Chapter 5: Collisions

5

Meera was upset.

She left for work the next morning without a word.

In my memory, she's rarely angry.

Six years ago, we met at a charity event. Her calm, elegant presence on stage caught my eye immediately.

I chased after her with everything I had.

The more I learned, the more she surprised me.

She and her mother survived alone, always looking after each other.

Despite hardships, she was always optimistic, open, content.

To her, every setback was just another 'monster to beat before leveling up.'

Twisted her ankle? She'd say, "Bhagwan wants me to rest. Gotta listen, na?"

Her bag stolen? She'd laugh, "Finally, an excuse to get a new one."

I grew up in a tense house, always wound up tight, even after some success.

With her, I learned to relax—to notice a marigold blooming, to watch clouds drift, to accept myself.

I bought a huge bouquet of roses and went to pick her up from work, making her colleagues giggle.

She walked up, lips pursed, silent.

I slapped my own face. "It's all my big mouth's fault. Deserve a good scolding. Wife, want to hit me?"

She didn't move.

I joined my hands in front of her, half-laughing: "Maaf kar de, yaar. Should I touch your feet too?"

She giggled, pulling me up quickly. "Alright, I'll let it go this time."

I grinned. "I knew you couldn't stay mad."

She paused, looked at me seriously, and said, "Hubby, just this once. Don't do it again."

I nodded like a chicken pecking grains. She smiled.

It blew over quickly.

Everything seemed to return to normal.

For a while, we slipped back into our old rhythm—the tiffin on the counter, the Hawkins cooker whistling, distant cricket in the lane. At night, she'd light up the fairy lights, and we'd read or scroll our phones in silence. The world outside was tough, but with Meera, it always felt soft.

A few days later, a heavy rainstorm hit Pune, and my throat infection flared up.

Meera was delighted to get an appointment with a famous old ayurvedic doctor. She said she'd pick up the medicine the next day.

She mentioned it was a bit far and asked if I could drive her.

I hesitated.

Ritu's son Aryan had sprained his leg in the rain, and I'd been driving them to school.

"If you're busy, don't worry. I'll just take an auto," Meera said lightly.

I nodded. "I have an important meeting tomorrow, so I'll be busy all day."

The next day.

I picked up Ritu and Aryan. She said she wanted to go to a private clinic for therapy.

Rain poured down again.

I drove to the clinic—a long queue stretched outside the small house.

The smell of wet earth mixed with the sharp tang of eucalyptus oil drifted from the clinic, mingling with the distant calls of chai-wallas.

Just as I was about to get out, I spotted Meera at the end of the line.

She was bundled up, shrinking her neck, blowing on her hands, a thin film of rain on her hair and shoulders—she'd clearly been waiting a while.

Ritu was startled, whispering, "Why is she here?"

I frowned, glancing behind me.

The lane was too narrow to turn around quickly.

"Don't get out yet. If you open the door, she'll spot my car. Wait till she goes inside."

Ritu bit her lip, nodding.

After a while, she spoke softly.

"I'm just bringing my son to the doctor. Why does it feel so sneaky?"

I didn't answer. I just sat in the warm car, watching Meera shiver in the wind.

She's always hated the cold.

She probably had forty minutes left to wait.

After half an hour, Ritu lost patience.

"If we wait any longer, we'll miss our turn."

She opened the door, picked up Aryan, and got out.

Bang.

The door slammed.

Meera instinctively turned, looking this way.

Her eyes landed on Ritu, then slowly shifted to my car.

On her face, flushed from the cold, a flicker of confusion appeared.

And then, through the rain-streaked windshield, she and I—

locked eyes, silent.

The rain hammered down, but neither of us moved. In that moment, I knew—whatever happened next, nothing would ever be the same.