Chapter 4: The End, and the Beginning

Before the woman leaves, she’s still calling out, "I’ll send you the address, come quick."

Arjun slams the door in her face. He turns to me: "Why are you back early? Did you eat? Want something? I’ll order Swiggy."

He acts perfectly normal—not a hint of guilt. But he’s talking more than usual.

I don’t say a word.

Arjun heads to the coffee table, searching for cigarettes. Suddenly, I remember—Arjun once had a girlfriend who hated smoke, and he quit for her. When she left for her career abroad, they broke up amicably. If they hadn’t, maybe I’d never have had a chance. After that, he never quit for anyone—not for me, that’s for sure. I don’t want to breathe secondhand smoke either, so I always throw out his cigarettes.

Arjun can’t find his pack, scratches his head irritably. A few seconds later, he suddenly pulls me into his arms and kisses me. I don’t close my eyes, and see his face—like he’s marching to his execution.

I push him away. My fingers fidget with the edge of my dupatta, thumb grazing my mangalsutra. Arjun’s face turns ugly. He’s probably never been rejected by a woman before—especially not by someone as plain as me.

I demand, “Who was that woman just now?”

“What do you think?”

Impatience flashes in his eyes.

“Priya, have I spoiled you?”

“You chased me, insisted on being with me. You knew what I was like. You accepted it back then, so why are you creating a scene now?”

A flicker of old pain stirs inside me, but I let a few tears fall, smiling bitterly:

“I can accept that the person I’m chasing dates others, breaks up, dates again, and breaks up again.”

“But I never said I could accept my husband cheating.”

My tears fall. I hear the distant call of a chaiwala, and the muffled sound of the TV in a neighbour’s flat—life going on, even as mine cracks open.

Arjun’s hand trembles, his face changes. After a moment, he speaks:

“What’s the difference? If you can’t accept it, just divorce me.”

He says “divorce” as casually as “break up” with any girlfriend. He’s sure I won’t let him go, that I’ll beg him to come back—just like his exes. Maybe even more so. Once, I thought so too.

The streetlights outside flicker, like broken stars. But at four or five in the morning, they suddenly go out, making you instantly sober. Worse than Cinderella turning back at midnight—at least she was a truly kind beauty.

I speak softly: “Okay.”

Arjun is stunned. Before he can react, I continue:

“Arjun, let’s get a divorce.”

Arjun’s face turns so ugly I think he might hit me. He’s so angry he laughs: “Priya, you’re something else.”

“Don’t come crawling back to me later, chasing me like a lost puppy.”

“It’s me, Arjun, dumping you.”

As he leaves, he grabs his phone, puts it on speaker: “Send me the address again, I’ll come over!”

On the other end, club music thumps and that woman’s voice floats in: “Hurry up, my friend’s heard of you—she likes you too. The three of us can…”

Arjun leaves without looking back.

The door slams shut behind him. The wedding photo on the wall shudders—maybe, finally, we both were free.

The handsome groom and the bride—who, after expensive Photoshop, could barely pass for a little beauty—stood arm in arm, beaming. The bride gazed at the groom, eyes full of love. The groom looked at the camera, calm and a little impatient. No matter how you looked at it, they didn’t match.

But luckily, it’s over now. I let out a long sigh of relief, completely relaxed.

Actually, there’s one more thing I lied to Arjun about—my business trip wasn’t three days. It was three years!

I walk into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of chai, and listen to the distant barking of street dogs. The chai kettle whistles, steam curling up like a benediction. For the first time in years, I sip my tea alone and smile.