Chapter 3: Breaking Point

My girlfriend was also startled, and after a moment, immediately complained: "My friends were just standing up for me out of concern. Why are you being so aggressive? Aren’t you embarrassed enough?"

Her voice was small but sharp, eyes wide, as if I’d crossed some sacred line. My blood boiled. ‘Concern’? Since when does concern feel like a public execution?

Fine, fine, fine.

I repeated it in my head, like a mantra. My fists clenched under the table, nails digging into my palm.

You and your girlfriends are thick as thieves. The moment I raise my voice, you can’t stand it.

From start to finish, I’ve been insulted again and again, but you never once stood up for me. Now I’m the one who’s embarrassing?

I bit my tongue, trying not to say something I’d regret. Amma always warned me: "Beta, patience is your real strength."

I silently wiped the wine off my face.

I tried to keep my dignity, dabbing at my cheeks, willing myself not to cry or shout again. The world shrank to the stained napkin in my hand.

There was no way I was staying at this birthday dinner any longer.

The food lay untouched, the cake’s candles unlit. I stood up, heart pounding, determined to leave with whatever pride I had left.

Priya still wouldn’t let it go: "What are you yelling for? Make yourself clear. If you can’t even send a five-lakh UPI transfer, how much are you going to pay for the shagun to marry my girlfriend?"

She stood, arms akimbo, as if she was the mother-in-law in a daily soap, dictating terms for a rishta.

"Let me make it clear: if you can’t even pass my test, there’s no way I’ll agree to let Ananya marry you."

The others nodded solemnly, as if they were the panchayat deciding my fate. My patience snapped.

I shot back without thinking: "What does that have to do with you?"

My voice was sharp, each word slicing through the thick air. For once, I let my frustration show.

This so-called friend of my girlfriend almost got married once, but the marriage fell through because the man’s family wouldn’t agree to her demand for a 38 lakh shagun.

Everyone in our circle knew the story—Priya’s dreams of a lavish wedding, the endless negotiations, the final heartbreak. It was the stuff of WhatsApp gossip.

After that failed, she became even more stubborn, determined to prove she could find a man generous enough to pay up.

She’d tell anyone who’d listen, chin up, pride barely hiding the bitterness. I almost felt sorry for her.

But things didn’t go her way, and now, at 33, she still hasn’t found a man willing to give her 38 lakh as shagun.

The others never brought it up, but you could see it in their eyes—the silent judgment, the whispered jokes behind her back.

After my retort, Priya got even angrier: "What kind of attitude is that? We’re all Ananya’s family. You think it has nothing to do with us?"

She sounded like some overzealous chachi at a wedding, inserting herself everywhere. Her voice was shrill, almost desperate.

"Ananya, did you hear that? This guy probably never even planned to marry you. Don’t be stupid and let him waste your youth for nothing."

The rest of the table nodded, each playing their part in the drama. I saw the doubt flicker in Ananya’s eyes, pain mixing with confusion.

I frowned.

My forehead creased, lips pressed into a thin line. My patience was running out, replaced by cold anger.

This woman is mad. Who says stuff like that in public?

The other tables were definitely listening now, pretending to look at their menus, but watching the tamasha unfold.

And my girlfriend looked at me, all aggrieved.

Her eyes were watery, lips trembling. For a moment, she seemed like a lost child.

Clearly, she’d already been led astray by her friends.

Her opinions weren’t her own anymore. I could see it in the way she glanced at Priya, looking for approval.

I couldn’t help but ask: "Do you think so too?"

My voice was softer now, barely above a whisper. I was pleading, hoping she’d at least defend me once.

My girlfriend started crying again: "But isn’t your mum dissatisfied with me? You two talk on the phone about how I don’t work, say I’m idle all day and do nothing. You think I don’t know?"

Her words came out in a rush, tears streaming down her face. For a moment, I felt guilty, but also misunderstood.

I suddenly felt deeply disappointed in her.

I stared at her, the weight of years of love and patience pressing down on my shoulders. It was like a dam breaking—anger, hurt, regret, all mixed together.

My mum only said she hoped Ananya could find a job after marriage. It didn’t matter how much she earned; if necessary, our family could help her find work.

My mother was never harsh. She only wanted Ananya to have some routine, some pride of her own. Amma always said, "Beta, khali dimag shaitan ka ghar hota hai."

The point is to have something to do, so she wouldn’t feel empty or cut off from society in the future.

I’d seen cousins of mine, stuck at home, losing confidence. I wanted better for her.

When we have kids, we’d just hire a nanny to help out.

Our family could afford it. No one expected her to turn into some ideal bahu overnight.

I’ve gently suggested several times that I could help her find a job.

I even sent her job postings, offered to set up interviews. Always with a smile, never pushing.

But she refused.

She’d laugh it off, saying, "Yaar, kaam kaun kare jab maze ki zindagi mil rahi hai?" I let it go.

She thinks working is boring, and would rather dress up with her friends every day and go out taking pictures.

Every other day, her Insta stories were from a new café, always posing, always smiling. Sometimes I wished she’d see what I saw—the satisfaction of a hard day’s work.

The only married friend at the table, Lakshmi, suddenly piped up.

Lakshmi adjusted her mangalsutra, face serious, voice gentle. "I have to say something here. Mothers-in-law are experts at acting, yaar. They’ll say it’s for your good, but sab nautanki hai."

Her words found instant approval. Priya and Sneha nodded, muttering darkly about saas-bahu politics. I realized just how much they’d gossiped about my family.

Seeing my girlfriend’s approving expression, I realised she must have complained about my mum to them a lot.

It hurt more than I’d expected. I thought we were partners, that some things stayed between us. Apparently, I was wrong.

Priya, always eager for drama, jumped in again.

She leaned forward, her voice cold as steel. "Just tell your mum to mind her own business. If she worries too much, she won’t live long."

The words hung in the air, poisonous. For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe. My hands balled into fists.

I was so angry my scalp tingled.

A red mist clouded my vision. I saw Amma’s face in my mind, smiling, gentle, undeserving of this filth.

I slammed my fist on the table. The plates and bowls in front of me shook and crashed to the floor, shattering everywhere.

The crash echoed through the restaurant, forks clattering, a few people gasping. The manager rushed over, but I barely noticed. My anger was all-consuming.

"Say one more word of that rubbish and see what happens."

My voice was cold, deadly. For a moment, even Priya shrank back, her bravado crumbling.

If she weren’t a woman, I’d have punched her already.

I forced myself to breathe, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Seeing I was truly furious,

The whole table froze. Even the other diners watched, hushed. No one dared move.

Everyone at the table immediately shut up.

The silence was thick, suffocating. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

Priya jumped up and screamed: "What? You want to hit someone? Don’t think I’m afraid of you."

Her bravado returned, but her voice trembled. She held her chin high, daring me to cross the line. But I stayed rooted, fists shaking, breathing hard.

I held myself back from punching this woman in the face.

Every muscle in my body screamed to lash out, but I kept myself in check. Amma’s face, calm and steady, stopped me.

My girlfriend, distressed, rushed to protect the birthday cake and immediately complained: "What are you doing? It’s my birthday—do you have to make such a scene?"

She hovered over the cake as if it was her only safe space. Her voice was sharp, blaming. I felt the last threads of patience snap.

A fire burned in my chest, ready to explode.

It took everything I had not to yell, not to break down. I clenched my jaw, trying to hold myself together.

Am I the one making a scene?

I wanted to shout, to ask the whole world: who started this? Who pushed me to the edge?

Clearly, it’s her so-called sisters who keep pushing and pushing.

They started it. They made the jokes, the insults, the taunts.

Do I owe them something?

I looked at my girlfriend in disappointment.

My shoulders slumped, the anger draining away. I pressed my palms together in my lap, wishing I could just vanish.

And she was still siding with her brainless friend.

Even now, even after everything, she couldn’t see me—not really. Her loyalty lay with them, not with us.

"No matter what, my friends were just worried about me. How can you be so harsh to her?"

She looked at me, eyes pleading, unable to see the damage done. As I looked at her, surrounded by her friends, I realized—I was the only outsider at this table.