Chapter 1: Under the Ceiling Fan

The ceiling fan whirred above, its steady drone filling the living room as I sat at the dining table, my chai untouched, eyes fixed on Meera. The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, glinting off the steel tumbler on the sideboard. But all I could see was the hospital room replaying in my mind, each detail sharper than the last.

My thoughts drifted back to Jaslok Hospital—the antiseptic tang in the air doing nothing to mask the raw, earthy smell of birth and sweat. My own mother had warned me, 'Beta, yeh sab mat dekhna,' but I wanted to be a modern husband, the kind who stands by his wife through everything. Yet, what I saw that day left me so shaken I couldn't even describe it to my friends over a cup of cutting chai at the local tapri.

I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. Arrey, sabko hota hai na, baccha paida karna? Phir yeh sab drama kyu? Why did she have to lose control of her body like that—right there on the hospital bed?

The nurse, a stout Malayali aunty with her hair gleaming from coconut oil, a bright red bindi set perfectly on her forehead, and the rustle of her faded cotton saree as she moved about, just wiped it away, muttering something under her breath in Malayalam as if it was the most normal thing in the world. But for me, it was as if someone had ripped away my last shred of dignity. I kept hearing in my head, 'Arrey, public mein yeh sab?' The doctor and nurses didn’t even flinch, but I wiped the sweat from my upper lip, stealing a nervous glance at the wall clock with Ganeshji’s sticker, wishing I could run out. Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance siren wailed, making me jump.

The smell was overpowering, burning my nostrils. I felt my face flush with shame, like everyone in the room could see right through me.

I kept my eyes averted, barely knowing where to look. My in-laws were waiting outside in the corridor—sasurji pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back; my saali scrolling through her phone, the family WhatsApp group pinging with updates and emojis. I imagined what they'd think if they knew how squeamish I was. My own father never spoke of such things. For a moment, I wished I had just waited outside, sipping the watery hospital chai from the vending machine.

What stunned me even more was that, during her forty-day confinement, Meera would reassure me, 'Arrey, bas thoda sa aur. After my confinement, we can be close again.'

She'd say this, reclining on the bed with her legs propped up, absentmindedly fingering her mother’s heavy gold chain as her mother bustled in to adjust her pillow. The TV played an old Lata Mangeshkar song in the background, filling the room with nostalgia. Meera would look at me with tired, hopeful eyes, as if nothing had changed. I’d just nod absently, my mind wandering anywhere but towards intimacy.

Looking at her now, I noticed the stretch marks running across her belly, the way her dupatta fell awkwardly, barely covering her changed form. A pang of guilt stabbed through my annoyance, but the aversion lingered.

Sometimes, when the maid came in to change the bedsheets, I’d catch a glimpse of that soft, stretched belly. I remembered the Meera from before—the slim girl in the red saree on our wedding day. Now, I felt something had been lost forever, and I tried not to stare too long, not wanting her to catch my discomfort.

Honestly, I never had to bear much at all.

Her mother and aunts hovered constantly, ensuring she had her ladoos, her hot water bottle. I just had to act busy, pretending to sort bills or stepping out for 'urgent' phone calls whenever the tension in the air became too much.

By the fifth month of her pregnancy, I had already started messaging my first love again, behind Meera’s back.

It was just after Holi—everyone else smeared with colours, laughter echoing in the building courtyard. But my heart was restless, craving something I couldn’t find at home. That’s when I messaged Ritika. What began as harmless chats soon turned into something I couldn’t control.