Chapter 3: Childhood Promises, Cold Reality

Arjun and I have been engaged since childhood—a classic desi setup, with two families sealing our fates over chai, samosas, and a lot of pride. Some dream of love marriages, but in our lane, alliances and social standing matter more. Even the neighbours weighed in: “Woh Priya, Arjun ki fiancée hai.”

But I knew he’d never actually marry me.

This wasn’t a ‘Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi’ fantasy. I was just an obligation, a forgotten promise between two aunties over mango pickle and tiffin.

Before returning to India, I’d never met him. No affection, no history.

After years in London, our engagement was just a story told on choppy calls. Landing in Delhi, clutching Nani’s paratha, I half-expected a filmi reunion. Instead, it felt like meeting a distant cousin at a shaadi—awkward, polite, cold.

Worse, my family was bankrupt. The only reason I was still Arjun’s fiancée was because his maa remembered her friendship with my mum.

Papa’s old friends would visit with cheap sweets and too much pity. Whispers about “bad luck” and “no dowry” floated everywhere, but Arjun’s maa stood by me—out of old debt, not love.

They’re just keeping up appearances, waiting for me to break it off myself.

In India, breaking an engagement is always the girl’s burden. I knew what was expected: end it quietly, protect family honour. But my stubbornness wouldn’t allow it. I refused to be painted as weak.

I wanted to be dignified, to leave quietly, maybe even as a Karan Johar heroine—head held high, sacrificing for the greater good.

But at our first meeting, Arjun barely glanced at me, face glued to his phone, probably gossiping with Kabir or double-tapping Insta posts. The disrespect made my cheeks burn.

Five minutes later, he finally looked up.

I counted each second, biting my lip, resisting the urge to clear my throat like Nani when we ignored her at dinner. Still, he acted as if I was invisible.

He smirked, "I know I’m handsome, but do you have to stare at me like that? Aren’t you a bit too lovesick?"

I gaped, cheeks hot with a cocktail of anger and embarrassment. The audacity! He acted like a movie star, and I was some obsessed fan. The air between us turned stale.

I swallowed my urge to slap him and bit back, “Let’s just break up nicely.”

The kind of insult that makes you want to call your bestie and vent for hours. But I refused to let him see me flustered.

Fine, you don’t want the easy way? Don’t blame me for taking the gold-digger route.

What’s a girl to do? I wasn’t going to walk away and let them gossip about how I was too plain or too weak. If he wanted drama, I’d give him full Bollywood.

From that day, I bombarded him with messages, alternating between over-the-top affection and dramatic sorrow. I even used silly nicknames—‘Jaanu’, ‘Shona’—just to make him cringe, and sent sappy Bollywood love songs and GIFs.

If he didn’t reply, I’d double down—voice notes with extra melodrama, even fake sniffles, TV running in the background for effect, like a solo scene from ‘Yeh Rishta Kya Kehlata Hai’.

Arjun nearly lost it. He started dodging calls, probably considered changing his number. Every message from me must’ve made his eye twitch.

He’d PayTM me hush money—sometimes a few hundred, sometimes thousands. Even his UPI notes had attitude: “For your sadness.”

What could I do? Heartbroken, ashamed, I’d call my bestie, lament my fate, and then check my bank balance. Maybe indulge in Naturals ice cream.

And of course, I’d accept the money in a flash. Retail therapy, yaar! If life gives you lemons, squeeze them for all they’re worth.