Chapter 3: Discovery and Collapse

At this point, the guy finally noticed something was off. He said, “Arre, gaadi kyun chal rahi hai?”

His tone turned suspicious, eyes darting around. The sudden whirr of the AC, the soft purr of the engine—finally, reality was catching up with their fantasy.

My girlfriend smiled, “Mere boyfriend ki car hai, remote se AC chalu ho jata hai. Socha tumhe garmi na lage, toh aate hi start kar diya.”

She sounded almost proud, tossing the fact like a status symbol. There was a smugness in her voice, as if the world was hers to play with. It stung, hearing her talk about my gestures of love as nothing more than a convenient excuse.

The guy scoffed, “Uski Mahindra—das lakh ki—mein yeh feature hai? Meri BMW, pachaas lakh ki, usmein bhi nahi!”

He shook his head, tapping the dashboard. The comparison was unmistakable—status, price, everything lined up against me. He looked mildly impressed, but also a little insulted at the idea of being upstaged by a desi car.

My girlfriend cupped his face, kissed him passionately, and said, “Toh kya hua? Tum uski girlfriend ke saath uski sasti Mahindra mein so rahe ho.”

She said it, twisting her dupatta around her finger, eyes shining with mischief and malice. My heart twisted, each word a slap. I remembered all the times I’d worked extra shifts, skipped outings with friends, just to make those EMIs on time. Now, all my sacrifices reduced to a punchline in their private joke.

Her words excited him even more. He started undressing her, nibbling her ear and whispering, “Bohot tez hai tu. Tera boyfriend itna bhola hai, car bhi chala leti hai, phir bhi har din metro pakadti hai, aur mujhe aise cheezein bolti hai.”

His voice was thick, full of lust and arrogance. The mention of the metro stung; she’d always complained about the crowd, the sweat, the chaos. Now I wondered how much of that had been an act, another story spun for convenience.

My girlfriend moaned, “Haan, main buri hoon. Jitna tum bolte ho, utna hi maza aata hai. Woh mera simp hai, main tumhari hoon.”

The words, meant for him, sliced through me instead. I felt sick, betrayed not just by her actions, but by her very language. It was as if I was a character in her story, and not even the hero.

Then came a truly awkward moment.

For a moment, everything paused—the world, the car, my breath. Even the city outside seemed to hold its tongue, as if waiting for what would happen next.

The guy kissed her collarbone, then actually started singing: “Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koi, yunhi nahi dil lubhata koi.”

His voice, surprisingly tuneful, filled the car. The old Kishore Kumar song, so full of longing, twisted into something tawdry. I remembered singing that very line to her during our first long drive, windows down, monsoon rain splattering against the windshield.

My girlfriend giggled, responding to his kisses, “Bilkul, baby, jaise tum gaate ho.”

She laughed, a sound I used to love, now tainted. The song, the laughter, all of it felt like mockery. I bit my lip, fighting back the urge to scream, to break something, to just make it all stop.

I didn’t get it. Why would you sing in the middle of something like that?

My mind reeled—maybe it was their twisted sense of humour, or maybe the kind of arrogance that comes from always getting away with everything. I felt like a fool for ever thinking we’d shared something special.

Maybe they have their own weird sense of humour. Or maybe guys who drive BMWs just have a way of making girls laugh.

I remembered the times she’d told me I was too serious, too boring. Was this what she wanted? Was this the excitement she craved? I didn’t know. I just knew that none of it made sense anymore.

But it was excruciating, especially since all of this was being livestreamed.

Every second was torture, a public humiliation playing out for an ever-growing audience. I wondered how I’d ever face anyone again—my friends, my family, even myself.

I knew I had to do something.

My mind raced, desperate for a way out. End the stream, confront them, run away—anything but this.

This was my account. If this kept up, and something truly indecent was broadcast, I might actually get arrested.

The fear settled in, heavy and cold. I imagined the headlines: "Boyfriend's Proposal Turns Into Scandal, Police Called"—the kind of story that would trend on every gossip group in the city. My hands trembled, sweat dripping down my forehead as I realized how far things had gone.

I couldn’t help but cough.

It was a small sound, but in the charged silence, it was deafening. For a moment, everything stopped—their hands, their laughter, even the city outside.

Instantly, the two of them on the back seat jumped up in shock.

Her eyes went wide, lips parted in disbelief. He froze, halfway between a kiss and a curse. The car felt suddenly claustrophobic, the air thick with shock and fear.

My girlfriend saw me, her face instantly drained of colour. She blurted out, “Tum toh office mein ho na?”

Her voice cracked, the bravado gone. She looked at me as if I was a ghost, or a nightmare come to life. The man beside her stared, his confidence replaced by panic.

I said, “Aaj tumhara birthday hai. Special chhutti li, surprise dene aaya tha.”

My words felt flat, empty. The ring, the wine, the flowers—none of it mattered anymore. I sounded pathetic, even to myself, but I couldn’t help it. My voice was just a whisper, drowned out by the roaring in my ears.

How pathetic. I’d taken half a day off, planned everything, only to end up like this.

All the months of planning, all the little sacrifices, reduced to this one humiliating moment. I wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, but nothing came out except a heavy silence. I wiped sweat on my jeans, fiddling with my phone case, desperate for something to hold onto.

What surprised me most was that I wasn’t even angry. Not a single furious thought crossed my mind.

Instead, there was just emptiness—a numbness that crept in and settled deep inside me. Maybe I was too shocked to feel anything, or maybe I’d already lost her long before today. The world felt distant, unreal, as if I was watching someone else’s tragedy unfold.

Because I believe in one saying: Jab tak shaadi nahi hoti, tab tak woh kisi aur ki hone wali patni hai.

It was an old desi saying, one I’d heard my father joke about over chai with his friends. It sounded crude, maybe even heartless, but in that moment, it made sense. I clung to it, a thin shield against the hurt.

After this, there was no way I could propose to her.

The ring in my pocket felt heavier than ever. There would be no happy endings, no sangeet, no honeymoon in Goa. All the dreams, all the hopes—gone in a flash of betrayal. I remembered my mother’s warnings about trust, her stories of heartbreaks and filmi tragedies.

In my eyes, she was already someone else’s wife.

It wasn’t about forgiveness, or second chances. In that moment, she became a stranger, her world forever separate from mine. I looked at her, and all I saw was distance—a gulf I couldn’t cross.

And just now, I glanced at the livestream—there were already a thousand people watching…

The number was unreal. One thousand eyes, all tuned in to my heartbreak. The whole city, it seemed, had come to witness my ruin. My phone buzzed again—a missed call from Ma, and a message from my best friend: “Bro, call me. I’m outside if you need.”

In a group that was supposed to be for relatives and friends only, with a password required, to reach that number? What does that mean?

It meant someone had shared the link far and wide—maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of malice. The password, once a symbol of trust, had become an invitation for strangers to gawk.

It means all my old classmates, the entire office, all the aunties and uncles from both sides of the family—someone in the circle must have invited everyone they knew to come watch.

I could see it—screens lighting up across the city, people whispering behind closed doors, gossip spreading like wildfire through WhatsApp groups and office canteens. My heartbreak had become public property, a spectacle for all to dissect.

From family, to work, to school—total coverage.

No escape. My world had become smaller, every corner tainted by shame and betrayal. Even the local kirana shop owner might have heard by now.

Sure enough, just then, a group of people came out of the lift in my girlfriend’s office parking lot.

Their faces were lit by the glow of their phones, eyes wide with curiosity. Some looked guilty, others thrilled, as if they were watching a real-life Bigg Boss episode play out in front of them.

They clearly weren’t looking for their cars. Instead, they were holding up their phones, watching in our direction.

There was a hush, a sense of anticipation. They moved in clusters, whispering, nudging each other, waiting for the next dramatic twist. My humiliation was now the office’s lunchtime entertainment.

Obviously, they’d come down specifically to watch the drama unfold live.

I could feel their eyes, their judgment, their hunger for scandal. In another life, maybe I’d be laughing with them, but now I was the punchline.

My girlfriend, panicking, saw the group outside and quickly said to me, “Abhi scene mat bana, saare colleagues bahar hai. Please, mujhe aur embarrass mat kar.”

Her priorities, even now, were clear. Image, reputation, ‘log kya kahenge’—the eternal Indian fear. Her voice was pleading, desperate to salvage whatever dignity she could.

I stared at her. “Abhi bhi izzat bachane ki padi hai?”

My words were flat, tired. There was nothing left to fight for, nothing left to hide. The irony was almost laughable—after everything, it was still about appearances.

She said, “Ab toh tumhe pata chal gaya hai, ab acting ka kya faayda? Break up karte hai. Mujhe lagta hai, main kuch aur hi deserve karti hoon. You’re a nice guy, but I want more from life.”

Her voice was cold, detached. No apologies, no explanations—just a clean break, as if I was a minor inconvenience in her quest for a better life. I felt a fresh wave of pain, sharper than before.

I asked, “Maine kya galat kiya?”

My question hung in the air, unanswered. I searched her face for any sign of regret, but found none. The man beside her shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in his shoes.

She put her clothes back on, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the car.

Her movements were brisk, efficient. She didn’t look at me, didn’t say another word. The man fumbled with his buttons, avoiding my gaze. I wiped my hands on my jeans, wishing I could wipe away the last hour of my life.

As she drove, she said coldly, “You’re a good guy, I won’t deny that. But I just think I deserve better. BMW mein baith chuki hoon, ab Mahindra mein kaise baithungi?”

The words were like a slap, echoing the old class divide. I remembered all the times she’d told me it didn’t matter, that love was enough. Now, money and status were all that counted. My heart ached, but I stayed silent.

The guy awkwardly got dressed as well. At that moment, I noticed something important.

His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt, eyes darting around nervously. That’s when I saw it—a gold ring, thick and expensive-looking, glinting on his ring finger. I stared at the thick gold ring, the kind only uncles with big bellies and bigger secrets wear, and felt a fresh wave of disgust.

He was wearing a gold ring on his ring finger.

It wasn’t just any ring—it was a wedding band. The realization hit me like a blow. He was married, just like me, living two lives at once.

I pointed at his hand and asked, “Isko hi kehte ho ‘better’?”

My voice was louder than I intended, trembling with disbelief. The air in the car grew colder, the silence more oppressive.

My girlfriend shot back coldly, “Agar tumhe pata hota woh mujhe pachaas hazaar mahine deta hai, tab bhi yeh bolte?”

Her words were harsh, transactional. The love, the laughter, the memories—reduced to a monthly payment. I felt sick, the world spinning around me.

I gasped.

The number echoed in my mind. Fifty thousand—a fortune compared to my own salary. Suddenly, it all made sense: the new phone, the designer bags, the expensive perfumes she claimed were gifts from colleagues.

Online, fifty thousand a month might not sound like much. But in real life, for us, that’s a huge amount—my monthly salary is just over twenty thousand.

The reality was harsh. I had scrimped and saved for every little joy, while she had been living in a different world altogether, one I could never enter.

Even my car, worth just over ten lakhs, was bought on loan.

Every EMI paid with sweat and sacrifice, every drive a reminder of how hard I’d worked to make her happy. Now, it all felt pointless.

The guy finished getting dressed, glanced at me, and said, “Bol na, bhai. Kitna chahiye? Paisa de deta hoon, bas shanti se nipta le.”

His tone was casual, almost businesslike. Like he’d done this before, or at least seen enough to know how these things were usually settled. I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing.

I stared at him. “Mere dard ka daam lagaoge?”

My voice was incredulous, tinged with anger. The idea of reducing my pain to a transaction was too much to bear.

He replied, “Chup raho bas. Paisa chahiye toh bata, warna jaane do.”

He said it with a straight face, as if he was negotiating a business deal, not the end of someone’s dreams. I clenched my fists, rage bubbling beneath the surface.

My girlfriend pulled over by the company building. There was a BMW parked in a spot reserved for company executives, marked ‘Internal Parking Only. No Parking.’

The car gleamed in the afternoon sun, a symbol of everything I’d been told I wasn’t. The reserved spot, the shiny logo—all status, all power, all out of my reach.

No doubt, that was his spot.

I didn’t need to ask. The world was divided—us on the outside, him on the inside. The lines were clear, unbreakable.