Chapter 6: Aftermath

8

Half asleep, half awake, I opened my eyes—it was already afternoon.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the air. The flat felt emptier than ever.

I checked my phone. After the call, Meera hadn’t sent any messages. No concern, no questioning, no blame or curses.

The blankness was worse than any accusation. It was as if I’d become invisible.

Instead, Ananya had sent many, all night long. The last one: “I want to see you.”

Her messages were playful, needy, scattered with emojis. The contrast with Meera’s silence was stark.

I sent her my home address. In less than half an hour, Ananya arrived.

The bell rang, and there she was—hair tousled, smile crooked, suitcase in hand. She slipped off her sandals, giggling as she stepped inside.

We embraced at the door like an old married couple. I handed her slippers; she hugged my neck. I made her coffee; she made me dinner. I carried her into the bedroom; she closed her eyes automatically.

We settled into a rhythm, as if we’d been together for years. The flat felt alive for the first time in ages.

Under the wedding photo of me and Meera, on our marriage bed, Ananya and I lay naked together, unrestrained, shouting and tearing at each other, treating each other as the only one in the world.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I caught a glimpse of my old life watching us from the wall, silent and judging.

The bedroom door opened; Meera stood at the door, expressionless.

Time froze. For a moment, no one moved—three actors on a stage, waiting for the cue that never came.

The moment I saw her, I felt no fear, only relief, as if a thousand-pound burden had been lifted from my shoulders.

All the years of pretending, of trying to be someone I wasn’t, finally fell away. I exhaled, long and slow.

I provocatively hugged Ananya tighter, lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, blowing smoke at Meera.

My hands shook, but I felt a strange sense of power. For once, I was the one breaking the rules.

She never allowed me to smoke in the bedroom, especially not on the bed.

She stood her ground, unblinking. I met her eyes, daring her to react.

Meera stood for a while, then left the house.

No drama, no shouting. She simply turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

Ananya was frightened; she clutched the blanket tightly and said, “I like you. I don’t care that you have a family, but I’m a little scared.”

Her voice trembled. I pulled her close, stroking her hair, promising silently that I’d never let her go.

I kissed her on the forehead, got out of bed, and packed my things.

The decision was easy, in the end. I moved quickly, not letting myself think.

I moved into Ananya’s apartment.

Her flat was small, messy, full of music and laughter. For the first time in years, I felt wanted.

No longer bound by marriage or family, I slept with Ananya day and night. I never realised I was such a lustful beast; Ananya joked that just seeing me made her legs weak.

We ate breakfast in bed, played guitar on the balcony, argued about the best chai stall in Bandra. The city outside faded away; there was only us.

I vented desperately, just waiting for the final moment to come.

Somewhere inside, I knew this happiness was borrowed, fleeting.

A week later, Meera messaged me, wanting to talk.

Her message was simple: “Let’s meet.” I stared at it for a long time.

I proudly told Ananya and asked if she wanted to come along.

I expected her to laugh, but her face turned serious.

Ananya said I was crazy and should go alone; she wouldn’t walk into that disaster.

She gripped my hand, her eyes wide with concern. “Don’t drag me into your mess, yaar. But I’m here for you.”

But then she hugged my neck, whispered sweetly that no matter what happened with Meera, she’d support and understand me, telling me not to feel pressured.

She would always love me.

Her words were a balm. I hugged her back, holding on tighter than ever.

At that moment, I really wanted to ask the heavens why I met her so late.

I gazed out the window at the Mumbai skyline, wondering if life would ever make sense. In that instant, all I knew was that sometimes, the heart finds its own path—messy, imperfect, but real.

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[End of Chapter 6: Sometimes, the biggest journeys begin after you come home.]