Chapter 1: Breaking Ground, Breaking Hearts

Just after buying a house with my girlfriend, she wanted to break up with me.

As I stood in the new, empty flat, its walls still damp with fresh paint and that faint, promising smell of a new beginning, Priya dropped the bombshell as casually as asking for a cup of chai. The words hung in the air, refusing to settle, as if even the room itself couldn’t accept them. I stared at the soft blue paint we’d picked out together—remembering how she’d laughed about our future kids scribbling cartoons on it someday. The memory twisted in my chest, sharp and cold. Outside, the auto rickshaw horns and a hawker’s call drifted up, as if all of Mumbai was pausing to listen to the wreckage of my world.

After some back and forth, I agreed.

The empty flat’s echo made Priya’s silence deafening. My own voice came out small and tinny, but I forced myself to sound steady—there was a strange dignity in letting go, even if it felt like my heart was being ground under a local train. Amma’s voice echoed in my mind, “Beta, sometimes what leaves you was never truly yours.”

And I told her the house had zero down payment, and the EMI would be eighteen thousand a month—for her to pay herself.

This time, my girlfriend was completely stunned.

Her eyes widened, those perfectly threaded brows shooting up in disbelief. For once, Priya had no ready comeback. I could almost see the numbers spinning in her mind, searching for an escape route that wasn’t there. For once, the ball was in my court—and even the ceiling fan seemed to pause, waiting for her to answer.

1

After working overtime till 11 o’clock, I came home to find Priya lounging on the sofa, scrolling on her phone.

It was one of those sticky Mumbai nights, the ceiling fan whirring at half-speed, neighbours’ TV serials leaking through the window. My shoulders ached from the office, eyes burned from spreadsheets, but seeing Priya—even for a second—made me forget the day’s exhaustion.

She looked up as I entered, eyelids fluttering.

Her kohl-lined eyes flicked up, narrowed a bit, then darted back to her phone. The screen’s blue glow made her face look both beautiful and distant, highlighting the impatience beneath her perfectly painted lips.

"Tu late aata hai roz, paisa toh laata nahi. Jaldi twenty thousand bhej na, mujhe Dunee ka bag lena hai."

She barely looked up, her tone a mix of complaint and irritation, thumbs still flying over the screen.

There was that old, familiar whine—equal parts guilt-trip and demand. From the kitchen next door, the pressure cooker whistled, as if mocking my efforts.

I slipped out of my shoes, walked over, and handed her the small pastry I’d brought. With a gentle smile, I said, "Last month bhi naya bag liya tha na? Ek baar flat le lete hain, fir jo chahiye le lena."

She accepted the pastry, her manicured nails brushing my fingers. Disappointment flashed across her face before she forced a smile. My words drifted past her, like the radio static from the neighbour’s flat.

"Flat, flat, flat, bas wahi baat karte ho."

Priya put her phone aside, a little impatient now.

Her lower lip jutted out, pouting in that way she did when she wanted her way. She crossed her legs, gold anklet jingling against the sofa.

"Mummy ne already pooch liya hai—kitna save kiya hai? Sach mein afford kar sakte ho?"

Her voice got sharper, each word a tiny jab. I could see Aunty’s hawk-like eyes in my mind, the same ones that measured me the first time Priya introduced us. The weight of her family’s expectations felt heavier than my laptop bag.

I replied quietly, "Almost ho gaya down payment. Thoda aur jod raha hoon, maybe bigger flat bhi mil sakta hai."

I tried to sound confident, but my voice trembled. My heart pounded, hoping optimism could fill the gap in our savings. Outside, a stray dog barked, echoing my uncertainty.

Priya’s face brightened instantly. She picked up a little spoon and fed me a bite of cream.

Her mood flipped like a power cut—sudden, total. She scooped a dollop of cream and held it to my lips, her eyes going soft. “Arre, you’re the best!” she sang, sweet as jalebi syrup.

"Really? Sweetheart, you’re amazing! Let’s go look at flats this weekend!"

I patted her head and smiled. "Okay."

She giggled, nuzzling her cheek into my palm before turning back to her phone. For a moment, everything felt right—the two of us, the pastry, the promise of a home. I let myself believe.

Finally, the day came to look at flats. The agent took us to a new high-rise in Navi Mumbai.

The car ride was filled with Aunty’s excited commentary, Rohan’s wisecracks, and Priya’s endless selfies by the window. When we arrived, the building gleamed against the monsoon sky, the scent of wet concrete mixing with frying vada pav from a stall. The gate guard gave us a bored namaste.

The apartment had a great layout and plenty of natural light.

Sunlight poured through the big windows, scattering gold across the polished tiles. The view stretched over coconut trees to the faraway highway, where buses crawled like sleepy elephants. Even I couldn’t help but be impressed.

Priya and her mother’s faces lit up as they entered, hands everywhere, praising everything.

Aunty ran her hand over the marble counters, bangles clinking in approval. Priya opened every cupboard, humming with excitement. It was like they already owned the place, and I was just tagging along.

"This living room is so spacious!"

Her mother patted the wall. "Yahan ek bada sofa ayega, TV wall toh bilkul perfect hona chahiye."

She mapped out where the mandir would go, where the family photos would hang. Her voice echoed in the empty space, already filling it with dreams.

Cousin Rohan yelled from the other room: "Masi, yeh south-facing bedroom mera!"

He popped his head out, snapping photos, already making plans for the view.

Her mother replied instantly, "Haan haan, woh tumhara. Shaadi ke baad bhi idhar hi rehna toh master bedroom tum dono ka, Priya aur Arjun ka yeh wala."

She assigned rooms as if this was a Bandra bungalow, not a flat I’d nearly bled myself dry to afford. Priya nodded along, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I hovered near the window, feeling like a guest at my own wedding.

I glanced at my phone, pretending to check a message—anything to hide the sting in my eyes. My thumb ran over my house keys, sweat beading on my brow. I watched the world outside, listening to temple bells in the distance, the chatter in the room fading away.

After a while, her mother finally turned to me. "Beta, jagah toh bahut acchi hai—location bhi, rooms bhi, poora joint family aa sakta hai. Jaldi se purchase process shuru kar do, kahin koi le na le."

Then, hesitating, she added, "Beta, sab theek hoga na? Aaj kal rates bahut badh gaye hain, kisi ko bolna pade toh bata dena."

Her tone softened slightly, as if giving me one last out. The agent hovered nearby, his phone buzzing with another inquiry.

I put on a worried face, fidgeted with my keys, then said, "No problem, Aunty. Priya ke liye, jitna bhi mushkil ho, kar lunga."

The words tasted heavy. Sweat pooled at my neck, but I forced a confident smile—the one I practised for job interviews.

Priya looked pleased, giving my chest a playful punch.

She grinned, bangles jangling as she whacked my arm. "Good boy," she teased, beaming at her mother.

"At least you have some sense."

Her mother smiled, sizing me up as if I was a new purchase. "Beta, yeh kapde itne purane kyun lag rahe hain? Flat ke baad kuch accha le lena—Priya ko embarrass mat karna."

Her words stung, even as she forced a laugh. I tugged at my frayed cuff, recalling how I’d skipped every Phoenix Mall sale. Two years of saying no to myself, just to save for this flat.

I looked down at my faded shirt. For two years, not one new item—every rupee went to the flat.

Lunch was just two samosas every day. When colleagues ordered food, I’d smile and say, "Samosa is best—light and tasty."

When friends teased me about my tiffin, I’d laugh, swallowing my pride with the cold potato filling. Maybe they guessed, maybe not—every paisa counted when you thought you were building a future together.

Every hundred, every two hundred I saved, I’d transfer to a special account. Overtime, bonuses—everything saved.

Some days, I’d skip the last train, working late for that extra bonus. Walking home under orange streetlights, I’d count my savings instead of sheep. It was all for us—or so I thought.

Priya’s laughter echoed through the empty flat, but all I could hear was my own hope breaking. I forced a smile as she leaned in for a selfie with the window view. I smiled for the camera, but in the reflection of her phone screen, I saw a stranger’s eyes looking back.