Chapter 3: The Locked Door

I didn’t know Arjun was so against marrying me.

After the wedding, his face never softened.

He kept his distance, always sleeping in another room.

On our wedding night, he burst out in the bridal suite.

“Go away.”

“Don’t be in my room.”

“Get out. Just go.”

I lowered my head, embarrassment and humiliation burning my cheeks. My fingers twisted the edge of my dupatta, knuckles white. The fairy lights outside flickered, throwing strange shadows on the wall, as if the whole house was watching my shame. From the drawing room, laughter and music drifted in—guests still celebrating, clueless about the storm inside.

That night, Dadaji Kapoor came to me.

He explained Arjun had always been withdrawn, never liked much contact.

The aunty who looked after Arjun had just passed away, so his condition was worse than usual.

He asked me to be patient, to give Arjun time.

I nodded, promising I’d try.

From then, I became Arjun’s caretaker, juggling college with the routines of the Kapoor bungalow.

I had to remind Arjun about his medicines, take him to hospital check-ups, arrange his meals, iron his kurtas. My notebook was full of reminders—tablets after breakfast, psychiatrist appointments, the exact way he liked his dal, no tadka, just hing. Sometimes, I felt more like his nurse than his wife, but I pressed on, hoping I’d find my place.

Thankfully, Arjun wasn’t completely cold—slowly, he acknowledged me.

He stopped telling me to leave.

If I fell asleep on the sofa, he’d awkwardly drape a shawl over me.

When I had cramps, he’d make me ginger chai.

But he still never shared a room with me.

The Kapoor family had only one heir: Arjun. Dadaji Kapoor was desperate for a great-grandson, and kept hinting at it.

But if Arjun wouldn’t, what could I do?

Finally, in the fifth year, Dadaji’s patience snapped.

Without telling me, he gave Arjun a spiked drink.

Then sent him to my bed.

Locked the bedroom door behind us.

That night will never leave me.

Pain.

It was excruciating.

Under the influence, his eyes were unfocused, his body running on pure instinct. He had no experience, and his actions were rough. I felt like I was being torn apart, pain so sharp it stole my breath, tears running down my face.

As dawn crept in, I couldn’t take it anymore and fainted.

Later, I woke in the bathroom. I sat on the cold tiles, my nightgown sticking to my skin, bruises blooming across my arms and thighs. I dipped my hands in the bucket, wincing as water stung my wounds. As I tried to scrub away the blood, I noticed the faded mehendi on my hands—a ghost of hope, now almost washed away.

The echo of my own footsteps followed me through the marble corridor as I shuffled out. Somewhere, the old wall clock ticked on, loud in the hush.