Chapter 3: Breaking Free

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After a long, silent stare, I looked at him, numb.

My shoulders sagged, the weight of years pressing down. I couldn’t cry, even if I wanted to.

"Arjun, the project the entire company worked on for a year is gone. Are you happy now, seeing me lose control?"

My words fell between us, sharp as broken glass.

He still wasn’t satisfied, pressing, "Did you hit her because of me, or because of the company?"

His question stung. He always needed to be the center of everything.

I shook off his hand, forcing myself to calm down. "Because of the company."

The truth tasted bitter, but I refused to pretend.

He grew angry, his voice cold. "Then go spend your life with your work. Tum jao, apni company ke saath hi khush raho."

Sneha slipped to his side, her hand on his arm, eyes flicking to me, triumphant.

He stared at me, challenging, as if daring me to fight for him one last time.

"Meera, do you know why I keep Sneha around? Because she knows how to coax me, she gets jealous for me, she relies on me like a sweet little woman."

He said it as if reciting a universal truth—one our mothers and grandmothers would nod along to.

I felt only exhaustion. "Then be with her."

My voice was quiet, but steel-threaded. For once, I didn’t care about the consequences.

Arjun’s anger flared. "Meera!"

He shouted, but I didn’t flinch. I was done being afraid.

I looked at him, blank.

All the love, the longing, the effort—it shriveled inside me.

"Arjun, what is it you actually want?"

I almost whispered, but the words rang out in the tense room.

The barrage rolled by:

"He wants you to yield, to show weakness, to let your emotions fluctuate for him."

"Yaar, he just loves you too much—he feels insecure. Try to understand him."

"The hero looks strong, but he’s fragile inside. Every night you work late, he can only clutch his blanket and sulk: Why isn’t my baby coming home? Does she not love me anymore?"

"Isn’t the heroine pitiful? Just because he’s insecure, she has to suffer like this. I can’t stand it."

For the first time, a voice cut through the noise—a childhood friend texted, 'Proud of you, yaar. Finally someone’s showing these boys their place.' The support, though faint, steadied me.

Arjun hesitated, then said softly, "Think about it."

But I was already gone inside.

My mind ran through every fight, every apology, every silent meal eaten to the drone of the TV.

Did I love him?

I searched for the feeling. The memory of love was faint—a photo faded by sun.

Maybe I did, once. But now, I only wanted to escape.

The thought felt like the first breath of freedom in months.

As for whether he loves me—I don’t care anymore.

The final thread snapped. Let him have his drama, his audience, his Sneha.

As they left, I called my lawyer uncle, the ringback tone a classic Kishore Kumar song. When he answered, my voice was quiet but firm.

"Draft a divorce agreement. I want a divorce. We’ll discuss the division of assets at the office tomorrow."

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Back home, I collapsed onto my bed, the old mattress groaning beneath me. The scent of naphthalene from the wooden cupboard and the distant call of a vegetable vendor on the street below filled the air. My phone buzzed again, but I turned it face down, shutting out the world.

The barrage surged:

"No way—if they really get divorced, the hero will be devastated. He loves the heroine so much."

"There’s already a child. Can’t she just endure for the baby’s sake? I don’t get why she’s so stubborn. The hero is just waiting for her to coax him."

I closed my eyes, ignoring them all. For the first time in months, I let myself drift, not caring about tomorrow. The world could talk—I needed rest.

The next morning, I ate quietly, then helped Ma arrange marigolds for the evening puja.

The kitchen was thick with the scent of turmeric and frying onions. We sat on the verandah, the clang of a steel tumbler echoing, the neighbor’s pressure cooker whistling, the distant call of a vegetable vendor trailing up from the street. Ma’s eyes scanned my face, searching for cracks.

"Meera beta, did you two have a fight?" Her voice was gentle, her hand warm as she brushed my hair away from my cheek. The familiar gesture nearly undid me.

I paused, marigold petals spilling from my hands. I took a shaky breath, willing myself not to cry.

"There’s no fight that can’t be sorted overnight between husband and wife. As long as one side softens, everything will be fine. Don’t push him into another woman’s arms."

Her advice echoed generations. I felt trapped by its weight.

"All men are the same. Once you have a child, he’ll settle down."

The words were meant to soothe, but only deepened my loneliness. I looked at her, desperate for understanding.

I set down the flowers. "What about Dad, then?"

No sooner had I spoken than my father strolled in, arm in arm with a woman in a garish saree and too much perfume. Glass bangles clinked as she giggled. My father winked before heading upstairs, a trail of Old Spice and guilt in his wake.

Their marriage was business, not love. But Ma’s tragedy began when she fell for him after marriage, not before. I remembered her old wedding photos: red Banarasi, hopeful eyes, Dad grinning. Now, she barely looked at him, her love hardened into resignation.

The child didn’t tie him down—it only trapped her.

That lesson was carved into my bones. A baby can’t save a marriage; it only makes the cage smaller.

Upstairs, his laughter and flirting drifted down. Ma’s face was stone, lips pressed tight as she picked at the marigolds, refusing to let a tear fall.

The barrage:

"The hero isn’t like other men. If you coax him, he’ll be your lapdog."

Ma echoed, "You and Arjun grew up together as childhood sweethearts. Maybe he’s different."

Her hope was brittle, clinging to the fantasy of love changing everything.

I lowered my eyes, a tear splashing onto my hand. I wiped it away before she could see.

"But Ma, what did I do wrong?"

My voice broke, raw with years of unshed hurt.

Three years of marriage, and Arjun only grew more unpredictable. Even our first time, he’d said, "Since you love me so much, I’ll reluctantly satisfy you."

Always the beggar, never the beloved. I carried the company alone, still expected to play the doting wife.

The dual burdens—corporate warrior and docile bahu—were crushing me. I wanted to run, to breathe.

I have my own life. I won’t revolve around a man and child forever.

The realization was a clearing of fog. For the first time, I saw a future—mine alone.

So, I’m getting a divorce. And I won’t have this child.

The words settled around me, heavy but freeing. I stood, wiped my eyes, and squared my shoulders.

Ma reached out and gently touched my cheek, her thumb warm against my skin—a silent blessing, a comfort only a mother can give.

He’s just not worth it.

I whispered it to the marigolds, and for the first time, I truly believed it.

That evening, I stepped onto the balcony. The city lights glittered below, the evening breeze brushing my face. I drew in a deep breath, letting Mumbai’s chaos swirl beneath me, and felt the weight begin to lift—a small, certain freedom at last.