Chapter 2: Kabir Arrives

The heavy wooden door creaked, letting in a wave of hot air laced with the smell of frying pakoras from the neighbour’s flat. I stopped, heart thudding, as I saw who entered.

He entered with the swagger of a baraati, white suit shining, gold chain glinting, a whiff of Park Avenue cologne following him. Kabir. The embodiment of confidence—the kind of guy who’d get his own line in a wedding baraat. His cologne overpowered the food, the musty sofa, everything.

He blocked the doorway, glaring at me.

His stance was pure challenge, chest puffed, eyebrow arched like a Bollywood hero. The gold chain at his throat sparkled.

Someone behind me shouted, "Kabir, don’t let this guy leave!"

The room buzzed, phones forgotten. All eyes were on us, as if we were the main event. People shifted, making space for a showdown.

I tried to slip past, but he cut me off with an outstretched arm.

His arm was firm; I stumbled back, the crowd murmuring. It felt as if the room had shrunk, everyone crowding in for the drama.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

His voice was deep, heavy with self-assurance. I felt small, every crease in my shirt suddenly obvious.

I didn’t want to answer, but someone behind me yelled, "That’s Ananya’s husband! As soon as he heard you were coming, he tried to run. Ha!"

A ripple of sniggers, elbows nudged. The tension was thick, like the air before a monsoon.

"So you’re Ananya’s... husband?" He looked me up and down, stepping closer.

His eyes took in my cheap watch, faded wallet. I braced myself.

"Please move. There’s been a heart attack at home. I need to get back—my mother’s life is at stake."

My words came out raw, pleading. My throat was parched, my hands clammy.

I tried to push past, but he shoved me back into the centre of the room.

His palm hit my chest—not hard, just enough to send a message. The group whooped, some raising imaginary scorecards.

"Ananya, I’m late, but lagta hai bilkul sahi waqt pe aaya hoon," he said, not even glancing at me.

His attention was only for Ananya, his smile softening. The group watched, breathless, as if a love story was about to bloom.

I looked at my wife. She actually looked a little shy, lowering her head. "It’s fine."

She bit her lower lip, a blush rising. Her friends giggled, nudging each other.

Kabir pressed close to me, smirking. "Kuch kehna hai mujhse?"

He leaned in, his Park Avenue aftershave sharp in the air. The challenge was clear.

"No. I just got a call from home—my mother had a heart attack. The hospital said ambulances are all out. We need to drive her ourselves—"

My voice shook, every word a struggle. I could almost hear Ma calling out, her voice faint.

Kabir’s sarcasm was as sharp as a blade. "Wah, timing dekho! Tumhare gharwale bhi na... har baar perfect drama."

The group erupted in laughter. The girl with Ananya’s phone in her kurti chimed in, "Haan, kabhi bhi aa jaate hain, inki mummy ki tabiyat kharab ho jaati hai."

She grinned, the others echoing her words, as if it was a running joke. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palm.

"You—" I began, but a sudden shout cut me off.

The air thickened, everyone waiting for the next move.

"Bas! Tumhe bolne ka haq nahi hai!" Kabir barked. "Don’t go yet. I have something to show you."

His authority filled the room, the crowd’s eyes glued to us like vultures circling prey.

I’d had enough. I shoved him aside and dashed for the door.

My shoulder hit his arm, but he barely moved. I sprinted, every muscle tight with fear.

But when I flung open the door, I was stunned. Two security guards stood outside, arms folded, moustaches twitching. This was no party—this was a trap.

"Lock the door. No one in or out," Kabir commanded.

The click of the lock echoed, final and inescapable. I was trapped, a caged animal on display.

"Ananya!" I shouted, voice breaking. "A life is on the line. What are you trying to do?"

My voice cracked, my anger raw. Even the neighbours would have heard, but inside, nobody cared. Their loyalty was to Ananya, not me.

"What am I trying to do? For once, I want to be myself." Her eyes filled with tears. "I’ve been married to you for almost two years. Tell me honestly—haven’t I been a good wife? But what have I got in return?"

The tears were real, streaking her kajal. Her voice shook, the pain of old wounds surfacing. Her friends rushed to her, offering tissues, murmuring support.

That question left me speechless.