Chapter 3: Ultimatums and Confessions

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My mind raced through five years—the laughter, the fights, the compromises. Had I really given her nothing?

We dated three years, married two. She wanted to know what she’d got out of five years together.

I remembered our first walk by Marine Drive, her laughter ringing out over the waves. Five years ago felt like a different life.

Seeing my silence, she got more agitated.

Her voice rose, trembling with frustration. The crowd leaned in, drawn to the spectacle.

"Rohan, sach sach batao. Am I materialistic? Maangi hai kabhi latest phone ya designer bag?

Apni jawaani, apni zindagi—sab kuch shaadi ko de diya. But do you know what I really want? Nahi, because you never cared.

Rohan, aaj sab kuch bol doongi. If I could do it over, I’d say to hell with marriage, to hell with family."

She broke down, sobbing, head buried in her hands. Her friends hugged her, whispering, "Don’t cry, yaar, you’re strong."

Her outburst left me lost.

I stood rooted, shame burning in my chest. I looked at her, at the crowd, at my trembling hands. How did we come to this?

Honestly, I was the one who chased her. I loved her. I still do, after five years.

I remembered saving up for her favourite perfume, surprising her with roadside chaat on rainy evenings. Love wasn’t the problem. But somewhere, I’d lost the thread.

Honestly, she’s not materialistic. She never asked for the latest phone or luxury bags.

Her wishes were always simple—a movie, a night walk, sometimes a book. But I’d tried to buy her happiness, thinking gifts could fix what was broken.

But every time she casually mentioned her phone was lagging, or her bag was old, I’d buy her a new one anyway.

I thought I was being thoughtful, but maybe she just wanted me to listen, to understand what she actually needed.

Honestly, she did give everything to marriage and to me—but wasn’t that because she didn’t have a job? Her parents always told her to find something, even an easy desk job, but she never listened.

Her family would call, asking if she was applying anywhere. She’d brush them off, saying she wanted to focus on our home. I never pushed her—maybe I should have.

But truthfully, right now, if I could choose again, I’d also say to hell with marriage.

The weight of five years pressed down on me, crushing old dreams and hopes. Maybe we were both just pretending, clinging to a fantasy already dead.

My silence gave Ananya confidence. She looked around. "You’ll all protect me, right?"

Her friends closed in, hands on her shoulders, nodding fiercely. "We’re with you, Ananya!" one declared, voice wobbling.

Except for one short girl, the other classmates dabbed at their eyes, hugging Ananya, murmuring, "Love yourself bravely."

The short girl, spectacles slipping, watched with doubt and concern. I caught her eye—just for a moment, I felt less alone.

I was speechless.

Everything felt surreal, as if I’d wandered into someone else’s life, watching my own humiliation from afar.

With someone’s life at stake—her own mother, no less—she still had time to be moved by all this?

The irony stung. If it had been my mother in the hospital, Ananya would have moved mountains. Or so I’d thought.

Kabir’s voice boomed, righteous and self-important. "How could someone like him tarnish the title of ‘mother’? Ananya, you’re a good woman. If I were you, I’d never put up with this."

I wanted to scream, to beg—anything to make her believe me. But all I managed was a hoarse whisper.

"Thank you. Maybe I’m just too soft."

She wiped her eyes, hands trembling as she regained composure. Her friends clucked their tongues, nodding.

Kabir reached out, as if to take her hand. The group held its breath.

"Don’t say that."

She pulled her hand back, voice soft, almost playful—but her voice cracked before she forced herself steady.

"You deserve a better man."

Kabir’s eyes gleamed, a smug smile on his lips. Someone at the back muttered, "Wah wah, hero ban gaya."

"Don’t say that."

She said it, but her eyes told another story. The whole scene was like an Ekta Kapoor serial.

Ananya covered her face and cried, her hands trembling.

Her shoulders shook, muffled sobs escaping. The room seemed to shrink, everyone drawn into the drama.

"What is this, an audition for a tragic heroine?" I said, words slipping out sharper than I meant. The room fell silent, shocked.

She looked up, shocked. "How could you say that?"

Her eyes blazed, fresh tears streaking her face. Her friends gasped, clutching each other.

"What else can I say? The title of ‘mother’ is so noble, but isn’t a mother’s life just as precious? The golden rescue window for a heart attack is 120 minutes. You’ve wasted 30 already. It takes 20 minutes to get home, another 20 to the hospital. Keep this up, and your great mother will be gone."

My voice was cold, every word meant to cut. The weight of time pressed on me like an iron hand.

Ananya laughed, brittle and hysterical. It echoed strangely in the quiet.

"Rohan, your precious mother is dying, right? You want to be a hero, save your mom, right? Fine. Prove your love for me, and I’ll let you go. I’ll still be your good wife."

Her words dripped with venom, the crowd buzzing with excitement.

"Classmates, how should he prove it?"

She scanned the room, inviting suggestions like a game show host. The mood turned feverish.

The crowd closed in, suggestions flying.

Ideas were thrown rapid-fire, each more outrageous than the last. Someone slapped the table, laughing.

"Chaat Ananya ki chappal."

A guy in a red shirt cackled, holding up her chappal as if it was a trophy.

"Strip and sing a song for us."

A girl hooted, covering her mouth, eyes shining with mischief.

"Let Ananya ride piggyback for three laps."

Someone howled, another covered her face, even the Thums Up guy looked away, embarrassed.

Each idea got wilder, the crowd feeding on the humiliation.

"Ananya, step on this fruit plate and make him eat it."

A girl with hennaed hands offered a sticky mango plate.

"Drink this whisky—after Ananya spits in it."

The bottle was thrust at me, uncapped, reeking of cheap liquor.

"Carve her name into your stomach with a fruit knife."

This one drew nervous laughter, the group unsure if it was a joke or a dare.

The reunion had become a circus, and I was the only act left.

She was loving it, soaking up the attention.

Ananya sat back, arms spread, chin high. For the first time, she looked truly happy.

"Ananya, we’ve given you so many ideas. You decide."

Someone handed her a chappal, someone else a glass of whisky. The spotlight was hers.

She looked at me. "You pick."

Her eyes bore into mine, daring me to refuse. I felt the last of my pride slip away.

I...

I hesitated, words stuck in my throat. How could I choose between my dignity and my mother’s life?

What was I supposed to pick?

The crowd pressed in, chanting, "Pick! Pick! Pick!" like schoolkids.

Seeing my hesitation, she sat on the sofa, stretched out a foot. "If you won’t choose, I’ll choose for you."

She slipped off her chappal and propped her foot up, nail polish chipped. The air was thick with anticipation.

Two men shoved me in front of her.

Their hands gripped my arms, steering me like a puppet. I stumbled, barely upright.

"Chaat meri chappal. Tabhi maanungi pyaar hai."

Her voice was triumphant, eyes glittering. The crowd leaned in, hungry for spectacle.

"Pagal ho gayi ho?"

My voice was a whisper, but it cut through the hush. Even the fan seemed to slow down, waiting.

"Nahi karna?"

Ananya cocked her head, genuinely puzzled. Her friends jeered, “Yeh bhi nahi kar sakta pyaar ke liye?”

"Ananya, do you even know what time it is?"

I glanced at the clock, hands crawling towards midnight. My mind raced—ambulances, Ma’s faint voice, every second slipping away.

"No more talking. Just say if you’ll do it or not."

Her tone was final, the crowd cheering her on.

"You really are crazy."

I shook my head, disbelief giving way to anger. How had things become so twisted?

It wasn’t as if I didn’t know Ananya had a princess complex.

Her moods were legendary—she’d sulk for hours, demand attention like a queen. Her friends called her 'Rajkumari', and she wore it proudly.

Because of work, I’d travelled all over India researching amusement parks.

My job took me from Adlabs Imagica to dusty fairs in Lucknow. I’d seen all kinds of rides—and all kinds of people.

That’s where I met Ananya.

At a water park in Hyderabad, she was shrieking with laughter, splashing her friends. I’d been captivated instantly.

She was in a pink swimsuit, on a raft, hair streaming, eyes sparkling. Fearless, full of life—the opposite of me.

So many parks, so many girls, but I fell for her at first sight.

Maybe it was her confidence, her way of making everyone feel special. Or maybe it was just fate, playing a cruel joke.

In life, she really is a princess. She has a temper, throws fits, sulks at me for no reason.

She once threw a tantrum because I forgot her gajar ka halwa. Another time, she ignored me for a week because I called her ‘bossy’ in front of her cousin.

But I liked it. Maybe indulging her led us here.

I let her have her way, thinking it was harmless. I never saw how deep the rot had gone.

Just to show off in front of these old classmates, she’d sell me out without a second thought.

I stared at her, trying to find the girl I fell for. All I saw was someone desperate to be queen of this kingdom.

Is this really the person I want to spend my life with?

I didn’t have an answer. Just emptiness.