Chapter 2: Cracks in the Foundation

The midsummer night carried a hint of coolness.

For a change, the breeze from the window wasn’t just hot air. Somewhere outside, the distant clang of a rickshaw bell and the bark of a stray dog floated in. Arjun hadn’t spoken a word since he came in.

I sat to the side, feeling a little nervous.

I smoothed the pleats of my salwar absentmindedly, avoiding his gaze. The TV played in the next room—some daily soap where the heroine was weeping, as if in sympathy with me.

Aunty Radha took my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Her bangles clinked softly, and she looked at me with the kind of warmth only a mother can manage for a child who isn’t her own. She turned to Arjun and said, "If you don’t want to settle down, then end things early. It’s been seven years—are you still planning to get married or not?"

"Only Sneha has a good temper. She doesn’t get anxious."

She shot me a look, half proud, half exasperated. "But that’s because she loves you, not because everything you do is right."

Aunty Radha was so angry her cheeks turned red. She wiped her eyes with the edge of her pallu, sniffing loudly, refusing to let the tears fall. "How did I give birth to someone like you!"

She clucked her tongue, as if by some mistake the heavens had swapped her son for someone else’s. I patted her back. "Really, there’s no hurry."

"How can you say there’s no hurry?" She turned to me. "This fellow has ruined your whole life. If he won’t take responsibility, I won’t let him off!"

I could see her eyes glisten with unshed tears, the way mothers do when they feel powerless. "I just don’t get it."

"What does he actually want!"

Her lighter kept clicking open and shut, a nervous habit she picked up after Arjun’s father passed away. The sound was sharp in the quiet room, echoing her frustration.

Arjun’s face was as cold as ever. Only after Aunty Radha finished did he sneer and look up: "Theek hai, kar lo shaadi. Jo karna hai, karo."

He stood up. "Arrange it however you want."

He walked upstairs without once looking at me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, the taste of old pain bitter on my tongue. My heart clenched. I lowered my head, muttered a few words to Aunty Radha, and hurried after him.

The sound of running water came from his bathroom.

I counted the tiles on the floor, listening to the water and the faint sound of a pressure cooker whistle from a neighbour’s kitchen. It was a small, familiar flat, but tonight, every room felt like a stranger’s.

Arjun was showering.

I sat on the bed, staring at the floor, lost in thought.

The old paisley bedsheet felt rough under my fingers. Outside, someone shouted for their daughter to come in for dinner. The world was moving on, but I was stuck, caught in a moment that refused to pass.

"Do you not want to get married?"

The water was too loud; he couldn’t hear me.

My voice was barely louder than a whisper, swallowed by the sound of the water and the whirring fan overhead.

When the water stopped, he opened the door, wearing only a towel around his waist.

He stood there, droplets trickling down his chest, hair flattened and unruly. For a moment, the sight was so ordinary and intimate it made me ache for what we’d lost.

"What did you say?"

His hair was dripping, water running down his sharp eyebrows and over his chest.

My ears went hot. I quickly stared at the Krishna-Radha photo above the bed, pretending not to see anything.

When Arjun changed, I squeezed my eyes shut and started counting sheep.

One, two, three... In my mind, the numbers blurred with memories: first Holi together, second Diwali, third New Year. Until his large hand landed on my head. "I’m dressed. You can open your eyes now."

I slowly opened them.

He was neat now, squatting down to meet my gaze. "What did you want to say?"

There was a tenderness in the gesture, the kind that once made my heart race. "Do you not want to get married?"

"No." He looked away, stood up, and picked up his dirty clothes. "Don’t overthink it."

But I knew he was lying.

His eyes always darted to the side when he lied—something his mother used to tease him about as a child. Arjun didn’t want to get married at all.

I wanted to say we could postpone the wedding, or that I wasn’t in a hurry, but the words stuck in my throat, leaving only a sour ache.

It was as if the words were trapped behind a dam, the floodwaters rising but refusing to spill over. I couldn’t stay in the room any longer. I wanted to leave, quickly.

"Then I’ll go to bed first."

He grabbed my hand, frowning. "You want to sleep in separate rooms?"

His grip was rough, almost desperate, as if afraid I would slip away for good. He reached out, lifting my chin. "You’re crying?"

"No."

"I’m doing what you want, what else do you want from me?" Arjun suddenly snapped, his face turning cold. "If you want to create a scene, go ahead."

His voice was like the door slamming—loud, final. In our seven years together, he’d rarely spoken to me so harshly.

But maybe the frustration of being nagged about marriage had finally boiled over—this was the first time he let his real feelings show in front of me.

The mask slipped, and for a moment, I didn’t recognize the boy I’d loved for so long. I was stunned, suddenly feeling like a clown exposed for everyone to see.

He didn’t look at me again, just opened the door and left.

Only the faint scent of his bath soap remained, reminding me of what had happened tonight.

It lingered in the air, mingling with the jasmine agarbatti someone had lit in the hallway earlier. After that, neither Arjun nor I mentioned that night again.

Nor did we talk about postponing the wedding.

We just moved through the days like actors in a never-ending TV serial, reciting lines we no longer believed. He just became more and more silent. Even when picking out wedding lehengas, he couldn’t be bothered to care.

The lehenga shop was full of laughter and chatter—other brides-to-be excitedly showing their mothers fabrics and embroidery. Aunty Radha bargained with the shopkeeper, her voice rising above the hum of other brides haggling over zari work. Arjun scrolled on his phone, barely looking up. He was often busy until midnight. When I messaged him, he’d reply after a long time: "Busy."

He didn’t come home for Aunty Radha’s birthday, either.

Aunty Radha tried to joke about it, saying, "He’s always like this, na, this boy!" but her smile never reached her eyes. Everyone laughed and tried to smooth things over, but deep down, we all knew—this was Arjun’s way of showing his resentment towards Aunty Radha.

I ignored the growing strangeness in my heart, pretended nothing was wrong, forced myself to keep smiling.

Every time relatives called to ask about the wedding, I made up excuses, practiced my best fake smile in the bathroom mirror, and tried to believe it would all work out. Until, one day a few weeks later, I woke up to find him staring blankly at his phone.

"Why aren’t you sleeping?"

His face was lit by the bluish glow of his mobile, making his eyes look distant. I tried to sit up, but he quickly put his phone away.

"Go to sleep."

But in that split second, I saw the photo on his screen.

It was a picture of seventeen-year-old Arjun and seventeen-year-old Meera, together.

The old photograph was grainy, but I recognized her instantly—her smile bright, her eyes shining. I turned my back to him, feeling as if I’d fallen into an ice cave.

I remembered, years ago, his childhood friend’s contemptuous sneer: "So what if he’s with you? You’ll never compare to Meera Didi."

He dragged out the last word: "Fatso."

Even now, the word stung. Back then, what was I thinking? I thought, as long as I kept going, Arjun would one day fall for me.

He’d love me eventually.

Maa always said, "Patience, beta. Pyaar toh sabko milta hai." But now, the truth was right in front of me.

My heart felt like it was being pricked by needles.

So he never forgot Meera.

All the strength I’d been pretending to have these days collapsed in an instant.

It was like standing in a Mumbai local after a long day—body aching, patience gone, nowhere left to stand. Suddenly, I didn’t want to get married anymore.

I wanted to break up with Arjun.