Chapter 2: Ananya and the Instagram Stories

Rohan had set his sights on a little girl who hadn’t even graduated yet.

The colony aunty had already begun whispering about Ananya—the pretty one in salwars, who took her calls in English, who laughed too loudly in the parking lot. Everyone knew, even if no one said it to my face.

He bought her a flat in Mumbai, filled it with luxury goods.

My friends from the ladies’ WhatsApp group sent me Instagram screenshots—photos of imported perfumes, handbags from Paris, and captions in English with emojis—#NoSugarDaddies, #SelfMade, #MumbaiGirl. The tone so young, it made me feel ancient.

But the little girl wouldn’t let him kiss her, wouldn’t let him hug her.

She lived in a 3600-square-foot high-rise, wore designer clothes worth lakhs, and raised her chin, saying, “I won’t be anyone’s mistress.”

In her photos, Ananya’s eyes were proud, unyielding—the kind of confidence I’d lost somewhere between marriage and the constant pressure to smile at family dinners.

Rohan found it very amusing.

He laughed about it on calls with his friends, dismissing her rejections like a joke. “Such attitude, yaar,” I once heard him say, “but cute, no?”

This was already the third time he’d put on a show for her.

I realised I was just a prop in his drama—an old ritual repackaged for a new audience, where nothing truly belonged to me except my silence.

The first time, he flaunted his relationship with me.

Back then, I didn’t even know Ananya existed.

I hugged him happily and took lots of photos.

I wore the new saree Mummy had given me, posed for selfies, my heart fluttering with hope. When I saw him post a full nine-photo grid, I was surprised and full of hope.

Nine photos! All of us—together, laughing at Juhu Beach, eating vada pav, even one with his hand around my waist. But no matter how much I refreshed, I couldn’t see that post on his Instagram story.

Only later did I realise, he’d set it to “visible only to Ananya.”

The humiliation stung more than any family taunt. I stared at my phone that night, pretending to laugh with the TV girls, but inside, something broke.

The second time, he picked a fight with me. Left me alone on the street.

After a late movie at PVR, he stormed off, leaving me to wander Bandra’s crowded pavements, people jostling past. I felt like a ghost, invisible. He took a photo of me crying by myself and sent it to Ananya.

[See, nothing I can do. She can’t leave me.]

The cruelty was casual, like flipping a light switch. I wiped my cheeks, praying no one I knew would see me.

The third time, he wanted to divorce me.

My phone buzzed. I took it out.

[Really?]

[Are you serious?]

[Priya.]

I wiped away my tears and smiled.

"Really."

The word felt like both surrender and freedom—a strange combination that left me dizzy in the humid Mumbai air.