Chapter 1: The Canary and the Certificate

Outside the grilled window, Rohan’s canary fluttered and shrieked, its yellow feathers flashing against the smoggy Mumbai skyline. Even the birds in our apartment complex have opinions, louder than the watchman’s shouts at the kids playing cricket downstairs.

He handed me the divorce papers. “Sign it. Just for show, to calm the little girl.”

His tone was as casual as discussing the sabzi with the bai. The stale smoke from his last cigarette mixed with the jasmine oil in my hair. I twisted the edge of my kurti between my fingers, the way I used to fidget with my school uniform before an exam.

My fingers trembled as I picked up the pen. I glanced at my chipped nail polish, a sudden flash of memory—my wedding day, henna dark on my hands. The sweat on my palm smudged the paper as I signed, swallowing hard and blinking back tears I refused to let fall in front of Rohan. My face stayed blank, just as Mummy had taught me—no drama, beta, not in front of strangers.

As I stepped out, I caught the voices of Rohan’s friends through the half-open cabin door. “Bhabhi is really too obedient, isn’t she? If you told her to go get the certificate, she probably wouldn’t even say a word, right?”

Their laughter bounced off the glass partitions. I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting blood, and stared at the marble floor, pretending to count the tiles. A peon walked past with a tray of chai, eyes fixed on the ground.

Rohan lit a cigarette and smirked. “Want to bet?”

He leaned back, exhaling smoke, his voice laced with the confidence that once charmed, now only pricked.

They wagered that at the Family Court a month later, I’d cry like anything, but still do exactly as told. It was as if they were betting on a cricket match—casual, heartless. My cheeks burned. I stayed quiet, clutching my phone as if it were a lifeline.

Change a marriage certificate into a divorce certificate. Those words stung. In our world, where wedding albums are displayed with pride, a divorce certificate felt like being branded. Mummy’s scolding echoed in my mind: Log kya kahenge, Priya?

I held my phone in silence. The cracked screen glinted in the sunlight as I scrolled through WhatsApp, trying to tune out the laughter behind me.

A message waited for me: [Why don’t you just marry me, is that not okay?]

The words blinked back at me, sudden as a monsoon cloudburst in May. My heart skipped a beat.

"Okay."

My thumb hovered over the send button. For a moment, my mind flashed to my mother’s face, the echo of "Log kya kahenge?" in my ears. I sent it anyway, pulse racing.

[?]

The reply came instantly, as if Kabir had been waiting, breath held.

His response arrived before I could even put the phone away. For a second, I pictured him—Kabir—somewhere far off, brow furrowed, hoping.

I switched off my phone. The screen went dark—a small rebellion. The office noise kept flowing: laughter, the clinking of glasses, an old Kishore Kumar song drifting from someone’s phone.

“All right, if bhabhi is really that obedient, drinks are on me next month.”

Someone smacked the table, the sound sharp. I flinched. The men’s voices rose, careless and entitled as always.

“Three months,” Rohan said.

I caught the glint in his eye—half mocking, half bored. Raising the stakes, always convinced he’d win.

“Deal, deal, deal.”

A burst of laughter and noise. The office air turned thick with smoke, bravado, and cheap aftershave. I hurried out.

Head down, bag clutched tight, I wove past peons carrying steel tiffins, ignoring the stares from reception. Only when the harsh Mumbai sunlight stabbed my eyes outside did the tears finally start to fall.

I ducked behind a paan shop. The paanwala barely glanced up, busy folding betel leaves, as I hid my face in my dupatta and let the tears come. Mumbai’s sun was unrelenting, but nothing stung like that emptiness inside.