Chapter 2: The Goddess and the Ghost

When Kabir slipped into bed, I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. He quietly wrapped his arm around me, his skin warm and his scent—still that expensive deo with the tacky TV ad—familiar yet suddenly nauseating. I felt nothing but cold, an icy numbness settling over my heart.

He kissed my forehead, soft and gentle, as if everything was normal. But the darkness pressed in, heavy and suffocating.

Sleep wouldn’t come. I stared at the ceiling, the shadows spreading like cracks through my life. Outside, rickshaws honked. Somewhere, a TV blared an old Bollywood heartbreak song, every line a mirror to my pain.

I slipped out of his arms and went to the study, opening a bottle of red wine. The auto outside honked twice, and the smell of frying onions from the neighbour’s flat drifted in, mingling with the bitterness of the wine. Each gulp burned, but it grounded me in the everyday loneliness of Mumbai nights.

Does being older, being 'easy,' mean I’m only fit to be used for practice?

I stared at my reflection in the window, hair wild, eyes swollen. 'Kya main sirf practice ke liye hoon?' The words felt both foreign and achingly familiar.

How did I let my life become like this?

Gripping the table, I tried to remember my dreams: writing a book, opening a bakery, seeing Kashmir in the snow. Where had they gone?

Tears blurred my vision. I didn’t know how much I drank. Staggering to the bathroom, I slipped, hitting the cold tiles. The impact jolted me, but inside I was numb.

Kabir woke to find me gone. I heard his angry footsteps, slippers slapping the floor. 'Ritika, kahan gayi tu?'

'Didi, why didn’t you call me when you woke up?'

He smelled the alcohol and his irritation turned to alarm. 'Arey yaar, peene ka kya zaroorat tha? Aise time pe?'

'Arrey yaar! Ritika, are you mad, drinking while on your period?'

He only called me by my full name when truly angry, but I didn’t want to respond. My tongue felt thick as I slurred, 'Bas, Kabir. Please. Don’t touch me.'

He pressed his palm to my forehead, worry flickering in his eyes. 'Arrey, bukhar hai kya? Pagal ho gayi ho kya?'

'Bas karo na. Come on, let’s go to the hospital.'

The word 'hospital' sent a jolt of fear through me. I shook my head, desperate not to go. Hospitals in India—cold, crowded, full of judgmental stares.

'No need for the hospital. I’ll be fine after lying down for a while. Don’t bother me.'

He was so angry he laughed, but then bundled me in his old bomber jacket, muttering about stubborn women. The drive to Lilavati Hospital was a blur—horns blaring, lights flashing, his jaw set. I noticed, even through my haze, that the coat still smelled faintly of his deo—a scent I once loved, now making me sick.

The waiting room was packed—children coughing, women clutching files, an old man at the reception grumbling about his token number. I sat dazed, staring at my hands.

'Patient 17, Ritika, please come in.'

Kabir nudged me forward, his hand firm on my back. 'Chalo, madam, doctor bula rahe hain. Don’t act stubborn.'

From the corridor came a chirpy, teasing voice.

'Bhaiya Kabir, you guys…'

Kabir immediately let go of me and rushed to Sneha—hair in a messy bun, kurti too thin for the AC. He fussed over her, eyes soft with concern.

'What’s wrong? Why are you alone? Who let you wear so little?'

She sulked, lips pushed out, stamping her foot. 'Arrey, bhaiya, doctor bola, get a boyfriend and hormones will fix themselves. Not everyone is as sorted as you.'

After speaking, she glanced at me, a sly smile on her lips. Kabir tapped her head, scolding, 'What are you thinking? She’s my employee.' He took off his coat and wrapped it around her legs—his coat, the one he’d just taken off me. My heart twisted. I remembered another winter night, years ago, when he’d wrapped me up the same way, whispering, 'Don’t catch a cold, na.' Now, he didn’t even meet my eyes.

'No more skirts above the knee from now on, understand?'

She grinned, rolling her eyes. 'Boys toh are always staring, no? Even the security uncle!'

'Who told you that nonsense? What’s sexy about it? Don’t let anyone else see. I’ll take you home.'

From start to finish, Kabir never looked at me. I was a ghost in my own story.

The consulting room was cold, the doctor’s face impassive. She glanced at my file, lips pursed.

'You have polycystic ovary syndrome. It’s very difficult to get pregnant naturally. Now you’re four weeks along. Do you want to be hospitalised to protect the fetus or have an abortion?'

Her tone was brisk, almost impatient. 'Whatever you decide, do it quickly.'

I nodded numbly. The options hung heavy in the air.

Coming out, my vision went black and I nearly fainted. A nurse caught me, pressing a glass of water into my hand. 'Beta, sambhal ke. You must eat something. Hospital mein sab thik ho jayega.'

Because my health was so poor, the hospital required a family member. I called Kabir, but the phone rang endlessly. Then: 'This number is switched off.'

After hours in the waiting area, the nurse waved me away. 'Ghar jao, beta. Rest karna.'

The cold wind howled as I left. My only coat was still with Sneha. In the auto, I hugged myself, shivering, the driver glancing at me in the rearview. The radio played an old Bollywood heartbreak song. I pressed my forehead to the window, feeling completely alone.

Two days, I told myself. Then decide.

I pushed open the door to my flat. Laughter burst out—Kabir’s friends, Sneha, all gathered.

Sneha was pushed into Kabir’s arms, her shyness and their love on full display. I froze, suitcase in hand. The room fell silent. Kabir pulled me out to explain, avoiding my eyes.

'Didi, it’s not what you think. We were just playing a game—I was helping Sneha out.'

I nodded, too tired to argue. As I turned to go, he stopped me.

'No one knows we’re dating. I told them you’re my part-time maid, just deliver the stuff and go.'

The word stung. Maid? My whole existence reduced to a cover story. He added quickly, 'Their mouths are too big. If they find out, they’ll tell the family for sure. When the time is right, we’ll go public. I booked a hotel room for you.'

His eyes darted away. Shame flickered across his face.

Inside, all traces of me had vanished—my toothbrush, slippers, even the coconut oil bottle from my shelf. My life erased, as if I’d never been there.

I set my jaw. 'It’s okay, Ritika. You can walk out of this house with your head held high.'

I wanted to grab my documents and leave, but Sneha blocked my way, tongue out.

'Arey didi, where are you going? Chutti le li aaj? Don’t worry, full salary mil jayega!'

I stared, disbelief mixing with bitterness. Kabir looked desperate, silently begging me to play along.

'Sneha has been pampered since she was little, doesn’t know how to cook. I’ll count this as overtime for you.'

I almost laughed. Overtime pay for pretending to be a maid in my own home. For the sake of the boy I once loved, I swallowed my pride and went to the kitchen.

From the next bedroom, their voices floated through. Sneha’s was sharp and petulant: 'Why should she get extra money? She didn’t even come to work!'

Kabir’s voice dropped, coaxing: 'Arrey, choti manager, you’re so smart. Didi Ritika is cheap labour, yaar. See, saving money!'

'You’re so annoying, who’s your manager? Hey, don’t touch me!' Their giggles filled the flat.

A little later, I heard Kabir murmur, 'No, Sneha, there’s nothing at home. I can’t touch you—it’s not good for girls.'

So he could be careful. He knew the rules. Just not for me.

Sneha strutted into the kitchen, grinning. 'Let me help, didi. Let me do it.' Then, in a whisper at my ear: 'Suno, aunty, standing outside listening, na? So desperate? Why not get a battery waala, haan? Shame bhi nahi aata?'

My eyes widened. She knew everything.

In my daze, the hot hangover soup spilled on my arm—scalding, burning. I let go. The bowl crashed to the floor. Sneha screamed, shrill and dramatic.

'Ayyyo, didi! What have you done?'

Kabir stormed in, shielding her. 'What’s wrong with you? Sneha’s just a child. Why are you being so careless?'

He glared at me, eyes red. I was the one burned, but Sneha hid behind him, sniffling. 'Chhod do bhaiya, it’s nothing. Some women just get jealous.'

Kabir’s eyes hardened. 'Didi Ritika, samajh gayi na? Know your place.'

My place. I met his gaze, and he looked away. 'Apologise to Sneha, and today will be over.'

I squared my shoulders. 'No. I owe you nothing.'

He grabbed my burned hand, shoving it toward Sneha. My lower abdomen hit the corner, pain blooming through my body.

Sneha pretended to stop him. 'Bas karo, bhaiya. Chhod do. See, my hand is fine.'

'How can it be nothing? Let’s go to the hospital first, then settle with her later.'

Kabir picked Sneha up, draping his jacket over her knees as they left. I stood alone in the kitchen’s wreckage.

Kabir’s friends lingered. One swaggered over, breath reeking of whisky. 'Arey didi, Kabir was right. You must be so lonely. Why don’t you try us? We’ll show you a good time.'

'Those legs of yours are really something.'

I gritted my teeth, spat hard at him. The spit landed on his shoe, and he grabbed my throat. 'If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.' My voice was shaky but strong. 'You want your mummy-papa to know how you behave?'

His grip tightened, nails digging in. My vision swam. 'Why pretend to be chaste? We’ve all seen your sexy photos.' He kicked me twice. Pain shot through my stomach as I curled up, trying to shield myself.

Once they left, I collapsed, dialing 108 with trembling fingers. The flat was silent, except for distant horns. My voice was barely a whisper: 'Emergency? I think I’m having a miscarriage.'

As the ambulance siren wailed in the distance, I pressed my palm to my belly, whispering a prayer to a god I hadn’t spoken to in years.