Chapter 2: Scars and Rituals

I like showering in the bathroom.

Because there, I don’t have to see him or face memories that still chill my bones.

Sometimes, I let the hot water run until the geyser’s red light blinked out. The hiss and gurgle drowned the world outside—the TV, Arjun’s voice, the pressure cooker’s shrill whistle. My only island of peace.

But as I stared at the half-length mirror above the sink, even the steam couldn’t hide the marks on my body.

The mirror, flecked with toothpaste and ringed with rust from too many Mumbai monsoons, reflected every bruise and bite mark—reminders of his moods. The city’s humidity did nothing to blur those scars; they glared back at me like silent accusations.

My eyes reddened as I looked at myself.

A tear slipped down my cheek, stinging a fresh scratch. I grabbed the towel, hands trembling, knuckles white as my grip on hope. Would the neighbours notice my swollen eyes in the society lift?

Then came Arjun’s slow, deliberate knocking at the door:

"Kitna time lagega? If you don’t come out, I’m coming in!"

His impatience was familiar. The door rattled with each knock, and the warning in his voice wasn’t empty. He’d barged in before—once while Kamla was mopping outside, and she hadn’t met my eyes for days.

...

He’s stormed into the bathroom before, so I quickly shut off the shower and wrapped myself in a towel.

I hurried, hands shaking, barely remembering to switch off the geyser—one more scolding if the electricity bill jumped. I wished I could vanish with the steam, dissolve into nothing.

...

Breakfast was still neatly set on the table, but Arjun probably didn’t have time to eat.

The clang of the steel dabba, the faint smell of elaichi from the chai, and Kamla’s muttering about gas cylinder rates filled the kitchen. The maid had left his favourite poha under a steel lid, and the glass of milk sat beside my plate, sweating in the summer heat.

The morning news played on TV as he tied his tie, his long, clean fingers moving with practiced ease.

He stood by the cracked mirror near the shoe rack, lips pursed in concentration. The anchor’s voice rattled off Sensex numbers and the latest on Thane rains.

Catching me staring, he leaned over and flicked my nose:

"Tu dekhti hi rahegi? Next time, you tie it for me."

His grin was crooked, teasing. I turned away, not wanting to meet his gaze. In another world, maybe this was how newlyweds flirted—here, it was just another way he reminded me I was his.

I turned my face away.

I fiddled with the edge of my dupatta, feeling the scratch of cheap embroidery against my palm. A small act of rebellion—one he never noticed.

But he just chuckled, unconcerned.

He always seemed amused by my discomfort, as if it was our own private joke. Did he notice how much I hated it? Did he care?

Then, picking up the glass of milk I’d sipped from, he took a drink right where my lips had touched.

My stomach twisted. He set the glass down with a clink, eyes meeting mine in the mirror. A flush crept up my neck—shame and anger, tangled together.

...

"Thoda shaant rehna, okay? I’ll be back soon. Tonight I’ll take you to look at wedding lehengas."

His voice was gentle, almost soft. For a moment, I glimpsed the boy he must have been—before the world taught us to build walls. But his promise sounded like a command, not a gift. I nodded, the word "lehenga" echoing in my mind like a distant dhol at someone else’s wedding.