Chapter 1: Smoke Rings and Small Comforts

My brother once leaned in and asked, "Tell me honestly, bhai—after all this, do you still feel anything for Bhabhi?"

I gave it some real thought.

How should I even answer?

To say I feel nothing at all—that would be a lie. We've been family for so many years now.

But to claim I still love her deeply? That doesn't feel right either.

I thought I'd already figured out what marriage really is.

Until one day, walking down the street,

I saw her laughing with another man.

1

Out on the balcony, I let out a slow smoke ring, just about to reply to Amit when my phone buzzed.

It was my wife, Meera.

"Hello, Meera?"

My tone softened instinctively.

She broke into laughter before speaking. "Arre, suno na hubby, when are you coming home? Chintu can do a backflip now! You have to see!"

In the background, Chintu yelled, "Mumma, see!" and the pressure cooker whistled twice, filling the call with the noise of home.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Alright, I'll be home soon. Should I bring some jalebi from the mithai shop?"

"Yes, please!"

"Today, Gupta Sweets or Haldiram's?"

"Gupta Sweets!"

We hung up, both still grinning.

Her voice on the phone felt like a cup of chai on a rainy evening—comforting, sweet, and impossible to rush. As I slipped my phone back in my pocket, the Pune sky turning dusky behind me, I realized I was smiling without meaning to. The breeze carried the scent of rain and pakoras from the tea stall below. By any standard, this was a life people envied—settled, warm, ordinary in all the best ways.

When I turned, Amit was watching me, looking slightly lost.

I wasn't surprised.

He'd just crawled out of a messy divorce—trapped between his wife and girlfriend, both of whom now hated each other.

But Meera and I?

We were the couple everyone admired—still sweet, still affectionate. Four years married, and instead of fading, our feelings seemed to deepen.

Honestly, I'd always treated her well. And after I cheated, I treated her even better.

By any standard, she's the sort of woman anyone would envy.

Amit pouted and pressed on.

"You still haven't answered me, bhai."

I shook my head, flicked my cigarette off the balcony, then glanced at him. "Let me put it this way: do you feel anything when you touch your own hand?"

He flicked his cigarette off the balcony, shook his head, and muttered, "Yaar, you always talk in circles."

I took a long drag, my eyes on the jagged Pune skyline. "That's how it is with Meera now. When I touch her, it's like touching my own hand. But if that hand gets hurt, I'd feel the pain too."

Amit blinked, chewing on that. "Is that why you're with Ritu?"

I turned, my voice low and serious. "Ritu is a woman with a lot of self-respect. Don't ever say something like that in front of her."

His eyes widened, maybe at my tone, maybe at the sharpness in my words. Even among brothers, there are lines you don't cross when it comes to women, especially those who've known you since school. Amit grunted, stubbed his cigarette out, and the silence hung heavy between us, as thick as the air before the monsoon.