police sirens shattering the pre-dawn silence.

Red and blue lights painting the fresh snow crimson.

At 3:47 a.m., paramedics burst through the front door of 247 Sandalwood Crescent.

A large brick home that looked like every other house on the street.

Perfectly manicured lawn beneath the snow.

Double garage, basketball hoop.

The kind of place where the Canadian dream was supposed to come true.

But inside the master bedroom, they found a nightmare.

Anita Deshmuk lay motionless on the floor, still dressed in her wedding lehenga.

The red silk, which had shimmerred under the lights of the gdara just hours before, was now torn and stained.

Her hands, decorated with intricate mahendi that hadn’t yet faded, were frozen in a defensive position.

And around her throat, twisted so tight it had left deep purple marks in her skin, was her mangle sutra, the sacred wedding necklace that was supposed to symbolize her new life as a bride.

Instead, it had become the instrument of her death.

The woman who had dreamed of snow and new beginnings would never see another sunrise.

She had been married for less than 6 hours.

Welcome to Dark Minds, where we investigate the cases that shake us to our core.

I’m your host, and what you’re about to hear is one of the most devastating true crime stories to emerge from Canada in recent years.

Before we begin, I want to thank our loyal subscribers and viewers.

Your support allows us to tell these difficult but necessary stories.

If you’re new here, please subscribe and hit that notification bell because the case we’re covering today demands to be heard.

This isn’t just a story about murder.

This is about desperation and deception, about families that value honor over humanity, about the deadly price of secrets kept and truths revealed too late.

This is about a young woman who crossed an ocean chasing hope only to find horror waiting on her wedding night.

Stay with me as we uncover how a medical diagnosis, a desperate lie, and a toxic family’s rage converged into one of Canada’s most disturbing cases of honor related violence.

To understand what happened on that February night, we first need to know who Anita Deshmuk really was.

Because she wasn’t just a victim, she was a daughter, a sister, a friend, and a woman with dreams as big as the ocean she would eventually cross.

Anita was 24 years old.

Born and raised in Nashik, Maharashtra, a city about 3 hours northeast of Mumbai, famous for its vineyards and ancient temples.

She came from a solidly middle-class Maharashrian family.

Her father Pash Deshmuk had worked for decades as a bank manager before retiring.

Her mother Sumin was a homemaker who had devoted her life to raising Anita and her younger brother Rohan who was studying engineering at the time of her death.

By all accounts, Anita was exceptional.

She had graduated with honors in pharmaceutical sciences and worked as a quality control analyst at a midsized pharmaceutical manufacturing company.

She was the kind of daughter who called her parents every evening, the kind of friend who never forgot a birthday.

She loved Bollywood movies, especially anything with Shah Ruk Khan.

She made the best chai according to her co-workers.

And she had one dream that seemed impossible given where she came from.

She wanted to see snow.

But Anahita’s life changed irrevocably in June 2022.

She was conducting a routine quality check on a production batch when it happened, a needlestick injury.

A contaminated needle pierced through her glove and into her thumb.

It was the kind of accident that happens in laboratories, the kind that usually means nothing more than paperwork and a tetanus shot.

Except this time, the needle had been contaminated with HIV positive blood.

The company followed protocol.

Anita was immediately started on postexposure prophylaxis.

She underwent testing and 6 weeks later, the results came back positive.

At 22 years old, Anita Deshmuk had contracted HIV through a workplace accident.

Her doctors were clear with modern antiretroviral therapy.

HIV is a manageable chronic condition.

Within 6 months, Anita achieved what’s called an undetectable viral load.

In medical terms, this means the amount of virus in her blood was so low that standard tests couldn’t detect it.

And here’s the crucial part that would later matter so much.

When someone is undetectable, they cannot transmit the virus to others.

You equals you.

As doctors say, undetectable equals untransmittable.

Anita could work, exercise, travel, and yes, she could marry and even have children safely.

Her life expectancy was essentially normal.

She took one pill a day and went for checkups every 3 months.

That was it.

But medical reality and social reality are two different things, especially in conservative communities.

When Anita’s parents began looking for marriage proposals, as was expected for an educated girl from a good family, they discovered a brutal truth.

The moment they disclosed her HIV status, proposals vanished.

Families who had been interested suddenly weren’t.

Marriage brokers stopped returning calls.

One family’s representative said it outright.

We cannot accept a girl with that condition.

What will people say? Anita watched her college friends get married one by one.

She attended their weddings with a smile on her face and a growing desperation in her heart.

By the time she turned 24, relatives were already calling her too old for the marriage market.

Whispers started.

Why isn’t she married yet? Is something wrong with her? The stigma was suffocating and then her father’s health began to decline.

Pash had a heart condition that was worsening.

The doctors said stress was a major factor and his biggest source of stress.

The fear that he would die before seeing his daughter settled.

In traditional families, a father’s dying wish to see his daughter married isn’t just sentiment.

It’s a sacred duty.

Anita faced an impossible choice.

Tell the truth and remain unmarried.

breaking her father’s heart in his final years or conceal her diagnosis and hope that once a husband got to know her as a person, he would understand.

She chose the latter and that choice would cost her everything.

But here’s what you need to understand before we go any further.

Anita wasn’t defined by her diagnosis.

She wasn’t just an HIV positive woman.

She was a person who loved deeply, who worked hard, who dreamed of seeing snowfall for the first time.

She was someone who deserved a chance at happiness, at love, at life.

Remember that as this story unfolds because the people who killed her never saw her humanity.

They only saw a diagnosis.

Now, let’s travel across the world to Bmpton, Ontario, a city about 30 km northwest of Toronto, known for having one of the largest South Asian populations in Canada.

This is where Harjot Singh Malhotra had built his version of the Canadian dream.

Harot was 59 years old when he decided to remarry.

He’d come to Canada in 1995.

Part of the wave of Punjabi immigration that would transform cities like Bmpton and Suri.

Through hard work and smart business decisions, he’d built Mulhotra trucking and logistics into a successful operation with a fleet of 18 trucks and contracts with several major retailers.

By most measures, Harot had succeeded.

He owned a large house in a good neighborhood.

He had money in the bank.

He was respected in the local gdwara, but he was also deeply lonely.

His first wife, Kowinder Core, had died of cancer 5 years earlier in 2019.

They’d been married for 28 years.

Her death had devastated him.

What made it worse was that they’d never been able to have children.

A source of private pain that Harot rarely discussed, but that had defined much of their marriage.

After Kwinder’s death, Harjot had thrown himself into work.

But by 2023, his family had begun pressuring him to remarry.

And when I say family, I mean the people he lived with, the people whose opinions carried weight in every decision he made.

First, there was his mother, Harbagen Core.

At 81, she was the undisputed matriarch of the Mulhotra household.

Traditional to her core, Harbagen had never fully adjusted to Canadian life.

Even after nearly three decades in the country, she still dressed exclusively in traditional Punjabi suits, she spoke primarily Punjabi with only broken English and she ruled her household with an iron will disguised as elderly frailty.

Then there was Harjett’s younger brother, Germit Singh Mulhotra, who was 52 and worked as Harajett’s business partner.

Gormit was the enforcer of the family, the one who wasn’t afraid to raise his voice, to make demands, to ensure the family’s reputation remained intact.

Where Harot was soft-spoken and conflict avoidant, Germite was aggressive and doineering.

Germ’s wife, Pervine Coral Malhotra, 48, was the family’s social enforcer.

She monitored what the neighbors thought, what the community whispered, what the aunties at the gdara might say.

Pervine had strong opinions about how things should be done, how women should behave, and how the family’s honor should be maintained at all costs.

Finally, there were Germit and Pervine’s two sons, Jatinder, 26, and Manit, 23.

Both worked in the family trucking business.

Both still lived at home, and both had been raised in a household where their grandmother’s word was law and their father’s temper was to be feared.

This was the family Harjot lived with.

This was the family whose approval he sought.

And this was the family that began pressuring him relentlessly to remarry.

“A man needs a wife,” Harbagen would say.

“The house needs a woman’s touch.

” What she really meant was, “I need someone to cook and clean and serve me in my old age since Cowwinder is gone.

” Germit was more direct.

You’re not getting any younger by maybe this time you can have children.

Carry on the family name.

Pervine added her concern.

What will people think a successful man like you living alone? They’ll think something is wrong with you.

By late 2023, Harjot had given in.

He hired a matrimonial agent, a woman named Mrs.

Ramakul Carney who specialized in matching NRI non-resident Indian men with brides from India.

His requirements were specific.

Or rather, his family’s requirements were specific.

Find me a traditional girl.

Someone who understands the value of family.

Educated enough to have a conversation, but not so modern that she’ll disrespect her elders.

Someone who knows how to cook proper Punjabi food.

Someone who will be a good daughter-in-law, and someone young enough that we might still have children.

Mrs.

Kulcarnney took notes.

She knew exactly what kind of girl she was looking for.

And in December 2023, she found her.

“I have the perfect match for you,” she told Harjot over the phone.

24 years old, beautiful, educated, she works in pharmaceuticals from a very good Maharashrian family, traditional values, and she’s eager to settle abroad.

She sent photos.

Anita looked lovely in a simple blue sari, her long hair braided, her smile modest.

A video call was arranged.

Anita was respectful, soft-spoken, and intelligent.

She asked thoughtful questions about Canada.

She spoke warmly about her family.

She seemed perfect.

Harbagen approved.

She looks like she knows her place.

Pervine approved.

Not too modern.

That’s good.

Ger approved.

Young enough for children.

That’s what matters.

And Harot, he was charmed but also nervous.

The age gap troubled him.

35 years was significant.

But he was lonely.

His family was insistent.

And Anita seemed kind.

What none of them knew was that both sides were hiding truths.

Anita was hiding her HIV status.

Terrified that disclosure would mean another rejection.

and the Mulhotra family was hiding their true nature.

The control, the criticism, the barely concealed rage that simmerred beneath their respectable exterior.

The marriage was arranged within 6 weeks.

Paperwork was rushed.

Visas were expedited.

A wedding date was set.

February 13th, 2024.

Neither side knew what darkness the other was hiding.

And by the time the truth emerged, it would be far too late.

December 2023.

While most people were preparing for Christmas and New Year celebrations, Anita Deshmuk and Harot Singh Malhotra were building a relationship across 7,000 m and 12 time zones.

Their courtship happened almost entirely through screens.

Video calls on WhatsApp every evening, 9:00 p.

m.

in Nashik, which was 10:30 a.

m.

in Bmpton.

Harjot would call during his lunch break, finding a quiet corner in his office.

Anita would sit in her bedroom, speaking softly so her parents wouldn’t overhear every word.

On the surface, they seemed like a promising match.

Anita was charmed by Harjett’s gentleness.

He wasn’t like the aggressive, overconfident men she’d met through other proposals.

He spoke quietly, thoughtfully.

He asked about her pharmaceutical work with genuine interest.

The stability he represented, Canadian residency, successful business, security was everything her family had dreamed of for her.

But Harjot had doubts.

The age gap troubled him more than he admitted.

35 years, he was old enough to be her father.

Yet her intelligence drew him in.

She could discuss pharmaceutical processes, debate politics, quote poetry.

Maybe he thought they could build something real.

What Harjot didn’t know was that during every video call, Anita wrestled with one consuming question.

When do I tell him? Before the wedding.

After on the first night, after a month when he knows me better.

She’d rehearsed the conversation a 100 times.

Harot G.

I have HIV, but I’m undetectable.

I can’t transmit it.

Here are the medical reports.

But every time fear strangled the words before they could emerge.

She told herself, “After marriage, once he knows me as a person, once he sees I’m a good wife, then he’ll understand.

” It was rationalization, but it was also survival.

Her parents fully supported the match.

Canadians settled.

Good business, respectable family.

Beta, this is a blessing.

Her friends were less enthusiastic.

35 years older and you’ve never met him in person.

It’s an arranged marriage.

Anita said defensively.

People do this all the time.

Late at night, she wrote in her diary.

This is my chance.

Maybe my only chance.

Papa’s heart is getting worse.

His biggest stress is me, his unmarried daughter.

I have to make this work.

Even if I’m terrified, I don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect.

Wedding preparations moved at breakneck speed.

Visa paperwork rushed through.

Ceremony planned for February 13th.

Small, simple.

Anita’s family couldn’t afford to travel to Canada.

But there was one detail she should have noticed.

One red flag.

Every time someone from Harget’s family approached during their video calls, he’d immediately say, “I have to go.

” and end the call abruptly.

Anita thought he was being respectful.

She didn’t realize he was hiding her from them, keeping calls short so they wouldn’t overhehere, wouldn’t make demands before the wedding was finalized.

It should have been a warning, but by the time she understood, she’d already be trapped.

January 28th, 2024, Anita stepped off Air Canada Flight 42 at Toronto Pearson International Airport at 2:15 p.

m.

into a world she’d only seen in movies.

When she emerged from arrivals, the first thing she saw was snow through the terminal windows.

Real snow, she stopped right there, tears filling her eyes, and took a photo.

She posted it to Instagram.

Dreams do come true, Snowflake Canada.

It would be her last happy post.

Harjot was waiting alone, holding roses.

He looked older in person, hair grayer, face more lined.

“Your family couldn’t come,” she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.

“They’re preparing the house,” Harjot said quickly.

“Too quickly.

It was a lie.

And on some level, Anita knew it.

” During the 45minute drive to Bmpton, Anita pressed her face to the window, marveling at everything.

It’s so beautiful, she kept saying.

Harjot glanced at her.

Anita, my family, they can be traditional.

Very traditional.

Just be patient with them.

Okay.

She didn’t understand what he meant.

She couldn’t have.

The Mhotra house at 247 Sandalwood Crescent looked perfect in the snow.

But the moment Anita walked through the front door, she felt a coldness that had nothing to do with winter.

The family was waiting in the living room like judges at a tribunal.

Harbin core sat center, white hair pulled back severely, eyes sharp.

Germmit and Pervine flanked her.

The nephews stood near the staircase, arms crossed.

Anita immediately touched Harbagein’s feet, seeking blessings.

Harbagen didn’t bless her.

Instead, she grabbed Anahita’s chin, examining her like livestock.

H.

Darker than in the photos.

They always use filters these days.

An Aita’s cheeks burned.

You cook Punjabi food? Harbagen demanded.

I can learn.

I’m a quick learner.

H.

She can’t even cook.

What did we get? Pervine’s smile was cold.

Welcome to Canada.

The nephews whispered in Punjabi.

Anita caught so short and not even pretty.

That night, Anita called her mother.

Do they love you? Is the house nice? Anita looked around the beautiful bedroom that felt like a prison.

She thought about Harbagen’s critical inspection.

Pervine’s cold welcome.

Everything is wonderful, Mama.

They’re very kind.

I’m so happy.

After they hung up, Anita lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

She couldn’t go back.

Going back meant failure, meant breaking her father’s heart.

So, she made a decision.

she would win them over, whatever it took.

It never occurred to her that some families don’t want to be won over.

Some families are looking for reasons to destroy you.

The two weeks between arrival and wedding were psychological torture disguised as cultural tradition.

It started at 4:47 a.

m.

on her second morning with aggressive knocking.

Are you going to sleep all day in this house? The daughter-in-law makes tea for the family.

Anita stumbled downstairs to find harbagen waiting.

Chai with cardamom, ginger, not too much milk.

Anita had no idea how to make Punjabi chai.

She tried burning the first batch, over steeping the second.

Harbagen took one sip and spat it back.

Terrible.

This is what my son is marrying.

The criticism was constant, relentless.

The way she dressed.

Why are you wearing jeans? where proper cell war kamsees.

The way she walked, small steps, graceful like a lady, the way she spoke.

A good daughter-in-law listens more than she speaks.

Anita tried desperately to adapt.

She woke at 5:00 a.

m.

She cooked elaborate meals using YouTube recipes.

She cleaned, served, deferred to everyone.

She bit her tongue when Germit made comments about her body.

When the nephews accidentally walked in on her changing every time she looked to Harjot for support, but Harjot was silent.

When his mother criticized, he looked away.

When his brother made inappropriate comments, he said nothing.

She realized with horror.

Harjot was terrified of his own family.

He’d pour whiskey each evening, drinking until his hands stopped shaking.

Anita couldn’t tell anyone the truth.

Every evening her mother called, “How are you adjusting?” “Yes, mama.

Everyone is very kind.

” She couldn’t admit the truth.

Papa’s heart condition was worsening.

The stress could kill him.

But late at night, she wrote in her diary.

I made a mistake, but I can’t go back.

Papa might not survive the shame.

Harbagen keeps asking why I was unmarried at 24.

She says, “What is she hiding? I’m terrified.

Three more days until the wedding.

I keep thinking about telling Harot about my HIV status.

But what if he calls off the wedding? What if they send me back in shame? She messaged her friend Priya.

They hate me.

I don’t know why.

Priya wrote back.

Get out.

Come home before it’s too late.

But Anahita had 3,000 Indian rupees in her account.

Not enough for a flight.

No friends in Canada.

Nowhere to run.

On February 12th, Pervine brought the bridal lehenga.

Try it on though.

You’re wider than we expected.

Anita put on the red and gold outfit.

In the mirror, she looked like a Bollywood bride, but she felt like she was dressing for her own funeral.

Tomorrow you become a Mulhotra.

Pervine said, “Our reputation is everything.

Remember that.

” After Pervine left, Anita stared at her reflection.

Tomorrow she would marry a man she barely knew.

Tomorrow she would tie herself to a family that despised her.

And she still hadn’t told anyone about the HIV diagnosis.

Just get through the wedding, she whispered.

Then maybe everything will be different.

She had no idea that in less than 24 hours she would be dead.

February 13th, 2024.

The day Anita Deshmuk had been anticipating with equal parts hope and dread finally arrived.

The wedding ceremony took place at the seek temple on Airport Road in Bmpton.

A modest gdwara that the Mulhotra family had attended for decades.

It was a small gathering, maybe 40 people.

Most were Harjett’s business associates from the trucking company, a few neighbors, some distant relatives.

Conspicuously absent were Anita’s friends, her colleagues, anyone who knew her as a person rather than just the bride from India.

Her family joined via video call.

Her father’s phone propped on a chair in the front row so they could watch from Nashik.

Pash Deshmuk looked frail on the small screen, his face gray with exhaustion.

But when he saw Anahita in her red and gold bridal lehenga, tears streamed down his cheeks.

My daughter looks like a queen, he whispered to Suman.

Anita did look beautiful.

The heavy silk lehenga shimmerred under the gdoara lights.

Her Mahendi was dark and intricate.

Gold jewelry adorned her neck and wrists.

Professional makeup concealed the dark circles under her eyes from two weeks of barely sleeping.

But if you looked closely at the wedding photos and police investigators would obsessively in the weeks to come, you could see something else in Anahita’s eyes.

Not joy, not excitement, fear.

The ceremony itself was traditional.

The honend carriage, the seek marriage ritual involves four rounds around the guru grant sahib, the holy book.

With each round, Anita and Harjot circled the scripture, bound together by a pink scarf.

Symbolically, they were becoming one.

But Harjot was drinking heavily.

Between rounds, he disappeared to the parking lot where Germe had a flask of whiskey in his car.

By the fourth round, Harget steps were unsteady.

His eyes were glazed.

“Is the groom drunk?” One guest whispered to another.

“He’s nervous,” came the reply.

59 years old, marrying a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.

Wouldn’t you drink? Throughout the ceremony, Harbagen complained loudly about everything.

The decorations are so simple, cheapl looking this food.

Who catered this? The samosas are cold.

Look at the gifts Anita’s family sent.

So small, so cheap.

What kind of family sends such pitiful presents? Pervine nodded along with every criticism, adding her own observations.

The girl’s side didn’t even come.

Just a video call shows how little they care.

Germmit kept pulling Harjot aside for whispered conversations in Punjabi.

An observer later told police she’d overheard fragments.

Are you sure about this? It’s not too late.

Something feels wrong about her.

Family members stared at Anahita throughout the ceremony with barely concealed hostility.

She was an intruder, an outsider, someone who didn’t belong.

One guest, an elderly woman named Mrs.

Ky Bra, later testified to police about something she’d overheard.

She’d been standing near Harbagen when the old woman muttered to Pervine.

At least if she doesn’t work out, we can send her back.

The marriage isn’t consummated until tonight.

It was said casually like Anahita was a product with a return policy.

After the ceremony, the small reception was held at the Mulhotra house.

By 8:00 p.

m.

, guests began arriving at the Sandalwood Crescent home.

Anita, exhausted in her heavy lehenga, was expected to serve everyone.

Bring tea, offer sweets, smile graciously while strangers examined her like a museum exhibit.

She’s darker than I expected,” one woman said.

“So short,” another observed.

“Good thing she has wide hips.

Maybe she can give them sons.

” “No one asked Anita about herself, her education, her work, her dreams.

She was just Harots’s new wife, a role, not a person.

” At 10:30 p.

m.

, Anita managed to slip away to call her parents one last time before the night ahead.

Her mother answered immediately, “Beta, how was it? Are you happy?” Anita looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.

“The beautiful bride, the terrified girl.

It was perfect, mama.

Everyone is so kind.

And tonight,” her mother said, lowering her voice.

“Be gentle with him.

Be patient.

Make him happy.

That’s a wife’s duty.

I will, mama.

We’re so proud of you.

Papa is resting now.

But his heart is so much calmer knowing you’re settled.

Tell him I love him.

Tell him I’ll make him proud.

You already have, Beta.

You already have.

After hanging up, Anita stood in the bathroom for a long moment, her hand resting on her purse.

Inside was a small orange bottle.

10:00 a.

m.

her antiretroviral medication.

She was supposed to take it at 1000 p.

m.

every night.

She was already 30 minutes late.

Should I take it now or wait until later when he’s asleep? She decided to wait.

She’d hide the bottle in her cosmetics bag in the bridal suite.

Take it discreetly later.

Harjot would never know.

By 11 p.

m.

, the last guests had left.

The house fell quiet except for the family’s movements.

cleaning up, putting away food, discussing the wedding in Punjabi in hush tones Anita couldn’t quite hear.

Harjot appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

He looked exhausted, slightly drunk, and deeply uncomfortable.

“It’s time,” he said quietly.

Anita’s heart hammered as she climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.

“Their bedroom now.

” The room had been decorated for the occasion.

Rose petals on the bed, candles flickering, strings of jasmine flowers.

It should have been romantic.

Instead, it felt like walking into a trap.

11:30 p.

m.

The bridal suite.

Anita stood near the window, still in her heavy lehenga, her jewelry weighing on her like chains.

Harjot sat on the edge of the bed, removing his turban with slow, deliberate movements.

Neither spoke.

The silence between them was thick with expectation and dread.

I’ll just freshen up, Anita finally said, grabbing her cosmetics bag and escaping to the attached bathroom.

She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, breathing hard, her hands shook as she removed some of her jewelry, wiped off some of the heavy makeup.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

A stranger in bridal red.

Then she opened her cosmetics bag.

There, nestled between her moisturizer and face wash, was the orange pill bottle, 10vm, her daily anti-retroviral.

She was now 90 minutes late taking it.

She opened the bottle as quietly as possible, extracted one pill, swallowed it with water from the tap.

Then she made a fatal mistake.

Instead of putting the bottle back deep in the bag, she left it on top of her cosmetics.

Just for a moment, she was going to hide it properly.

She really was.

But first, she needed to change out of the lehenga, remove the rest of her jewelry, try to calm her racing heart.

She emerged from the bathroom 10 minutes later wearing a red silk night gown that Pervine had given her.

Traditional for the wedding night, her hair was down.

Her face scrubbed clean.

She looked young, vulnerable, terrified.

Harjot had poured himself another drink.

Whiskey from the bottle he kept in the bedroom closet.

Come sit,” he said, patting the bed beside him.

His words were slightly slurred.

Anita sat, maintaining distance between them.

Her mind was racing.

Should I tell him now before anything happens? Would that be better or worse? Anita, Harot said slowly.

I know this is difficult, the age difference, my family, everything, but I’ll try to be a good husband.

I promise.

For a moment, Anita felt a surge of hope.

He sounded kind, genuine.

Maybe she could tell him.

Maybe he would understand.

Harot G.

There’s something I need to wait.

He interrupted, standing up.

I need to get something.

Just Just give me one moment.

He walked to the bathroom.

Anita’s cosmetics bag was still on the counter where she’d left it.

And sitting right on top, clearly visible, was the orange pill bottle.

Harjot picked it up, squinting at the label in the bathroom light.

10vm.

The words echoed from the bathroom.

An Aita’s blood turned to ice.

He emerged holding the bottle, his expression confused.

What is this? Why do you have HIV medication? Time stopped.

Anita’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Her mind went blank.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

She was supposed to explain carefully, show him medical reports, make him understand.

Anita Hargett’s voice was harder now.

Why do you have HIV medication? I I can explain.

She managed to whisper.

Please sit down.

Let me explain.

Explain what? That you have HIV? His voice rose.

That you have HIV and you never told me.

I’m undetectable.

The words burst out of her.

Do you know what that means? It means I cannot transmit the virus.

I can’t infect you.

Is science.

You equals you.

Undetectable equals untransmittable.

I have medical reports.

You lied to me.

Harget’s face had gone pale.

You lied to me.

You lied to my family.

We brought you into our home.

I was going to tell you.

Tears were streaming down on Aita’s face now.

I was going to tell you after the wedding once you knew me.

Once you understood that I’m still the same person.

The same person.

Harjot backed away from her like she was radioactive.

I don’t even know who you are.

How did you How long have you? A workplace accident.

2 years ago.

A needlestick injury.

I’m on treatment.

I’m healthy.

I can live a completely normal life.

We can have children.

Everything can be normal.

normal.

Harget’s laugh was bitter, almost hysterical.

You think any of this is normal? You think lying about having HIV is normal? I didn’t lie.

I just I didn’t tell you yet.

I was scared.

Every time I disclosed to a family, they rejected me.

I couldn’t bear it again.

I couldn’t.

So, you decided to trap me instead? Harjett’s voice was shaking.

Get me to marry you first, then tell me.

That’s fraud, Anita.

That’s criminal fraud.

No.

No, it’s not like that.

Does Mrs.

Kulcarnney know? Does your family know? Anita couldn’t lie anymore.

Yes, my parents know.

The matchmaker.

She knew too.

She said maybe you would be more understanding that Canadians are educated about HIV.

Oh my god.

Harjot sat down heavily on the bed, his head in his hands.

“Oh my god, my family.

What am I going to tell my family? Don’t tell them.

” Anita begged, falling to her knees in front of him.

“Please don’t tell them yet.

Let me explain to them properly.

Let me show them the medical reports.

Let a doctor talk to them.

They’re going to find out eventually,” Harjot said.

His voice had gone cold.

dead.

You think you can hide this forever? I wasn’t hiding forever.

I was just waiting for the right moment.

The right moment? Harjot stood up abruptly, pushing past her.

There is no right moment for this kind of news.

Anita, where are you going? To tell my family.

They have a right to know what you’ve brought into this house.

No.

Anita grabbed his arm.

Please, Harot, please don’t.

Not tonight.

Wait until morning.

Let me be there.

Let me explain.

He pulled his arm free.

Let go of me, please.

She was sobbing now.

Please.

I’m begging you.

They already hate me.

If you tell them this, they’ll I don’t know what they’ll do.

Harjot looked at her kneeling on the floor in her red silk night gown, tears streaming down her face.

And for a moment, something flickered in his eyes.

Pity maybe or guilt.

But then he thought about his mother’s reaction.

His brother’s rage, the shame, the gossip, the scandal.

“Goodbye, Anita,” he said quietly, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Anita stayed on the floor, the pill bottle still clutched in her hand.

She could hear Hargett’s footsteps descending the stairs.

Heard his voice in the distance, muffled, “Everyone, we need to talk now.

” She knew what was coming.

She knew that in minutes the entire family would know her secret.

And she knew with a certainty that made her entire body go cold.

That they would not be understanding.

They would not listen to medical facts.

They would not see her as human.

They would see her as contaminated, dirty, diseased, shameful.

She thought about running, grabbing her phone, calling the police, fleeing into the snowy Canadian night in her wedding clothes.

But where would she go? And what would she say? Help! I’m afraid my in-laws will be angry that I have HIV.

So instead, she stayed frozen on the floor, listening to the sounds rising from downstairs.

A woman’s scream, shouting, furniture scraping, footsteps, multiple footsteps coming up the stairs, getting closer, Anita stood up on shaking legs and faced the door, still holding the pill bottle that had destroyed her life.

She didn’t know she had less than 2 hours to live.

But on some primal level, she understood that when that door opened again, she would be facing something monstrous and there would be no escape.

11:45 p.

m.

The Mulhotra kitchen.

The family hadn’t gone to bed yet.

They never did on wedding nights.

It was tradition.

The family wakes up until they hear the bedroom door close, confirming the marriage has been consummated.

Only then does everyone go to sleep, satisfied that the marriage is complete and binding.

Harbagen sat at the kitchen table sipping tea.

Pervine was beside her organizing leftover sweets.

Germit stood by the counter checking his phone.

The two nephews, Jatinder and Manit, were in the living room watching television with the volume low.

Everyone looked up when Harot came down the stairs.

His face was ashen.

His hands were shaking.

Maha, he said, his voice cracking.

Everyone, we have a problem.

Harbagen set down her teacup with deliberate care.

What kind of problem? Harot took a breath and spoke the words that would seal Anita’s fate.

She has HIV.

For three seconds, nobody moved.

The words hung in the air like poison gas.

Then chaos erupted.

What? Harbagen scream was primal.

Animal.

What did you say? HIV? Harjot repeated.

And now he sounded almost robotic in shock.

She’s HIV positive.

She never told us.

I found her medication.

Oh my god.

Pervine stood up so fast her chair fell backward.

Oh my god.

She brought disease into our house.

Into our house.

Everyone calm down.

Harjot started.

Calm down.

Germit slammed his fist on the counter.

She’s brought AIDS into our family and you want us to calm down? It’s not AIDS.

It’s HIV.

There’s a difference.

There’s no difference.

Harbagen was wailing now, rocking back and forth.

Disease is disease.

We’re ruined.

If people find out we brought an AIDS girl into our house, Jatinder and Manit had run in from the living room.

What’s happening? What’s going on? Your uncle’s new wife, Pervine said, her voice shrill with hysteria is diseased.

She has HIV.

It’s She’s infected.

What? Manit’s face went pale.

Wait, she’s been living here for 2 weeks.

Is it contagious? Can we catch it from touching things? I don’t know.

Pervine shrieked.

She’s been using our bathroom, our dishes.

What if she’s infected all of us? That’s not how it works.

Harjot tried again.

How do you know how it works? Germit rounded on his brother.

Are you a doctor? Did you use protection? Did she infect you? We didn’t.

I found the medication before.

Thank God.

Harbagen gasped, clutching her chest.

Thank God.

But the marriage? Is the marriage even legal if she lied? She didn’t exactly lie, Harjot said weakly.

She just didn’t disclose.

That’s the same thing Pervine’s hands were shaking.

This is fraud.

Criminal fraud.

She trapped you.

She trapped all of us.

We have to send her back, Harbagen said, her voice hardening.

Tonight, immediately before anyone knows she was here.

We can’t just put her on a plane.

Harjot said there are procedures.

The marriage is legal.

Legal? Germit’s laugh was bitter.

She committed fraud.

The marriage can be enulled.

But if we just send her back, Pervine said, her voice dropping to something calculating.

She’ll tell everyone.

Shell say we rejected her.

The shame will destroy us.

So what do we do? Jatinder asked.

Everyone looked at each other.

The panic was morphing into something else now.

Something colder, more calculated.

We confront her.

Harbagen said finally.

All of us.

We make her sign papers saying she lied.

We get a confession.

Then we have proof for the enulment.

And if she refuses,” Mrit asked.

“She won’t refuse,” Germmit said darkly.

“Not when she understands what she’s done to this family.

” They stood in the kitchen.

Six people united in rage and fear and shame.

Six people who had convinced themselves that they were the victims here, that Anahita had wronged them, that she needed to be punished.

Let’s go, Harbagen said, standing up with frightening energy for an 81-year-old woman.

All of us.

She needs to understand what she’s brought into our house.

They moved toward the stairs.

Harot followed, not leading, but not stopping them either.

His silence was complicity.

As they ascended, their shadows merged on the wall behind them.

Six separate people becoming one dark, monstrous shape.

In the bridal suite, Anita heard them coming.

Multiple footsteps, multiple voices.

She backed toward the window, her hands clutching the pill bottle like a talisman.

She thought about screaming, but who would hear? The houses on Sandalwood Crescent were detached, spaced apart, and it was nearly midnight.

She thought about jumping from the seconds story window, but she’d probably just break her legs.

So she stood there and waited as the door burst open and six people filled the doorway.

Their faces twisted with rage and disgust and something else.

Something that looked almost like hunger.

The mob had arrived and Anita Deshmuk was completely alone.

12:45 a.

m.

The bridal suite door burst open.

Six people poured into the room like a flood.

Harbagen, Germmit, Pervine, Jatinder, Manreit, and finally Hargot, lingering in the doorway.

Anita backed toward the window, her phone clutched in one hand, the pill bottle still in the other.

So, Harbagen said, her voice dripping with venom, the truth finally comes out.

For 90 minutes, Anita endured what can only be described as psychological and physical torture.

The verbal assault came first.

Words in Punjabi and English designed to dehumanize to destroy.

Randy Pervine spat prostitute.

How many men gave you this disease? I told you a workplace accident.

Liar.

Harbagen shrieked.

Everyone knows how women get AIDS.

You’re dirty, contaminated.

Anita tried desperately to explain.

Please listen to me.

I have medical reports.

I’m undetectable.

That’s a scientific term.

It means the virus can’t be detected in my blood.

I cannot transmit it.

You’re all safe.

You were always safe.

Safe? Germmit laughed bitterly.

You brought disease into our house and you talk about safe.

The science is clear.

Anita’s voice rose.

I can show you studies, doctor’s letters.

Pervine slapped her hard across the face.

Don’t you dare talk back.

You lied to us.

You trapped my brother-in-law.

An Aita’s cheek burned.

Tears streamed down her face.

I didn’t trap anyone.

I just wanted a chance.

I wanted someone to know me before they judged me.

Judged you? Harbagen moved closer.

Her elderly frame somehow menacing.

What will people say when they find out we brought an AIDS girl into our family? We’re ruined because of you.

Then let me go.

Anita said, desperation making her voice crack.

Please, I’ll leave tonight.

I’ll go back to India.

I’ll tell everyone the marriage didn’t work out.

I won’t say anything bad about your family.

Just please let me go.

She moved toward the door, but Germe blocked her path.

You think we’ll let you leave and destroy our reputation? Tell everyone we rejected you.

Make us look like the bad people? I won’t.

I promise.

I’ll say it was my fault.

Your promises mean nothing.

Pervine said coldly.

You’re a liar.

You’ve been lying since the moment you stepped into our house.

Anita pulled out her phone.

Then I’m calling my parents.

They’ll arrange a flight.

I’ll be gone by tomorrow.

Manit snatched the phone from her hands.

You’re not calling anyone, he said.

Give that back.

Anita lunged for her phone.

Pervine pushed her hard.

Anita stumbled backward, her heel catching on the edge of the carpet.

She fell and the back of her head connected with the wooden bed post with a sickening crack.

For a moment, everyone froze.

Anita touched the back of her head.

Her fingers came away red blood.

“She’s bleeding,” Jatinder said, his voice rising in panic.

“Her blood,” Harbagen screamed.

Her diseased blood.

It’s everywhere.

We’ll all get infected.

That’s not how it works.

Anita tried to say, but the room was spinning.

Hold her down.

Germit shouted.

Don’t let her blood touch you.

What happened next was chaos.

Anita, disoriented from hitting her head.

Tried to stand.

Tried to run for the door, but there were too many of them.

Jatinder and Manit grabbed her arms, forcing her down.

she screamed, a high, desperate sound that should have woken the neighbors, but the houses on Sandalwood Crescent were detached, spaced apart, and it was nearly 1:00 a.

m.

“Please!” Anita sobbed.

“Please, I’m not dangerous.

I’m not going to hurt anyone.

Please, just let me go.

” Pervine hit her again.

Then again, Harbagen, despite her age, grabbed Anahita’s hair and yanked viciously.

Gorm kicked her in the ribs when she tried to curl into a protective position.

Stop.

Anita screamed.

Please stop.

I’m still human.

I made a mistake, but I’m still human.

Through it all, Harjot stood in the doorway, watching, not participating, but not stopping them either.

Harjot G.

Anita’s eyes found him through her tears.

Please help me.

Please, he looked away.

That’s when Germmit saw the Mangal Sutra, the sacred wedding necklace still around Anita’s throat.

“You don’t deserve this,” he said, his voice cold and final.

“You don’t deserve to wear our family’s necklace.

” He grabbed the gold chain, twisted it tighter.

Anita’s screams became choked gasps.

Her hands clawed at the necklace at Germit’s hands, drawing blood.

Her legs kicked wildly.

The nephews held her down.

For four maybe 5 minutes, Anita Deshmuk fought for her life.

Her last word, barely a whisper, was mama.

At 1:47 a.

m.

, she stopped moving.

For 30 seconds, nobody moved.

They all stared at Anita’s body.

Her torn red night gown, her smeared Mahendi, her open eyes staring at nothing.

“What did we do?” Jatinder whispered.

Oh god, what did we do? Shut up, Pervine hissed.

But her hands were shaking violently.

Germmit released the mangle sutra and stepped back, staring at his own hands like they belong to someone else.

Harbagen collapsed into a chair, clutching her chest.

My heart, she gasped.

I can’t breathe.

She made us do this, Pervine said, her voice rising hysterically.

This is her fault.

She brought disease into our house.

She lied to us.

We were protecting ourselves.

We killed her.

Manit said, his face pale.

We actually killed her.

We need to call someone, Harjot said finally, his voice hollow.

We need help.

Not the police, Germit said quickly.

Not yet.

We need time to think, to figure out what to say.

Call

Baines, Pervine suggested.

She’s Punjabi.

She’ll understand.

She’ll help us.

Amriita Baines had been the Mhotra family physician for 15 years.

She lived 10 minutes away.

When she received the frantic call at 2:15 a.

m.

saying there had been an accident and they needed her immediately, she grabbed her medical bag and drove over.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she found.

The bridal suite looked like a crime scene.

Blood on the carpet, furniture overturned, and in the center of it all, a young woman in wedding clothes, clearly deceased, liature marks around her throat.

”

Baines took one look and knew exactly what had happened.

” “What did you do?” she whispered.

“It was an accident,” Pervine said immediately.

“She attacked us.

We were defending ourselves.

”

Baines looked at Anahita’s defensive wounds, at the family’s minor scratches, at the scene of obvious group violence.

“This wasn’t self-defense,” she said quietly.

“This was murder.

You have to help us,” Harbagen begged from her chair.

“Please, we’re family.

You’ve known us for years.

I need to call the police,”

Bane said, pulling out her phone.

“No,” Germit moved toward her threateningly.

You can’t think about what this will do to our community, to your reputation for treating our families.

Are you threatening me?

Baines backed toward the door.

I’m a mandated reporter.

I have to call this in or I lose my license.

Please.

Pervine grabbed her arm.

Just give us time to explain, to figure out how to say what happened.

Baines pulled free and ran from the house.

In her car with shaking hands, she dialed 911.

This is

Amriita Baines.

I’m reporting a murder at 247 Sandalwood Crescent in Bmpton.

A young woman has been killed.

The family is still inside.

Please send officers immediately.

At 2:23 a.

m.

, the call was logged.

At 2:47 a.

m.

, three Peele Regional Police cruisers pulled up to the Mulhotra house, lights flashing.

When officers entered, they found the family sitting in the living room.

Harbagen was having genuine chest pains.

Pervine was crying.

Germit was pacing.

The nephews sat in stunned silence.

Harjot stared at the wall.

“She attacked us,” Germmit said immediately.

“My brother’s new wife.

She went crazy.

We had to defend ourselves.

” But upstairs, the evidence told a very different story.

Sergeant Maya Akono of Peele Regional Police arrived at the scene at 3:15 a.

m.

With 18 years of experience investigating domestic violence and homicides, she’d seen terrible things.

But this case would haunt her for years.

The bridal suite was a horror show.

Blood spatter on the walls.

Anita’s body lay in the center, still in her red silk night gown.

Her lehenga from the wedding was draped over a chair.

a stark reminder that hours ago this had been her wedding night.

The physical evidence was overwhelming.

Ligature marks around her throat matched the mangle sutra found beside the body.

Blunt force trauma to her head.

Defensive wounds on her hands and arms where she tried to protect herself.

Torn clothing, broken bangles scattered across the floor.

Multiple attackers, the forensic photographer noted.

Blood spatter pattern indicates at least three different impact sites.

Aonquo examined Anita’s hands carefully.

Skin under her fingernails where she’d scratched her attackers.

“She fought hard,” Akono said quietly.

“She fought for her life.

” On the nightstand, investigators found the orange pill bottle 10vm HIV medication.

Continue reading….
Next »