Chapter 5: The Last Slap and the First Goodbye

"Baitho."

Entering the office, Meera treated me like a guest.

Her office felt different now. The air smelled faintly of some expensive perfume, and the walls were decorated with magazine covers she’d recently featured in. Once, this space was ours. Now, it was all hers—and his.

I looked at the sofa, where several expensive game controllers were piled up.

The shelves that once held books now displayed game discs.

The door to the private lounge wasn't closed properly.

Through the gap, I could see clothes casually thrown at the end of the bed.

Meera looked at me, her expression unreadable.

Feeling it was inappropriate, I withdrew my gaze.

"Agreement?"

Meera handed me the divorce agreement from her desk.

While I looked it over, her gaze stayed on me.

"Itne saal saath bitaye hain, jitna milna chahiye utna milega. Koi bhi car ya flat chahiye, bol do. Aur kuch chahiye toh bata dena."

Was this considered compensation?

That was the only thought that flashed through my mind.

But it didn't affect the speed at which I read.

In the agreement, what Meera was giving me, I couldn't spend in several lifetimes.

She had always been generous, never stingy about these things.

"Nahi, bas yehi aur jo flat main reh raha hoon, woh de do."

I said.

I swiftly signed, then handed it to Meera.

She seemed to have something more to say to me.

Because I saw her mouth open, but close again because of my actions.

Meera looked at my handover, seemingly unable to believe the whole process was over in less than five minutes.

I stood up.

"Ek mahina cooling-off period hai. Main contact kar lunga."

After saying this, I turned to leave.

"Kabir."

"Kuch aur?"

"Kuch kehna nahi hai mujhe?"

Meera frowned slightly.

Her eyes seemed confused, and even her tone was probing in disbelief.

I looked at her in confusion and saw she was sincerely asking.

I thought for a moment, then seriously asked back,

"Ab is point pe, tu yeh expect toh nahi karti na ki main tum dono ko lambi zindagi aur jaldi bachcha hone ki dua doon?"

Although I had let go,

I wasn't that generous.

"..."

The person in front of me was speechless.

Meera looked at me, her eyes glistening like water, but her emotions were unclear.

When I put my hand on the doorknob, her voice sounded again from behind.

"Kabir, aakhir mein galti meri hi thi. Teri maa ke ilaaj ka kharcha main sambhaal lungi, hamesha."

I paused, my hand frozen. The old memories flooded back—the smell of incense from home, the sound of my mother’s laughter when Meera came visiting, the way she’d squeeze Meera’s hand and bless her again and again.

Mentioning my mum, I paused.

If there was anyone who least wanted me and Meera to divorce,

it would definitely be my mum.

Meera and I started working hard together at seventeen.

In the hardest days, we shared a tiffin between us.

I picked out all the paneer for Meera.

We had only two rotis and sabzi, but I always made sure the biggest piece of paneer ended up on her plate. Those days, love was measured in small sacrifices.

In the dead of winter, I drove an auto to earn money ferrying passengers.

I bought Meera a ring.

She was very touched and hugged me, crying.

"Thank you, Kabir. Zindagi bhar kabhi dhoka nahi dungi."

We once lived together in a tiny rented room of just a few square metres.

There was no geyser in winter, so we could only keep warm by holding each other tightly.

In summer, because it was too hot, Meera dragged me to sleep in the park.

I remember us lying on a chatai, watching the stars through the leaves, pretending the rustle was rain and not mosquitoes buzzing around us.

My mum saw all this.

She felt sorry for me and sold all her jewellery to help Meera start her business.

When Meera made her first big money,

she bought a big apartment in the city centre, with 24-hour generator backup.

In front of my mum, she swore she would be good to me for life.

My mum was moved to tears and said only one thing:

"Tum dono hamesha khush raho."

I once had hope and thought life would be bright.

But in just two or three years, everything changed.

Meera had an affair.

My mum got cancer.

The treatment cost lakhs every year.

If not for Meera's support, I might have lost her already.

But now…

"Koi zaroorat nahi. Shukriya."

I politely ended the meeting and left.

I left her office with the weight of those years sitting on my shoulders, a silent prayer for my mother on my lips, and a strange feeling of relief humming in my veins.