Chapter 1: The Game Begins

If I’d known what that night would cost me, I would have never stepped into that hall.

The hall buzzed with a riot of colours and scents—someone had abandoned a half-eaten samosa on the glass-topped centre table, a lazy curl of agarbatti smoke winding upwards beside a jumble of chappals by the door. Laughter bounced off the marble tiles, mixing with an old Lata Mangeshkar song playing from a Bluetooth speaker someone had sneaked in before the phone ban. The girls sparkled in their best kurtis, chunky silver jewellery glinting, kajal smudged by the Mumbai humidity, while the boys—now men—boasted about corporate conquests and retreating hairlines. The ceiling fan whirred above, blending nostalgia with the strong aroma of masala chai.

Phones were off for everyone—no exceptions. But when my turn came, my phone buzzed. I answered the call. In an instant, Ananya's face twisted in fury. Her bangles jingled as she snatched my phone and smashed it hard onto the mosaic floor.

The crack echoed louder than any of the laughter, silencing even the Bluetooth speaker’s old Lata song. Heads turned, the game forgotten. The Thums Up guy froze, bottle mid-air. Some people gasped, a few exchanged knowing glances—another one of Ananya's dramas, they seemed to say. A girl near the window looked away, uncomfortable, while someone else snickered behind his hand.

"Wah, Mr. Busy, kaun si deal crack kar rahe ho abhi?" Her voice sliced through the music, sharp as a knife. The unspoken 'log kya kahenge' hung heavy. A couple of her friends tittered, eyes flicking between us, waiting for the next twist—just like a scene from a daily soap.

I stared blankly at the phone as the screen went black. "That was Papa. He said Ma just had a sudden heart attack..."

The words weighed down my tongue, thick and gritty. I looked at Ananya, praying she’d understand. The room changed—a hush, only the bark of a stray dog and the clatter of an auto rickshaw outside broke the silence.

My wife froze, her jaw set. "Kya bakwaas hai yeh?"

She looked away, fiddling with the end of her dupatta, her jaw tight. Suspicion flickered in her eyes; her painted lips parted, but nothing came out. A nervous hand went to her hair. A couple of classmates shared glances, as if catching a whiff of old family drama.

Panic began to crawl up my spine. My legs felt weak, sweat soaking through my shirt despite the fan’s breeze. I kept glancing at the wall clock, every tick sounding like a countdown. I grabbed her arm, desperate. "We need to go. At her age, a heart attack is no small thing."

My grip was tight, my voice shaking. Images flashed—Ma on the sofa, clutching her chest, glass bangles clinking as she tried to call for help. The metallic taste of fear rose in my mouth. Sweat trickled down my temple.

A female classmate lounging on the sofa laughed. "If you can’t handle the game, just go home. Waise bhi, we didn’t even want you here. Kabir is coming soon, by the way."

She stretched out, anklets chiming, eyes twinkling with mischief. The way she said 'Kabir' was meant to sting. Someone behind her snickered, covering his mouth with a plate of chaat. Some snickered, but one girl near the window looked away, uncomfortable. The air turned sharp, like the tang of raw onions.

At that name, my wife’s body stiffened.

Ananya’s posture changed instantly; her smile slipped, and she stared at a framed college photo—everyone younger, untouched by betrayal. The tension in the room thickened.

"Go home with your husband, quickly. Heart attack, is it? Please, he’s just scared to see your first love," the classmate sneered.

Someone else piped up, “Arrey, drama baazi shuru ho gayi, yaar.” The group giggled, the smell of roasted peanuts now tinged with something acidic.

A male classmate leaned in, voice booming. "Let me spill the beans—Kabir is here to confess tonight."

His words were loud, dramatic, as if we were in a daily soap and everyone was waiting for the next twist. Someone whistled, a chorus of 'Oho!' and 'Wah wah!' followed. My stomach dropped.

Ananya shook off my hand. "I’m not leaving. Party abhi toh shuru hui hai. We haven’t even eaten. If you want to go, jao akela."

Her voice was ice, her eyes defiant. She crossed her arms, the sequins on her kurti scattering the light. My heart hammered, panic mounting.

"What’s wrong with you? Don’t you understand what a heart attack means? Someone can die in minutes! And you still want to eat? Are you out of your mind?"

My voice rose, trembling. In the background, a pressure cooker whistled—someone’s mother making dinner, unaware of this gathering storm.

She snapped, "Tum hi toh heartless ho! These are my friends, bachpan ke. What do I have to hide? If you want to leave, jao. Don’t embarrass me."

Her words were cold as steel. The others nodded, an auntie-type muttering, “Shaadi ke baad sab aise hi badal jaate hain.” Their eyes judged me—husband spoiling the party, how typical.

I reached for her, but she slipped away into the crowd.

My fingers brushed her dupatta, but she was gone, the gap between us filled with laughter and the snap of selfie cameras. Someone tossed me a pitying, half-mocking glance.

"I’m telling you again: a heart attack is no joke. It’s a matter of life and death. Come home with me, now."

My plea hung, ignored. I searched her face for a flicker of concern—nothing but stubborn pride. My throat tightened, words choking inside me.

"Sapne dekhte raho!" she shouted. "You really expect me to believe such a cheap excuse? What did I do for you to treat me like this? Can’t I just have a normal social life?"

Her voice trembled now—not with fear, but with years of pent-up resentment. The room quieted, as if waiting for the K-serial climax.

I picked up my phone, pressing every button, but the screen stayed dead.

My hands shook as I tried to revive it, my own reflection fractured in the glass.

Her classmates burst out laughing, faces twisted in mockery.

The laughter stung, high-pitched and cruel. Someone muttered, “Drama king,” another clapped. I felt like I was on trial, the room my jury.

Desperate, I lunged for her bag, rifling through it for her phone.

I was past caring. The purse was stuffed—a packet of Hajmola, a crumpled PVR ticket, her mother’s paayal. The crowd jeered, one boy whistling as if at a cricket match.

"Kya kar rahe ho?"

Ananya’s voice was cold, eyes blazing. Some girls muttered, “Pagal ho gaya kya?”

My hands shook so much I fumbled, and she snatched the bag back.

Lipstick and keys clattered to the floor as she yanked it away. I barely noticed, my mind fixed on Ma waiting for help that wasn’t coming.

"If you don’t believe me, turn on your phone and call Papa. Ambulance is late—we need to drive Ma to the hospital ourselves!"

My voice echoed, too loud. A neighbour might have heard and wondered if another family fight was underway.

Ananya casually handed her phone to a classmate, who stuffed it into her kurti and puffed out her chest. "Aaja, le lo, agar himmat hai."

The classmate’s jhumkas swung as she grinned, the others egging her on with laughter.

A male classmate sneered, "Phool kachre mein gir gaya hai, yaar."

He let the insult hang. The room filled it in with silent agreement. One guy coughed, trying not to laugh.

The crowd jeered in unison, "Gobbar!"

The echo of 'gobbar'—manure—was a slap to my dignity. I gritted my teeth, refusing to react.

"Ananya’s a blessing to you, aur tu hai ki appreciate hi nahi karta. Bas bandhna chahta hai usse."

A girl in blue salwar said, "Arrey, you are so controlling, Rohan. Let her breathe na!" Another added, "Some men just can’t see their wife having fun."

I didn’t know any of them. I’d only come because Ananya wanted me to pay the bill and make her look good.

From the moment we walked in, I felt out of place. Their eyes told me my job: wallet out, mouth shut.

"Are you sure you’re not leaving?" I asked, voice low.

I searched her face for the woman I loved. She rolled her eyes, refusing to meet mine.

She rolled her eyes. "If I can’t have fun tonight, even if the gods themselves have a heart attack, it’s not my problem."

A couple of friends whistled. "Wah, kya dialogue maara!" someone called. She basked in the applause, for a second queen of her court.

"Fine, Ananya. Don’t regret it."

The words tasted bitter, like burnt toast. I turned away, heart pounding, half hoping she’d call me back. But she just tossed her hair and looked away.

I made for the door. Just as I reached it, it swung open.