Chapter 2: Holes in the Carpet, Holes in My Heart

When Arjun Mehra came out of the study, Priya had already left. The house felt oddly empty, echoes of their laughter still clinging to the doorway. For a moment, it was just me, the ticking wall clock, and the heavy scent of what could have been a celebration.

His shirt collar was open, exposing his well-defined collarbone and chest. From the corner of my eye, I saw him—hair tousled, fatigue in his shoulders, the gold chain around his neck glinting as he loosened his collar. The aunties in our building always whispered about his looks; even now, I felt a pang of helpless attraction mixed with bitterness.

He scanned the dining table—plates cleared, candles blown out, only a faint trace of rose petals on the runner. His brows knitted together, as if my silence was a personal inconvenience to him.

"Not eating?" His voice was low, almost bored, hands tucked into his pockets. He looked at me as if waiting for an explanation—not like someone who’d just missed a lovingly prepared meal.

I took a deep breath, fighting back tears, squatted down, and started cleaning the carpet. Shaky breaths, just like Dadi taught me. I bent low, picking at invisible specks, praying he wouldn’t see my red eyes. My knees ached, but at least he couldn’t see my tears from this angle.

The custom-made rug was full of holes from high heels. Tiny, dark punctures marred the Kashmiri pattern—each one a small, deliberate betrayal. I tried smoothing the pile with my palm, my movements growing frantic. The more I tried, the worse it looked. I bit my lip, swallowing a scream. The rug was ruined—like everything I touched tonight.

"Meera." When I didn’t reply, Arjun’s voice turned cold. "I asked you a question."

His tone sliced through the silence, crisp and biting. I felt the weight of his gaze on my back—a chill running down my spine. My name on his lips always sounded like an order.

Without looking up, I asked softly, "Why didn’t you tell Priya to change into slippers?"

My voice was barely a whisper, Amma’s pleading tone when she spoke to Appa. I gripped the carpet edge tighter, not letting him see my tears.

"You know her eight-centimetre stilettos would ruin the carpet."

I forced myself to speak plainly, not wanting to sound like a nag. But even as the words left my lips, I hated how small and desperate they sounded. My gaze stayed fixed on the pinpricks in the carpet, each one a reminder of Priya’s long, fair legs.

My fingers shook as I traced the pattern. I remembered my own plain feet in rubber slippers and felt a fresh sting of humiliation. The room seemed colder, the air thick with disappointment.

Every time I thought of Priya, I remembered her crossing her legs, flicking her hair, acting like she owned the place. I pressed my lips together, silently cursing the unfairness. Even my own skin felt dull in comparison.

Without another thought, I pulled up the carpet, rolled it up, and dragged it to the dustbin outside. The weight of it pressed on my chest, but I didn’t stop. For a second, I wished the carpet could take all my shame and bitterness with it.

As I opened the bin, Arjun saw the food I’d thrown away earlier. A sharp gasp escaped me as I lifted the lid—the aroma of biryani and paneer tikka now mixed with stale waste. Arjun stood nearby, eyes flickering between the wasted food and the ruined carpet. I felt his silent judgment pressing down on me.

In the big bungalow, only the sound of the bin opening and closing, and my muffled sobs, broke the silence. The click of the bin lid echoed, as sharp as Amma’s scolding back home. I sniffled, wiping my eyes with my pallu, hoping he wouldn’t notice how close I was to breaking down.

He looked down at me, on the verge of breaking, his face expressionless. His gaze was cold, detached, as if I were an employee who’d made a careless mistake.

"Did I tell you to go through all this drama? Who asked you, Meera?" His words landed like a stone in my chest. I stared at the marble floor, swallowing back the urge to scream, to shout that I’d done it all for him, for us. My hands balled into fists.

"If you can’t manage, let Aunty Radha do it."

He sounded bored, almost annoyed. My breath caught—Aunty Radha, our old cook, would have handled everything with a laugh and a wink. I wondered if he wished she was here instead of me. He checked his watch and sighed, as if my breakdown was just another delay in his busy schedule.

Arjun didn’t spare me another glance. He just called out to Priya, "Come back and pick me up."

His voice echoed through the hallway, cold as the marble beneath my feet. Not a trace of embarrassment, as if I wasn’t even standing there, my heart in shreds.

"Let’s go for dinner."

He didn’t ask, didn’t explain. The words stung, each one chipping away at the hope I’d nursed all evening.

"Hmm."

I heard Priya’s soft, musical voice from the front door. The sound made my stomach twist. I bit down on my lip so hard it almost drew blood.

Priya paused before leaving, looking me up and down with a sly smile: "You’ve worked so hard—Arjun Sir is lucky." Her words felt like a slap disguised as a compliment.

"Oh, and order another one of those carpets Meera liked before."

His voice was casual, almost mocking. Like my preferences were just another task to be ticked off. I squeezed my eyes shut, hating how small I felt.

He glanced at me, his tone icy: "No—order ten."

He spoke as if throwing money could fix everything. The words hung in the air, heavy and humiliating.

Arjun slowly put on his shoes, adjusted his watch, and didn’t look at me again. His routine was precise—he tugged on his socks, slipped into his polished shoes, and checked his reflection in the foyer mirror. The faint click of his watch’s clasp sounded like a countdown to something ending. Not even a backward glance.

Even though I’d dressed in my best saree, he remained restrained, proper, and cold. I’d chosen deep maroon with zari work, plaited jasmine in my hair, lips a soft pink. But none of it mattered. His face was unreadable, as always.

My phone buzzed twice: a WhatsApp notification from Priya. [What’s up, little sister?] Her DP was a glamorous selfie. I hesitated, thumb hovering, almost deleting her message out of spite. But masochism won—I read it.

[Arjun Sir is really tired today, lots of physical work—he must be hungry.]

The words made me clench my jaw. Physical work. My mind conjured ugly images, and I squeezed the phone till my knuckles turned white.

[Didn’t he like your cooking? Let me tell you, Arjun Sir prefers light, home-style dishes for dinner, doesn’t eat much rice or bread, and also…]

She went on, giving me tips as if I was a clueless child. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. I wanted to scream.

Images of Priya’s thighs and her tight, hip-hugging skirt flashed through my mind again. I pressed the phone to my chest, trying to stop the flood of jealousy and humiliation.

I couldn’t take it anymore—I switched off my phone, tossed it onto the sofa, and wiped my tears with trembling hands. I steeled myself to finally speak up.

I looked up at him, crying, "Don’t go."

My voice cracked—high, desperate. I reached out, grabbing his arm before he could pull away. My fingers left damp marks on his shirt sleeve.

Seeing the surprise on Arjun’s face, I repeated, "Don’t go."

He stared at me, stunned—like he’d never seen me before. My words hung between us, fragile and raw.

"Don’t meet Priya. You absolutely can’t have dinner with her."

The words spilled out, all the pain I’d bottled up now tumbling free. My chest heaved with each breath, the room spinning around me.

"And you can’t…"

My voice faltered. I couldn’t say it aloud, but the accusation burned in my eyes. I gripped his wrist harder, refusing to let him slip away.

We’ve been married for three years—why should I need her to teach me how to take care of you? Why…

My mind screamed with questions—why was I never enough? Why did he always look through me, never at me?

"Meera." Arjun looked at me in disbelief, clearly not expecting such a reaction from me. For once, he looked almost human.

Just as he was about to say something, Priya returned. The sound of her heels clicked on the marble—so confident, so sure of her place. She breezed in like she belonged, carrying an air of triumph.

She stood at the door, smiling politely: "Arjun Sir." She ignored me completely, her smile all for him. The scent of her rose perfume filled the air, making my stomach twist.

"Let’s go."

Her voice was soft, coy. She looped her arm through his, her bangles jingling like a warning. I felt invisible, a shadow in my own home.

I didn’t want her to see my embarrassment, so I kept my head down, fiddling with my saree and blinking rapidly to hide the tears. I focused on the fading pattern on the floor tiles, pretending I was somewhere else—anywhere but here.

I’d never asked Arjun for anything before, but this time, I really hoped he would stay. My heart pounded—this was my last plea. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing for a miracle.

After a long silence, Arjun bent down slightly, and Priya naturally reached out to straighten his tie. They stood side by side—one calm and composed, the other elegant and refined—a perfect match. I felt like an outsider peering in through a window, watching a scene that had no place for me.

Just before the door closed, I suddenly noticed, under the folds of Priya’s skirt, a large expanse of pale skin. I instinctively covered my own neck, feeling exposed and small. She really wasn’t wearing anything underneath.