Chapter 2: Fault Lines and Fragile Promises

“You’re still pregnant, stop doing these things.”

I gently took the spoon from Meera’s hand and helped her sit down. Meera smiled softly, her eyes warm and affectionate. She sat down heavily, one hand massaging her lower back, her smile slipping for just a second before she recovered.

She patted her pallu in place, as if adjusting her entire world with that one gesture. "Arrey, I’m fine, Rakesh," she said, trying to sound light, but her exhaustion was obvious. She’d always insisted on cooking for Aryan, as if good food could melt old resentments. I wondered, not for the first time, if our new life together was fair to any of us.

“Aryan is working hard in his second year of junior college, so I made him some soup.” She gripped my hand tightly, her eyes sparkling. “Aryan has finally stopped opposing us having a baby. Does that mean he won’t object to us getting married either?”

Her bangles jingled as she squeezed my hand, and I remembered how, in college, her laughter used to echo in the canteen. She looked at me hopefully, searching my face for reassurance. For a second, I wished I could give her all the certainty she wanted.

I held Meera’s hand in return, smiling and nodding. My heart was as excited as hers. After a year of trying to talk sense into my son, Aryan, he had finally stopped fiercely opposing me and Meera having a child. Every time I’d tentatively ask him at dinner if he wanted a younger sibling, Aryan would fling his steel thali onto the floor, rice and dal splattering across the marble, his voice hoarse with rage. Sometimes he’d even erupt on the spot, cursing Meera as a mistress and her unborn child as illegitimate.

I still remembered the clatter of the steel plate, the rice scattered on the marble floor, Meera’s quiet flinch as Aryan’s words pierced the room. Even the maid, Sumitra, had stopped in her tracks, her eyes darting between us, unsure whether to clean up or disappear. Every meal felt like walking on glass, but I couldn’t stop trying. In this house, even our silences screamed. The sticky heat of a Pune evening clung to our skin, the ceiling fan humming overhead, barely stirring the thick air.

Seeing him so unreasonable, I was deeply disappointed and even wanted to slap him—to let him know that I am the father, and he has no right to interfere in my affairs. But every time, Meera would swallow her grievances and gently stop me.

She’d hold my wrist, her grip cool and soft. She’d tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, refusing to meet my gaze, her dupatta twisted tight in her fist, whispering, “Rakesh, don’t.” She would try to smile at Aryan, and for a moment, the air would thicken with everything unsaid. My hand would tremble—one part anger, one part shame.

“Rakesh, don’t hit the child. I’m fine.”

“I can bear some grievances. Just don’t let it affect your relationship with your son.”

She would say this quietly, her eyes lowered, trying not to let her own pain show. In another house, perhaps, the new wife would have fought back. But here, Meera chose the harder road—acceptance, sacrifice, silence. Typical of Indian women, I thought, both proud and pained.

I gently stroked Meera’s swollen belly, my eyes full of apology. “But we already have a baby.”

The glow of the night lamp fell on her face, highlighting the tiny worry lines around her mouth. She pressed my palm to her stomach, as if willing me to share her hope and her fears. I wished I could promise her a family without cracks, but even I knew that wasn’t possible.

Meera shook her head, tears welling up. “As long as I can be with you, I’m willing, even if I have no status. I just feel sorry for our child…”

She tried to hide her tears, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her dupatta. "What will people say? Logon ki zubaan toh chalti hi rahegi," she muttered, her voice catching. I felt a pang of guilt—her biggest worry was not herself, but what the world would think of her child.

So, I tried every possible way to reason with Aryan for nearly a year. Today, he finally relented. He just quietly put down his plate and spoon, nodded, and said, “Jo aapko theek lage, Papa,” before returning to his room without looking back.

The sound of his door clicking shut echoed louder than any fight we’d ever had. I stood in the kitchen doorway, hearing the distant strains of a Hindi film song playing from someone’s TV on the floor below. For the first time in months, I felt hope bloom—tiny, tentative, like the first shoots of green after a long drought.

Seeing that my son didn’t shout and make a scene as before, I finally breathed a sigh of relief. Now, all I wanted was to pull Meera close and celebrate together. To be honest, with her, I felt young again—that reckless feeling of risking everything for love, of being high-spirited and defying the world.

We laughed, quietly, so as not to disturb the children or the neighbours. I remembered the college days, when we’d dreamed of a life together in some far-off city—those dreams, packed away, suddenly seemed possible again. My hands found hers across the dining table, and for a minute, the world shrank to just the two of us.

Seeing me lost in thought, Meera gave me a playful glance. “Both children need to sleep. They have to get up early for school tomorrow.”

She gently reminded me, her voice low. "Kal subah ka alarm toh main hi lagaoongi, hai na?" She fussed with Riya’s water bottle, setting it beside Aryan’s. Her careful mothering, even in the smallest things, made the house feel whole for a second.

In their blue-and-white school uniforms, Riya’s plaits bouncing, Aryan’s shoulders hunched, they waited at the bus stop, pretending not to know each other. Aryan is my son with my late wife, while Riya is the child Meera brought with her. After I officially got together with Meera, I arranged for Riya to transfer to the same school as Aryan. Now both children are in their second year at a top school in Pune, and they’re about to become legal siblings, able to look after each other.

I tried to picture them together on the school bus—the awkward silences, the shy glances. In a city like Pune, gossip travels faster than the Pune-Mumbai Expressway, but children are resilient. I hoped that, with time, they’d form their own bond, separate from all the adult mistakes.

More importantly, thinking of this, I couldn’t help but touch Meera’s belly. Meera and I are about to have a child of our own. But amid the excitement, the image of my son’s silent back as he returned to his room flashed through my mind, leaving me uneasy. After all, Aryan has always been obsessed with his mother’s death and resents me and Meera. But the dead can’t come back to life, and the living should look ahead, right? I think my late wife wouldn’t want us father and son to remain trapped in grief.

The ticking of the old wall clock, inherited from my father, filled the room. For a second, I felt as if my late wife’s photograph, garlanded above the TV, was watching us—judging, maybe, or perhaps forgiving. I muttered a silent apology, not just to her, but to Aryan too.

Meera leaned on my shoulder and said sweetly, “So when will we have our wedding ceremony?”

She smiled with her whole face, her excitement bubbling over. "Proper shaadi, haan? With band-baaja and mithai, even if people gossip?"

I nestled with Meera, filled with love, completely unaware that the room facing the dining area had quietly opened a crack. It seemed as if a dark, unclear gaze was fixed on us… Of course, maybe it was just my imagination.

Somewhere, a chair creaked. I shrugged it off—must be the old furniture. Love makes us superstitious, I thought, even as I shivered.