Chapter 2: The Contract and the Cage

I stared at the test report in my hand, fingers trembling, smudging the ink near ‘Positive’. The distant honking of auto rickshaws seeped into the hospital corridor, mingling with the chatter of nurses and the sharp smell of Dettol and old steel beds. My mind was blank. The thin slip of paper felt heavier than my entire life up till now.

I asked, voice wavering, “Am I really pregnant?”

The doctor—a middle-aged woman with a red bindi and gentle hands—nodded, laying her palm over mine for a heartbeat. “Beta, it’s true. You are.”

“Yes, you’re two months along.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but a softness lingered. I stared at the pale walls, the posters about iron deficiency and breastfeeding. Two months…

Two months… It must have been that time in the car.

My mind spun back—rain pounding the windows, the cramped car, the suffocating tension. I closed my eyes, shame and confusion curling deep in my bones.

That day, I hadn’t brought an umbrella. A male colleague from work kindly offered me a lift home. The clouds burst in true Mumbai fashion—no chance to make it back dry. His Maruti smelt of coconut oil and stale deodorant. I clutched my bag, forced small talk about Eastern Express Highway traffic.

Just as I got out, I ran into Arjun, freshly landed from a business trip. His grey suit was rain-damp, suitcase in hand. I thought he’d walk past, but the second he saw me with another man, something in his eyes turned black—darker than the monsoon sky.

The society watchman avoided our eyes. Even the stray dogs quieted as Arjun’s anger rolled in. He stormed toward me, and I shrank into the seat, praying Mrs. D’Costa wouldn’t spot us from her balcony.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me close, his grip bruising, his eyes daring me to pull away—right in front of my colleague. My cheeks burned, the city watching through misted glass.

“Meera, I’m not even dead yet and you’re already in a hurry to find someone new?”

His words were knives, laced with jealousy and accusation. I wanted to protest, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t move. Only Arjun could turn a harmless lift home into a crime.

“What, am I not enough for you?”

His voice was low, dangerous. My face burned. I slapped my palm over his mouth. “Stop talking.”

I was terrified some aunty would peek out and spread gossip through the building. My hand trembled as I begged him with my eyes.

His gaze dropped to my rain-soaked kurta, eyes wilder.

That night, he tormented me until midnight. The car became a cage, the glass fogged, the air thick with sweat and longing. I tried to push him away, but he was relentless, and by the end, I was too exhausted to even cry. The city carried on—horns, vendors, but inside, time stopped.

When I finally staggered out, he carried me upstairs to our 2BHK, silent. Mrs. D’Costa peeked through her peephole, quickly fussing over her Tulsi. I buried my face in his shoulder, wishing my marks away.

For three years, I knew my place. Mrs. Malhotra was never meant for me—no gold bangles, no calls from a mother-in-law. Just Arjun’s moods, his money, and the loneliness of being a secret.

But even careful hearts fall. With a child on the way, I was more trapped than ever.

As soon as I left the hospital, my phone vibrated. Arjun’s timing was always uncanny, like he had spies everywhere. I wiped sweat from my brow and tried to sound casual.

“Where did you go?”

His voice was low, threatening. I checked for listeners, heart thumping.

I lied without blinking. “Shopping, buying you a birthday present.”

The guilt was bitter, but it was easier than the truth.

He chuckled, warm and mocking. “Another tie? Meera, can’t you think of something new?”

I bit my lip, forcing a smile for passersby.

I took a deep breath. “Then… what kind of present do you want?”

His smirk was audible, sending a chill through me.

After we hung up, he sent me a string of lingerie photos on WhatsApp. I nearly dropped my phone in shock, glancing around to make sure no one saw. Even my mother’s scoldings about ‘girls from good homes’ echoed in my head.

Arrey, if I wore something like that, I’d faint before I left the bedroom. I imagined my reflection in the cracked mirror and shuddered.

In the end, I bought him a leather belt from Myntra. Practical, safe, and his money anyway. I could already hear his teasing.

When I got home, the flat was silent—just the fridge humming, a distant dog barking, and the scent of sandalwood from my agarbatti. I changed into my nightclothes, not planning to wait up, but left kheer on the table anyway. As I stepped out of the bathroom, someone hugged me tightly from behind.