Chapter 3: Rebellion and Memories

Arjun left.

I sat in front of the TV, staring blankly for what felt like hours.

The news flickered into a loud soap—another saas-bahu drama about betrayal. My eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but my mind drifted far away. The ceiling fan’s whir was the only real sound in the flat.

Then I picked up the glass he’d used and hurled it at the TV.

The crash was sharp, shattering the morning’s silence. Glass shards skittered across the white tiles, catching the sunlight in jagged sparks.

The TV only rattled, but the glass exploded on the floor.

Small mercy—Arjun would have killed me if I broke his precious TV. But the mess was mine to clean. My heart hammered, louder than the anchor’s voice.

The crash startled Kamla, who gasped in the doorway.

She’d just come in to sweep, and dropped her jhadoo, staring at me, eyes wide. I could hear her muttering—"Yeh madam bhi na, bilkul pagal ho gayi hai."

And I drew my knees up, wrapping my arms around them like Amma used to do when I was sick, crying.

The sobs came in waves—first silent, then loud enough to drown out everything. My tears soaked my kurta. It felt as if all of Mumbai’s monsoon had broken open inside me.

...

Arjun used to be my nightmare.

In high school, he led the group that bullied me most.

His laughter still echoes in my ears, sharp as the school bell. I was the girl with the oily plait and thick specs, always looking for somewhere to hide.

He’d toss my books out the classroom window, watching from above.

The memory was so clear—I could see my Chemistry notebook, my name scrawled in blue ink, fluttering down three floors to the mud. The other kids would point and giggle, the watchman grumbling as he fished my things from the bushes.

He made sure classmates ignored me, and sometimes, those girls would drag me to the bathroom and slap me, bangles clattering, whispering the cruel things only schoolgirls know. The sting of those slaps lasted longer than any teacher’s scolding.

As long as he led the bullying, no one dared help me.

Because Arjun was the son of a business tycoon.

His father’s name gleamed in gold above the auditorium door. Teachers tiptoed around him, the principal greeted him with folded hands. We all learned to keep our heads down around the rich kids.

He took the lead in mocking me, and for a time, it was the class trend.

"Arrey, dekh usko, kitni bekaar hai!" The boys would laugh, desperate for his approval. Every day, a new humiliation.

I heard he was the dream boy for many girls.

Girls from the neighbouring convent giggled when he passed, flipping their hair and whispering behind notebooks. My best friend once confessed she’d cut his photo from the school magazine and pasted it in her diary.

But to me, he was the demon who haunted my nights, leaving me sleepless.

Even now, I sometimes woke up sweating, heart pounding. Amma thought it was exam stress. If only she knew.

Such a person!

And yet, seven years after graduation—

He said he wanted to marry me!

The proposal came like thunder—no romance, no warning. One day, Arjun turned up with his mother and a box of sweets. My mother’s tears of joy, his mother’s approving nod. Nobody asked what I wanted.