Chapter 2: The Breaking Point

I broke down. "Tum aise kaise mana kar sakti ho? Bachpan se dekha hai, mushkil mein haath na batana toh gunaah hai."

My voice wavered, anger and helplessness mixing. The flat felt smaller, shadows stretching along the walls. Amma’s face floated in my mind, her disappointment unbearable.

Priya replied, irritated, "Law ka darr mat dikhana mujhe. Tumse toh sirf shaadi ka reception hua hai, abhi tak register nahi kiya. Law mujhe nahi rokta. Zyada force kiya toh main hi break-up kar dungi, aur shagun bhi nahi dungi."

She tossed her hair, eyes glittering. For the first time, she’d said the word ‘break-up’. It hit like a slap—like she’d kept that threat ready all along.

I was stunned. "Tum galat samajh rahi ho. Kitni baar bola—yeh tumhari hi maa hai."

I stared, struggling to understand. Memories of Priya fussing over her mother’s fever, feeding her daal-chawal, haunted me. Was this really her?

Priya hesitated for a second, then sneered, "Ab meri maa ko badnaam karoge? Kya soch ke bol rahe ho? Agar mere maa-baap hospital mein hote, kya tumhare dad mujhe aise bolte?"

She folded her arms, face set in stone. The room felt icy, all warmth gone.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew the ATM PIN. I grabbed the card and rushed for the door, adrenaline surging. The blue debit card flashed in my hand, memories of opening the account together at State Bank dancing in my mind.

Priya panicked. She lunged, trying to snatch the card. I held on. She bent her head and bit my arm, hard.

Her teeth sank into my skin. I yelped, pain shooting up my arm. She clung to the card, trembling, breath coming in angry bursts. Her hand shook as she pressed the card to her chest, her face twisted in fury.

The pain made me let go. I stumbled back, clutching my arm. Blood beaded where she’d bitten me. For a second, I just stared at her, stunned.

She huddled by the puja shelf, hugging the card, eyes wild. She was shaking, breath ragged, as if she might burst into tears or laughter any second.

She spat out, "Ab zabardasti shagun chahiye? As expected, apni maa ke liye kuch bhi karoge. Agar meri maa hoti, kya tab bhi itne desperate hote?"

She pressed the card tighter, voice trembling. Her dupatta slipped off her shoulder, but she didn’t care.

I tried to steady my voice. "Agar yakeen nahi hai, apne maa-baap ko phone karo, unse puch lo."

My words were sharp, my bitten arm throbbing. I looked at her, searching for a sign of the Priya I’d married.

She glared. "Mujhe bewakoof samjha hai kya? Phone karungi toh woh bhi tumhari side lenge, mujhe emotional blackmail karenge. Tumhe mana hai, kuch mat bolna."

She jabbed a finger at me, her face twisted in anger. For a second, her voice reminded me of those TV bahus plotting in the serials.

Suddenly, she grabbed the steel scissors from the pen-stand, aiming at the ATM card. The blades glinted under the tube-light.

I shouted, "Mat karo!"

I rushed forward, desperation cracking my voice. The thought of losing that last hope made my stomach twist.

I pleaded, "Card State Bank mein tumhare saath shagun ke liye khola tha. Abhi tak mobile banking link nahi kiya. Card katega toh aaj raat paise nahi milenge."

My voice was barely above a whisper, sweat dripping down my forehead, my arm burning from the bite.

Priya’s voice was cold. "Shayad kat dena chahiye. Jab buddha mujhe ungrateful bola, tab pata hona chahiye tha main kisi ki nahi sunungi."

She raised the scissors, her jaw clenched. I could hear her mother’s old warnings in her tone—family pride trumped everything.

I broke down. "Woh tumhare papa hain."

I looked at her, helpless. I remembered her stories of his sacrifices—pawning his watch for her school fees. Now she acted as if he was a stranger.

She shouted, "Papa nahi hain! Besharam buddha hai. Apni biwi ka bill nahi bhar sakte, mujhe scam karna hai. Tum bhi unke saath mil gaye ho."

Her eyes were wild, words tumbling out. She pointed at me, body trembling. I wondered if she even realised what she was saying.

She meant it. She cut the ATM card in half. The sharp snip echoed in the flat. I stared, horrified, as the pieces fell to the floor.

The last hope snapped in two, and with it, something inside me broke forever.

My legs gave way. I sank onto the old sofa, its springs digging into my back, but I barely felt it. It was all over.

I muttered, "Sab khatam ho gaya."

My voice was a whisper, drowned by the silence. The tube-light flickered, as if mourning with me.

Priya snorted, "Khud hospital jao apni mummy ko dekhne. Main nahi jaungi. Kya tension hai? Law bolta hai doctor jaan bachayenge hi."

She flopped onto the bed, arms folded. Her face was blank, scrolling through Instagram like nothing had happened. The jangle of her bangles was the only sound.

I said helplessly, "Doctor bas jaan bachayenge. Bina paise ke best treatment nahi milega. Shayd kuch din baad Amma ki tabiyat aur bigad jaaye. Tum samajhti ho na, Dilli ke sarkari hospital mein kya hota hai?"

My voice cracked, eyes filling up. I remembered Amma’s gentle smile when she served chai. In Delhi, everyone knows—without money, hospitals only do the minimum.

She shrugged, unmoved. "Toh jao, apne rishtedaaron se udhaar le lo. Aur haan, shaadi register nahi karwaungi."

She slipped off her bangles, their clinking final. I stared, unable to believe she could toss away our marriage and her own mother over a few lakhs.

I asked, "Register kyu nahi karna?"

My voice was a whisper, hope draining away.

She answered, "Pata nahi kitna kharcha ho jayega. Kahin khatam hi na ho. Karz toh husband-wife ka hota hai. Main apni zindagi barbaad nahi karungi. Maximum teen lakh tak, uske baad break up."

She smoothed her dupatta, eyes avoiding mine. I broke down. "Maa par kharcha karne se zindagi barbaad hoti hai?"

My hands shook as I wiped sweat from my brow. Reality settled like a heavy blanket.

She came closer, her voice soft but icy. "Sun lo, Maa toh budhi ho gayi hai. Behtar hai jaane do."

Her words sent a chill down my spine. I stared, blank. "Samajh bhi hai tum kya bol rahi ho?"

She looked straight at me, unflinching. "Main heartless nahi hoon. Socho, accident ke baad rescue, operation—sab mila ke lakhon lagenge. Aur hamare bachchon ka kya? Bas ek budhi ke liye sab kuch de doge?"

She ticked off her points like it was a budget, not a life. I hesitated, her words echoing the endless family money talks I’d grown up with.

She added, "Seedha bol doon—teen lakh se zyada hua toh divorce. Register hi nahi karte toh abhi break up sahi."

The threat in her voice was clear. I felt sick, the room spinning.

I gasped for breath, her words ringing in my ears. Divorce. Break up. How had we landed here?

She sounded so practical. Three lakhs for my mother-in-law, then divorce and singlehood with debt. What was left for me?

I slumped further into the sofa, my dreams crumbling with every word.

Just then, Priya’s phone rang again, shrill and insistent. She picked up, eyes narrowed.

Uncle Prakash couldn’t get through on calls, so he started flooding WhatsApp with messages—each one harsher than the last. The phone buzzed, the screen lighting up the dark room.

"Nalayak ladki, teen lakh shagun liya aur maa ke liye kuch nahi karegi."

Priya’s jaw tightened. She didn’t open the messages, just showed me the notifications. "Dekha, kaise gaaliyan deta hai?"

Her voice was hollow, the fight draining out of her. She slumped against the wall, the fire in her eyes dimming.

I said, "Uncle bas gusse mein hain."

My voice was soft, unsure. I remembered the rough love of Indian fathers—never saying 'I love you', only scolding.

She shook her head, bitter. "Papa nahi hai. Abse woh sirf ek ajeeb buddha hai."

She dropped her phone, staring at the ceiling, wishing she could erase her past.

I couldn’t speak to her anymore. With a life at stake, I picked up her phone, asking, "Kya main tumhara phone use kar sakta hoon paise arrange karne ke liye?"

My hands shook as I scrolled through her contacts. The icons glared back at me.

She said flatly, "Jo karna hai karo. Lekin yaad raho, marriage register nahi hai, toh marital debt nahi hai. Zyada karz liya toh dono alag, peacefully."

She picked at the frayed hem of her kurta, eyes far away. I nodded, found her best friend’s number, heart pounding.

As I was about to call, Priya snatched the phone. "Kisse le rahe ho paise?"

Her eyes blazed, clutching the phone to her chest.

I said, "Tumhari best friend."

I tried to sound reasonable, but desperation showed. She flushed with anger. "Pagal ho gaye ho? Mere doston se kyu? Tumhare khud ke rishtedaar nahi hain?"

She glared, voice shrill. I said, "Tumne mera phone tod diya, ab sirf tumhara phone hai."

My voice was tired. The city outside slept on, oblivious.

She snapped, "Itni sharam nahi hai tumhe?"

She looked at me like I was a stranger. The words hurt more than any slap. I stared at her, disbelief and bitterness mixing inside me.

How could someone who ignored her own mother in hospital call me shameless?

But Priya kept cursing. "Teri maa mar rahi hai, toh mere doston ko kyun ghasit raha hai? Apni family ki problem mein doosron ko mat la."

Her voice was nearly a scream. The neighbours must have heard, but I didn’t care.

I tried, "Bas karo, yaar. Hamari maa paise ke intezaar mein hai."

My hands shook. I remembered Priya fussing over me when I had fever. Where was that woman?

She sneered, "Badi calculation chal rahi hai."

Her lips twisted, voice dripping sarcasm. She muttered under her breath about my supposed plotting.

I was lost. "Kya keh rahi ho tum?"

She continued, "Tum jaante ho main shagun nahi doongi, toh chahte ho main apne relatives se le loon, phir tum refuse kar do wapas karne se, aur mujhe force karo shagun se dene ke liye. Hai na?"

She pointed at me, every word an accusation.

I said, "Obvious hai. Tumne khud bola shagun tumhara security hai—abhi waqt hai use karne ka."

My patience was hanging by a thread. I remembered my mother’s hopeful face.

"Bakwas! Shagun mera hai, sirf mera."

She hugged her phone, glaring. The air was thick with bitterness.

In her agitation, Priya opened WhatsApp and sent a voice note to her family group, hands trembling. "Sab sun lo—agar mera pati kisi se bhi paise maange operation ke liye, ek rupiya bhi mat dena. Main kuch nahi doongi, chahe kuch ho jaye!"

The blue ticks appeared almost instantly—family always watches WhatsApp late at night, waiting for drama.

Within minutes, her Chacha ji replied in shock: "Insaan bhi ho tum?"

Priya snapped back, "Chacha ji, pura sach nahi pata toh bolna mat. Pata bhi hai, shagun se paise maang raha hai!"

She typed furiously, her face flushed. The wedding shagun—once pride, now a weapon.

Chacha ji replied, "Toh shagun hi de do! Zindagi daav pe hai aur tum shagun pe atki ho?"

Priya cursed, "Aapko izzat di toh Chacha ji bola, nahi toh kuch nahi. Mera paisa, meri marzi!"

She was the group admin. With a swipe, she removed Chacha ji. The silence in the flat grew heavier.

Just then, Uncle Prakash sent another message, his words in all caps: "Main aa raha hoon tumhare flat paise lene, nalayak ladki. Maar daalunga tujhe."

Priya’s eyes widened, her hands hovering above the phone. She let out a hiss, like a cornered cat, then called 100.

She dialled with shaking fingers. While it rang, she turned to me, "Dekha na message? Ab police ko bula rahi hoon."

Her eyes were wild, fear and anger mixing. I pleaded, "Mat bulao police. Uncle bas gusse mein hain. Mummy hospital mein hai. Arrest hua toh kaun dekhega unko?"

She sneered, "Mat bano mahan. Tum jaise aadmi hi biwi ko satate hain. Tumse shaadi karna galti thi."

Her words were acid. I said, "Kab sataya maine?"

My voice was barely audible. She snapped, "Pehle shagun chahiye, phir doston se paise, ab threat aaya toh police se bhi rok rahe ho. Aur kitna satayenge mujhe?"

She counted off her grievances, voice rising, until finally, in her rage, she spat at my face.

The spit hit my cheek. I was too stunned to react. The last line had been crossed.

At that moment, the police picked up. Priya rattled off our address, voice steady but hands trembling. The dispatcher replied, "Police aa rahi hai. Darwaza lock karo, sirf police ke liye kholna."

She hung up, sneered, "Main darwaza nahi lock karungi. Dekhti hoon kaun kya karta hai."

She threw her phone on the sofa, arms folded, daring the world to come at her. I asked, "Kya karogi ab?"

She smirked, flexing her fingers. "Jaisa usne dhamki di, waise hi main chahti hoon ki woh mujhe haath lagaye. Police aaye, medical kara ke jail bhej dungi."

Her words were icy. I shivered. "Tum pagal ho gayi ho? Apne dad ko jail bhejna chahti ho?"

She exploded, "Pagal tum ho! Wo mera dad nahi hai. Tum kabhi mere side pe nahi the. Shaadi register nahi karungi, shagun nahi dungi. Pasand nahi toh court jao!"

She paced, fists clenched. Her voice echoed, every word hammering away at what was left of us.

Looking at her, I felt pity. Was this what years of distrust had made her? Somewhere, I felt relieved. At least now I knew.

Thank God it wasn’t my own mum in hospital. The consequences would have been unthinkable.

I gritted my teeth. "Theek hai, kal court jaake shagun freeze karwaunga. Jab tak wapas nahi aata, kuch nahi milega."

The words tasted bitter. My anger simmered just below the surface.

Priya sat next to me, mocking. "Haan haan, freeze kar lo! Tumhare ghar mein sab ussi shagun ke intezaar mein hain. Socho toh hassi aati hai."

She laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. The rift between us had never been wider.

I shook my head. Nothing about this was funny. Tonight, Priya had shown me her true colours.

I would never marry such a woman, nor take debt for her.

Luckily, I knew a lawyer—Uncle Suresh. Before marriage, Priya had made me sign a prenuptial with him as witness. The agreement said her property was hers, but she’d get half of mine after registration.

I called the lawyer, voice low and urgent. He promised to draft the court application by morning. I thanked him, offering chai and samosas for his trouble.

Priya saw I was serious, and sat beside me, mocking. "Jaldi karo, freeze kar lo! Mummy bistar par hai, tum log court mein shagun freeze karne ki planning kar rahe ho. Mazaa aa gaya."

I snapped, "Tumhari hi maa mar rahi hai."

A sharp pang cut through me. All our shared memories—now meaningless.

She sprang up, finger jabbing at my face. "Zubaan sambhal! Teri hi family mar rahi hai, meri maa ko mat bol!"

She was shaking with rage, her voice hoarse. I replied, "Maine toh shuru se bola—tumhari maa hai."

There was nothing left to say. She lunged, grabbing my collar, nails raking my cheek, trying to shove her phone in my mouth. "Bakwas band kar! Teri family mar rahi hai, meri maa ka naam mat le!"

She shoved the phone at my lips, slapping me in her frenzy. I tasted blood, the sting of humiliation burning deep.

I’d never been hit like this, not even by my parents. Something inside me snapped. Especially since she refused to return the shagun, my anger was uncontrollable.

I grabbed her hair and punched her twice, hard. She staggered, eyes wide, hand pressed to her cheek. The horror in her eyes cut through my rage, filling me with instant regret. My father’s warning echoed: "Beta, kabhi haath mat uthana."

She was stunned, barely able to stand. She stared at me, whispering, "Tu sach mein mujhe haath laga diya?"

I wiped my mouth, voice raw. "Tumne shuru kiya, toh main bhi maar sakta hoon."

She straightened, defiant. "Maar lo, main bhi case karwaungi. At worst, jail bhej dungi."

Her voice was steel. She lunged again, crying loudly, but I only pushed her away, refusing to hit back. She clawed at my shirt, but her strength was gone. Each time she lunged, she ended up on the carpet, sobbing.

Seeing she couldn’t win, she started cursing, each word filthier than the last. "Teri maa mar jaye, aaj hi operation table pe. Tere jaise ke liye toh yahi hona chahiye."

Her words stabbed at me, but I was numb. "Woh tumhari maa hai."

"Meri maa ko mat bol!" She screamed, lunging again. Her rage was animal, primal. She grabbed a fruit knife from the table, swinging wildly. I slapped her, stunned her, twisted her wrist until she dropped the knife. She screamed, defeated.

"Teri maa mar gayi, kal main champagne kholoongi!" she spat, her smile chilling.

I’d had enough. I grabbed her head, shoved it into the kitchen sink, turned on the tap, washing her mouth out. Water splashed everywhere, her screams muffled. I held her gently but firmly, desperate to silence the curses.

Priya spluttered, gasping. I let go, exhausted. "Aur kitni gaaliyan degi? Socha hai kabhi—khudgarz tu hai. Sahi pati-patni dono ke parents ki madad karte hain."

She choked out, "Tu khud khudgarz hai! Agar meri maa hospital mein hoti, main tujhe kabhi paise nahi mangwati."

Her hands shook, but her eyes were fierce. I frowned. "Yeh sab mujhse keh rahi ho?"

She jabbed my chest. "Real couples kabhi ek dusre ko neeche nahi dikhate! Tum sirf apne fayde ki sochte ho. Agar meri maa hoti, main sochti tumhara kya hoga. Tum kabhi nahi sochte."

I nodded, defeated. "Yaad rakhna yeh baat."

Just then, outside the kitchen window, headlights swept across the colony gate. I froze, recognising the dented maroon Maruti—it was Uncle Prakash’s car.

Priya’s eyes widened, wild with anticipation. She shouted, "Ab dekh, tu gaya kaam se! Mere papa aa gaye. Ab asli hungama shuru hoga."

The real storm was only just beginning.