Chapter 7: The Confrontation

Rajeev Sharma’s car waited by the curb. The moment my girlfriend got in, they started making out—right there, broad daylight, public road.

I ducked behind a chai stall, pretending to stir my tea, never taking my eyes off them. People passed by—some stared, some ignored. It felt like a bad web series come to life.

“Hai Ram…” The words slipped out. Was this really my life now? Amma’s warnings, all the colony gossip—suddenly real.

With the burner phone I’d prepared, I messaged Rajeev Sharma’s wife:

“As your husband’s ex, I don’t want to mess with your family, but he keeps pestering me. Please keep an eye on your man.”

My hands trembled as I typed, keeping the message polite but pointed, just enough to start a storm.

Almost instantly, his wife called. I didn’t pick up. She kept calling, desperate.

The phone buzzed again and again. I switched it to silent, sweating. I could almost hear her voice, sharp with pain, through every missed call.

I sent one more: “Instead of calling me, why not call your husband and see if he’s really working overtime?”

A strange thrill shot through me—justice, or maybe just revenge. I pictured her calling him, hands shaking just like mine.

I crouched behind the chai stall, sipping lukewarm tea, waiting for the fireworks.

Just as Rajeev Sharma’s car started moving, it screeched to a halt. Suddenly, my girlfriend was shoved out onto the footpath.

She stumbled, hair wild, face flushed with shock. She tried to regain her dignity, smoothing her kurti, swallowing her anger. The auto drivers watched, whispering to each other. The scent of roasted corn and paan hung in the air.

Through the window, I saw Rajeev Sharma answer a video call. My girlfriend banged on the glass, but he ignored her, drove off without a backward glance.

She stood frozen, humiliated, pride shattered. Her lips trembled, but she straightened her kurti, called an Ola with shaking fingers.

She came home in a foul mood. I played dumb: “Babe, you’re back? Weren’t you with your best friend?”

I tried to sound cheerful. She didn’t even look at me, just dumped her bag and stomped to the bedroom, muttering curses. Her sandals thudded against the wall as she kicked them off.

She ignored me, went straight to the bedroom, and I could hear her furiously tapping her phone.

I imagined her fingers flying over the screen, venting her rage at someone who deserved it more than me. The blue glow from her phone stretched across the hall.

That night, after she finally slept, I checked her WhatsApp:

I waited till her breathing was soft and even. The room was dark, only the AC’s green light blinking. I unlocked her phone, heart hammering.

“You kicked me out of the car for that old hag?”

I could picture her pouting, furious, pride wounded.

“What can that aunty do besides pop out babies?”

“Rajeev Sharma, do you think this is fair to me?”

Her sense of entitlement was shocking. The way she dismissed the wife, the arrogance—it was like I didn’t even exist. Just collateral damage in their drama.

I almost laughed, bitter and hollow. My world was in pieces, and she was fighting for her place in someone else’s mess.

But after dozens of messages, that bastard didn’t reply. Each blue tick must have stung. Her anger only grew.

With nowhere else to vent her anger, she took it out on me:

But this time, I was ready. Tonight, I wouldn’t just listen—I’d finally answer back.