Chapter 1: Destiny’s Arrangement

The sixth year of my secret love for Arjun, I unexpectedly entered into a marriage alliance with him.

It was such a classic Indian twist of fate—after years of hiding my one-sided feelings, our families fixed the match. The day our kundlis matched and the alliance was decided, Ma whispered, “See, beta? Bhagya knows what’s in your heart.” I could barely breathe from the shock and the thrill.

After we got married, we treated each other with respect—exactly twice a week, we used ultra-thin Durex condoms. Always on schedule.

Every Friday and Sunday, like clockwork, I’d see Arjun quietly open the drawer, his face unreadable. The packet would crinkle in his hand, sounding louder than the pressure cooker in the kitchen. We never spoke about it—just a silent agreement, like the way we avoided each other’s eyes during aarti. There was a strange comfort in this routine, like chai at 5 pm—predictable, but bittersweet.

Because Arjun once said: "A marriage alliance without feelings is the most stable."

He said it so matter-of-factly, looking away as if discussing the weather or Virat Kohli’s batting average. The words clung to my chest, heavy as the gold mangalsutra Ma had insisted I wear. I never told anyone how much they hurt.

So I carefully hid my overwhelming love for him.

Sometimes, I’d steal glances at his side profile while he read the newspaper or sipped his morning filter coffee. My heart would ache, but I’d busy myself folding his shirts or setting out the tiffin—anything to keep my feelings hidden. Sometimes, I’d press his handkerchiefs to my face, hoping for the faintest trace of his cologne. In this house, I became a master of swallowing words and silent sighs.

Until Arjun's 'white moonlight'—his first love—returned from the US.

The news came one ordinary evening, as I was making lemon rice for dinner. I overheard him on the phone, his voice softer, tinged with nostalgia. The name—Meera—hung in the air like the smell of frying onions. My hands trembled as I stirred the tadka.

He began staying out late more often, and would rather take cold showers than touch me again.

I noticed the signs. His towel would be damp late at night. The AC would be off, yet he’d emerge shivering from the bathroom. The bed felt colder, his side untouched. Even the faintest touch seemed to make him flinch, as if my presence was a burden.

When I finally prepared the divorce papers and went to find Arjun,

It took every ounce of courage I had, the same courage I used to write my own name at the top of my scripts. The sheaf of legal papers felt heavier than my bridal saree. Still, I told myself, "Enough, Priya. It’s time to set yourself free."

I accidentally heard his inner voice.

[I really like my wife, really like my wife, really like my wife, really like my wife...]

For a moment, I wondered if my mind was playing tricks on me, like Amma used to say when she misplaced her spectacles. My heart pounded as if I’d run up five flights of stairs. Could this be real?