Chapter 2: The Joke Revealed

2.

I scrolled through old videos I’d saved, and the harsh truth stared back at me: seven years of love, nothing but a cruel joke.

Not once did Kabir spend a birthday with me. No midnight bouquets, not even a box of my favourite motichoor ladoos. The first time he performed, when I’d promoted him until I nearly fainted, all I got was a tired:

"Ananya, thank you for your hard work."

Even in the most intimate moments, when he was lost in passion, he’d murmur only one name: "Ananya."

He never showed restraint; when he hurt me, I’d struggle to use sign language, but he never cared to understand.

Afterwards, he’d always look innocent and text:

[Be good, your hands are shaking, Kabir Bhaiya can’t understand.]

Lately, he’d even use sign language to ask if it hurt.

I’d never seen him act so gentle. Once, his fingertips brushed my cheek and he made a face, half-mocking, half-caring. I thought it meant something.

Now I understand.

He said: "Just right to use the little deaf girl for practice. Ananya is delicate and soft, can’t let her get hurt."

A sour ache bloomed in my chest and tears blurred my vision. I reached for tissues, but they slipped from my shaking hands. The world spun, as if the ceiling fan was set to full.

How could he be so cruel?

When Kabir broke with his family, chasing his music dream with nothing,

it was Ananya who abandoned him and went abroad.

It was me who stayed, cheering him on in empty bars, sewing sequins on his stage kurtas, giving everything I had.

My phone lit up—a message from the doctor.

[Ms. Priya, are you sure you want to give up further treatment abroad?]

[You endured the pain of cochlear implant surgery before. Now giving up treatment is really a pity.]

I wiped my tears and replied:

[I’ll go.]

I don’t want Kabir anymore. Enough is enough, I told myself. The echo of Ma’s words—'Self-respect is everything, beta'—rang in my ears. I straightened my dupatta, steadied my breath, and felt a flicker of resolve.

The date to go abroad was set for a week later.

Fate’s joke: the same day Kabir would propose on stage. While he planned some filmi spectacle, I’d be leaving Mumbai with a single suitcase and a silent prayer.

……

That night, Kabir didn’t return.

Instead, a message arrived from Ananya:

[Di, don’t wait anymore. Kabir is playing the piano to help me sleep. I told him my insomnia is cured, but he just can’t let go—insists on watching me fall asleep before he’ll leave.]

[You know, after seven years, how can he still remember so clearly?]

In the attached photo, over her fair, bare shoulder, Kabir sat at the piano.

He wore a black T-shirt and an antique silver chain—the one I’d bargained for on Linking Road in the sweltering sun. His face, under the soft yellow tube light, looked heartbreakingly gentle. That smile was once mine.

His fingers moved over the keys as if caressing a lover. The little tilt of his head, the curve of his shoulders—each gesture stabbed me with memory.

Ananya continued to taunt:

[That’s all. If he catches me on my phone, he’ll scold.]

After all these years, she still couldn’t stand to see me happy. But this time, her venom didn’t hurt. I was just tired—tired of the endless comparisons, the games, the measuring up to someone else’s memory.

Kabir is tainted now. I don’t want him. My stomach twisted as I typed, but my hands were steady for the first time.

[Oh, by the way, do you want this? Poor thing, beg me—maybe I’ll give it to you.]

[laugh.JPG]

The photo she sent made my heart jolt. It was the ring I’d designed for Kabir—silver, simple, with a Braille message inside. She wore it on her finger, a trophy she’d snatched from my life.