Chapter 3: Designs and Doubts

The designer’s name was Meera—stylish and highly skilled. She entered the room with a swish of her silk kurta, bangles jangling. Her hair was neatly tied, eyes lined with kajal, lips painted a deep plum. Even her visiting card had a whiff of expensive perfume. Her dupatta was draped just so, a hint of jasmine oil trailing behind her, reminding me of my mother’s Sunday rituals.

She spoke confidently and carried herself with poise. Her tone was just the right mix of business and warmth. “You must be Ananya, right? I’ve heard so much about you from Arjun ji.” She offered a handshake and a smile that barely reached her eyes.

Arjun said she was a top designer recommended by a friend, with plenty of experience and great taste, so we could trust her with our home.

He was eager, speaking rapidly as if trying to convince both me and himself. “Meera is the best, yaar. She did my friend Rahul’s place—remember his Insta stories? It turned out superb.”

He took me to meet her, and in front of me, he instructed, “Don’t try to save us any money. Use the best designs and the best renovation materials.”

The words hung in the air like a proclamation. I shot him a quick look—this was the same man who once argued over the price of onions!

Meera smiled at me. “Mrs. Iyer, you’re so lucky. Your husband treats you really well.”

Her tone was light, almost teasing, but her eyes lingered on Arjun a second too long. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious.

She showed me some of her previous projects, then brought out a price list—the prices made me gasp.

The zeroes danced before my eyes. “Twenty lakh for a kitchen?” I mumbled, my head spinning. Meera barely blinked, clearly used to such reactions.

But the always-frugal Arjun didn’t even look at it closely before signing the contract and happily paying the deposit.

He scrawled his signature, then gave Meera a thumbs-up. “Theek hai, start the work!” I stared, wondering if I was missing something.

On the way home, I asked if he wanted to think it over.

I hesitated, picking at the loose thread on my dupatta, “Arjun, are you sure? Shouldn’t we discuss such a big expense?”

He said there was no need. “This is our first house. It deserves the best.”

He shrugged, as if spending lakhs was like buying a new mixer-grinder. I tried to hide my confusion behind a polite smile.

I excitedly invited my best friend to dinner, and she was genuinely happy for me.

Nidhi arrived with a box of kaju katli and her usual dramatic flair. She hugged me tight, “Chalo, today I’m not leaving without eating your famous rasam rice. We’ll celebrate properly!”

“That blockhead of yours finally figured it out.”

We both burst out laughing. She knew Arjun’s stubbornness better than most.

“No wonder he treats you so well. You really bring him luck. Since marrying you, his career has taken off. His salary has tripled, right?”

She winked, nudging me with her elbow. “Bhabhi effect hai, pakka!”

“All his good fortune is thanks to you. The better he treats you, the luckier he gets.”

Her words, half-joking, half-serious, echoed the superstitions my grandmother always repeated. "Shaadi ke baad toh beta chamak gaya!"

I shyly stirred my cold coffee, feeling a wave of happiness inside.

The world seemed softer, the ceiling fan’s hum a melody. For a brief moment, I let myself believe in happy endings.

Arjun is always busy at work, so I handle everything at home and never let him worry about a thing.

Bills, groceries, the plumber—everything went through me. I’d manage the maid’s tantrums, chase the milkman for correct change, all so that Arjun could focus on his work without distractions.

He works so hard. When he was managing his first big project, he worked overtime constantly and only came home once a week.

His side of the bed would be cold most nights. I’d fold his shirts, iron out the creases, and wait for his key to turn in the lock—sometimes only on weekends.

Later, the project was a huge success, and he gained the MD’s favour.

A big bonus arrived. He gifted me a gold chain, shyly, as if unsure if I’d accept. For a moment, we celebrated quietly, just the two of us, with Mysore Pak and filter coffee.

He would praise me as the best, most supportive wife in the world.

“Ananya, you’re the reason I’m able to do anything,” he’d say, his voice soft in the late-night gloom. “Tu hai toh sab kuch possible hai.”

I always thought this was his way of making it up to me, a reward for my support.

I’d smile, not knowing whether to believe his words, but feeling cherished all the same.

—Until I saw the messages Arjun sent to Meera.

The shock of it was like biting into a chilli hidden in a vada pav—unexpected and sharp.

The first part of their chat was normal.

A flurry of polite exchanges about the work—nothing amiss at first glance. Then came the small talk, the emojis, the sense of an easy rapport.

Then Meera sent him the electronic receipt for the deposit.

A digital ping, a PDF attachment. My heart was already uneasy.

Arjun suddenly asked: “If you finish this big project for me, will you be able to get promoted?”

I read the words again, sure I’d misunderstood. The implication was as clear as day.

Meera replied with a cute emoji.

A winking face with a tongue out—so casual, so familiar. My throat closed.

Arjun continued: “Great, so how will you thank me?”

Each message felt like a slap. I swallowed, my hand trembling.

Meera replied: “I’ll treat you to a big meal another day, at your favourite restaurant.”

I felt the air leave my lungs. Meera knew his favourite place? My mind raced with questions.

Arjun replied: “I’m really looking forward to it. After all these years, my taste hasn’t changed.”

The final nail. My hands went numb, my pulse thundering in my ears.

A sharp pain shot through my head.

I pressed my temples, willing the ache to pass. The weight of the truth bore down, crushing the little joys I’d been collecting.

How ironic. I don’t even know what Arjun’s favourite restaurant is.

We’d never spoken of such things. Our meals were always at home—simple, routine. Was this his way of keeping secrets?

He always says eating out is unhealthy and that home-cooked food is best.

He’d wave away my suggestions to order from Swiggy or Zomato. “Oil is too much outside, Ananya. Better you make at home. Anyway, you’re a great cook.”

In a whole year of marriage, we’ve eaten out less than five times.

I could count each outing on one hand—always rushed, always practical.

I always thought he genuinely disliked restaurant food and even bought online cooking courses to improve my skills at home.

I’d learnt to make Hyderabadi biryani, Chinese fried rice, even tried my hand at Khow Suey—all to please him. Now it seemed pointless.

I couldn’t help but ask Arjun: Was Meera really introduced by a friend?

I tried to keep my voice neutral, but inside I was churning. I stood by the kitchen, pretending to check the gas knob.

His eyes never left the laptop screen. After a long pause, he replied blandly, “Does it matter how we met? As long as the service is good.”

His indifference stung more than any confession would have.