Chapter 3: Facing the Past

After making this decision, I agonized over when to say it.

My nights became restless, filled with half-finished texts and unsent voice notes. Since moving in with the Sharma family during high school, Aunty Radha had always treated me well.

She scolded me about eating too many samosas, but she always sneaked me an extra sweet on Diwali. I could tell she truly liked me, and saw me as a daughter.

That’s exactly why I struggled—how could I break the news with the least pain?

I replayed conversations in my head, hoping to find the least hurtful words. When it was time to try on wedding lehengas, I postponed it, using work as an excuse.

"Accha, there’s a shoot, Aunty. Boss is saying I can’t take leave now. Next week, pakka." My phone buzzed with a WhatsApp from my boss—another last-minute change to the shoot schedule. After graduating, I joined a media company in Mumbai, handling celebrity marketing and planning.

The work was glamorous from the outside, but mostly meant running around Bandra with a laptop and cold coffee, chasing after actors who never showed up on time. Arjun wasn’t happy about my job. I often had to work overtime, sometimes even get up at two in the morning for meetings.

So when I said I was busy, he didn’t question it at all.

He even seemed relieved.

Except for Aunty Radha, who thought I was being wronged, and scolded Arjun over the phone.

When I got home, she’d just finished the call, her eyes still red.

She grabbed her bag and pulled me along. "It’s nothing, Sneha, Aunty will take you to find him, make him give you an explanation."

Her grip was fierce, the kind mothers use when they’re angry and protective at the same time. "What kind of person puts coming back to India above trying on wedding lehengas with his fiancée?"

She was fuming, the lines on her forehead deeper than usual. "He really is hopeless!"

From Aunty Radha’s words, I understood—it was because Meera had come back.

The word "Meera" hung in the air, heavier than any monsoon cloud. No wonder he’d been distracted lately. No wonder he seemed relieved when I said I couldn’t make it to try on dresses.

No wonder. No wonder.

When you’re beyond words, sometimes all you can do is laugh.

I let out a shaky laugh, wiping away the tear that threatened to fall. Aunty Radha was startled, hugging me. "Sneha, Aunty knows you’ve been wronged. Don’t be afraid, I’ll stand up for you."

She squeezed me so tightly I could barely breathe, her sari smelling of Pond’s talcum powder and home.

"Aunty." I gently pushed her away. "Let me decide for myself."

She frowned, searching my face for clues. "I’ll handle it."

I went upstairs, dazed for a while, wanting to get my phone from my bag, but ended up dropping everything onto the floor.

The clatter startled the cat sleeping on the window ledge, and for a moment, I just knelt there, surrounded by spilled lipstick, keys, and crumpled bills. I crouched down, picked up my phone, then just leaned against the bed and called him.

The phone rang several times.

I counted the rings—one, two, three—like some sort of countdown to disaster. When he answered, the background was noisy—I couldn’t hear clearly.

"What is it?"

His voice was muffled, as if he was in a crowded dhaba. "Where are you?"

He was silent for a moment, then suddenly sneered: "What, checking up on me?"

He moved somewhere quieter. "Sneha, do you really have to go this far?"

His tone had the sharpness of someone who’d been wounded too many times. "It wasn’t enough for my mom to scold me, now you want to as well?"

"I said I’d marry you, isn’t that enough?"

My fingers clenched tighter around the phone, nails digging into my palm as I struggled to keep my composure.

"Where are you?" I repeated.

"...If you want to come, then come." He gave an address, paused, then added, "Since you’re coming, bring the file folder from my study."

He hung up. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, barely holding back tears.

The ceiling fan spun above, its blades moving but my thoughts going nowhere. I rarely went into Arjun’s study—he didn’t like it.

The study was all black and white—no family photos, just a neat stack of files and his old cricket bat in the corner.

A single family photo, a medal from his school days, and his old cricket bat leaned in the corner. I spotted the folder on the desk immediately, but just as I was about to take it, my eyes landed on a diary lying to the side.

Sometimes, people really do have premonitions.

Like how you know the power is about to go out just before the lights flicker. Like in school, when you somehow know the teacher is about to call your name.

It was the same now.

I knew I shouldn’t open it, but my eyes were glued to it.

The moment I opened the diary, I couldn’t help but hold my breath.

[August 29, 2015

There’s someone new at home. Mom and Dad said she’s an athlete, she’ll be living with us from now on.

She always smells like sweat. So annoying.]

I remembered it was a scorching day. I arrived at the Sharma house in Pune, dragging a pile of luggage.

Sweat trickled down my back as I rang the bell. My parents and Aunty Radha were good friends. That year, I’d made the state team, and to make training easier, they arranged for me to transfer schools.

When I arrived, the first to open the door was Arjun.

He wore a crisp white T-shirt, hair neat and fresh, took my things inside, then turned and asked: "I’m Arjun. What’s your name?"

"Sneha."

He smiled at me, set my things in the room: "Your room’s all set up. If you need anything, just tell me. I’ll have my mom arrange it."

Back then, he was gentle and polite.

I stood there awkwardly, looking at him, feeling as if a soft seed had been planted in my heart.

I never imagined this was what he truly thought of me.

[November 5, 2015

I always feel the way she looks at me is weird. Does she really like me? She even gave me a birthday present—a hand-knitted plush toy. Kunal asked for it, I gave it to him. Got goosebumps all over.]

[January 3, 2016

Hate it when people joke about us.]

[March 7, 2016

She actually confessed to me. Unbelievable. Does she really think she’s the heroine of some Bollywood movie? How much longer until she moves out?]

My throat was tight, my hands shaking as I turned the pages.

Even now, I can still feel the itch of that school uniform on my skin, the way everyone’s eyes used to slide past me.

When I first arrived in Pune, I had no friends.

No one at school would talk to me, except for other athletes, who would chat occasionally.

Most of the time, I was alone.

During lunch breaks, I’d eat quietly at the back of the canteen, watching the others laugh and gossip. Arjun took care of me at school—he remembered my period, stood up for me when I was mocked, bandaged my wounds when I got hurt.

Liking Arjun was the most natural thing in the world.

So, even after I found out he didn’t love me, even when I decided to break up, I never regretted liking him when I was young.

Back then, I didn’t have much money, so with my clumsy hands, I learned to make gifts myself, like others did.

That plush toy took me weeks, making and remaking it.

I sat by the window, struggling with the needle, pricking my finger so often that little red dots stained the fabric. When I gave it to him at the party, everyone stared.

I felt embarrassed, about to take it back.

But Arjun had already accepted it, putting it back in the gift box.

"Thank you. I really like it."

I thought he truly liked it, so even when Kunal mouthed "fatso" at me, I didn’t care.

I never cared what others thought—my mom always said, your feelings should be for those who treat you well.

Arjun liked it, so I liked it too.

Seventeen-year-old me never imagined that gift was given to Kunal right away.

Kunal tossed it in the trash the moment he left.

I never understood why Kunal was so hostile to me. Later, I realized it was just because I wasn’t pretty.

Maybe it was my dusky skin, or the way my hair frizzed in the humidity. That’s why he targeted me so maliciously.

But back then, I didn’t know. I thought Arjun was different from everyone else.

I cherished my girlish feelings—like most people, it wasn’t a special crush.

Just because I wasn’t pretty, I was labelled "disgusting," "unbearable."

In school, such labels stick harder than Fevikwik—no matter how much you try, the residue remains. When I confessed, I stammered, couldn’t finish a sentence.

He always smiled gently.

"Thank you for liking me, but I’m not planning to date right now."

What was he really thinking then?

I felt sick, wanted to vomit, but could only retch dryly.

Tears fell from the physical strain.

I gripped the diary, forcing myself to keep reading.

[April 9, 2016

I found a girlfriend, hoping she’d give up and stop looking at me like that.]

I couldn’t help but laugh.

The laugh was bitter, echoing off the empty walls. For the first time, I realized how laughable, how cheap, how worthless my feelings were.

But he could have told me.

There were so many chances—if he’d just told me, I would never have approached him.

Why do considerate things on one hand, and write things like this on the other?

The last diary entry stopped on May 13th.

That day, Arjun was being extorted by thugs. He refused, a fight broke out, and I shielded him with my body.

My hands still remember the ache, the dull pain that followed for months. In the end, my hand was struck with a stick.

I could never lift weights again.

After that, Arjun broke up with Meera.

Not long after, Meera went abroad, and they lost contact for good.