Chapter 2: Suspicion and the Scent of Burnt Tadka

For once, Ananya didn’t use working late as an excuse to come home late. She walked in just as I was cooking in the kitchen.

I heard her key turn in the lock, and then the sound of her heels on the marble tiles. She stood in the doorway, adjusting her bangles nervously, eyes darting to the suitcase before meeting mine for a split second. Draped in her work saree, hair pulled back into a tight bun, her shoulders looked tense, almost hunched.

“Rohan, what are you making? It smells so good.”

That sugary, enthusiastic voice—so unlike her. Usually, she just drops her bag, sighs, and heads to the bathroom. But today, she was actually trying to be warm. It was almost laughable.

Taking the initiative to greet me—she never does that.

My mind ticked off the clues. Her lips smiled, but her eyes darted around the kitchen, as if checking for evidence. She hadn’t even taken off her sandals before trying to peek at the counters.

I felt disappointed, but also found it ridiculous. Usually, I bend over backwards to please her and get nothing but coldness in return. If I say a few more words, she finds me annoying. But just mentioning the suitcase, she rushed home to break the ice, afraid I’d discover her secret.

Seven years of marriage, and this was what broke her silence—a suitcase. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. The dosa pan hissed, drowning out my frustration.

I looked at Ananya. Her complexion was sallow, and she looked haggard. I’d originally thought it was because the business trip was exhausting. Who would have thought she’d secretly had an abortion?

There were faint shadows under her eyes. She moved slower than usual, like she was carrying a secret burden. I noticed her fingernails, chewed and raw—a habit she’d given up years ago.

I took a deep breath, barely suppressing the anger in my heart. “You don’t look well after your business trip. I’m making you some dal soup to help you recover.”

The words came out softer than I expected. I forced myself to sound caring, not confrontational. In my mind, a hundred accusations swirled, but I clamped down on them.

Ananya forced a smile, clumsily testing me: “Okay, I’ll go sort out the suitcase I brought back last night first—you didn’t touch my stuff, right?”

Her voice was almost brittle, as if she was reciting lines in a play. She kept glancing towards the bedroom, waiting for a slip-up.

I stared into her eyes. “Didn’t touch. Didn’t you say you’d handle it yourself?”

She looked away, eyes flicking to the living room TV that played an old serial in the background. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it,” she muttered, not meeting my gaze.

She avoided my gaze, mumbled something, and went to the bedroom.

I listened to the sound of the suitcase zipping open, her movements unusually frantic, as if she was searching for something that might have gone missing. I stirred the dal, pretending not to notice.

At dinner, Ananya unusually praised the dal soup I made: “All these years of marriage, I’ve always cooked and never heard you praise me. Did you do something to let me down, so now you’re deliberately being nice?”

She twirled her spoon, not meeting my eyes. The compliment sounded forced, almost an accusation itself. I watched her carefully, noting the twitch in her jaw.

Ananya’s face stiffened for a couple of seconds, then she got a bit angry out of embarrassment: “What nonsense are you talking about? Can’t I even praise your cooking?”

Her voice rose, brittle and defensive, echoing off the kitchen tiles. She slammed her spoon down, sending a few drops of dal splattering on the tablecloth.

She put down her spoon heavily. “Not eating. What a mood killer.”

She pushed her chair back, the scrape loud in the silence. The smell of burnt tadka lingered in the air as Ananya slammed her spoon down. I let her go, too drained to argue.

Everything she did tonight screamed ‘guilty.’

Even her silence was loud. The way she fiddled with her phone, the way she avoided looking at me, all of it felt like a confession.

I watched her quietly. “Why are you so irritable today? This isn’t like you.”

She paused, halfway to the bedroom, back tense. I wondered if she’d turn and say something honest—just once. But she didn’t.

Ananya was speechless.

She stared at the fridge for a moment, as if hoping it would swallow her up. When nothing happened, she just shook her head.

We stared at each other for a while. She spat out, “Ridiculous,” and went back to the bedroom.

The word lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of burnt tadka. I didn’t follow her. Instead, I sat at the table, staring at her half-finished bowl, trying to piece together the woman I thought I knew.

That night, I tossed and turned in bed. We each had our own comforter, and the double bed was split by a clear boundary—like the India-Pakistan border between us. I stared at that line, memories flashing by of all the years I tried to please her, and her constant coldness.

The lights from the next building cast patterns on the ceiling. I lay there, clutching my pillow, listening to her steady breathing. We were inches apart, yet a whole world away.

How did my life turn into this? I looked at the shadow on the wall—was this really my marriage, or just two strangers sharing a bed?

The ceiling fan clicked overhead, the only sound in a flat that suddenly felt too big for two.

I caught myself, heart pounding. Was this really my marriage? Where did all the love go? My phone buzzed with a random notification, but I ignored it. I was too busy picking up the broken pieces of my trust.

I’m definitely getting a divorce.

The word ‘divorce’ felt strange, heavy. But it was the only thing that made sense. I couldn’t spend another year in this half-life.

But first, I have to find out who the rascal is who made a fool of me.

I clenched my fists, knuckles whitening. Whoever it was—he would not get away with this. Not in this lifetime.

Those two—neither of them will get off easy.

I swore under my breath, a promise to myself. No more playing the fool.

I stared at the wall clock, the night stretching ahead, knowing that tomorrow would bring no peace.