Chapter 3: The Dinner Table Battlefield

That night, I went out drinking with friends for the first time in years, letting the city’s neon lights and Kishore Kumar songs drown out the storm at home. Meera’s calls went unanswered until I switched off my phone, relishing the rare peace that followed.

For once, she was the one waiting up for me. When I stumbled in, she sat cross-legged on the sofa, her face bathed in the blue light of her phone. I waved away her glass of water, muttering, “Chhodo, I’m fine,” and collapsed into bed, ignoring her rules about outside clothes.

For the first time in ages, I slept soundly, not caring about her routines or moods.

After that day, Meera began fussing over me—aloo parathas in the morning, the whistling of the pressure cooker, her humming old film songs in the kitchen. She packed me tiffins, sent WhatsApp messages, even wrote notes on napkins: “Don’t forget to eat, Arjun!” The office boys teased me, “Wah bhai, badi lucky ho!”

It was as if she was trying to prove something through her actions, but there was a tightness underneath, a sense that she was acting out a part.

Then came today. I left work early—Meera wanted to try a new Italian place. She sent the location, peppered with pizza and heart emojis. For a moment, I let myself hope.

I even picked up marigolds from a roadside vendor, thinking she’d like the surprise.

But when I arrived, Kabir and Meera walked in together, laughing as if I was invisible. The flowers in my hand suddenly felt foolish.

Kabir apologized, “Sorry to crash your date. I just happened to be nearby and always wanted to try this place. Hope you don’t mind?” His words were smooth, but his eyes were challenging.

“Not at all,” I replied, my voice flat.

Kabir insisted, “I’ll treat, to make up for it.” The waiter hovered, sensing the tension. Kabir flashed a sly grin: “Meera gave me that suit last time, haven’t thanked her yet.”

I glanced at Meera. She looked away, tucking her hair behind her ear, fidgeting with her dupatta.

Meera tried to sound casual: “It really was just a coincidence. Kabir isn’t an outsider—more people, more fun.” But her hands twisted her earrings, her voice dropping as if masking jealousy with irritation.

Kabir grinned, patting Meera’s shoulder, “See how nervous you are? Arjun and I have known each other for years. What’s wrong with a meal together?” Meera quickly shrugged off his hand, glancing at me for my reaction.

She snapped, “Just talk, don’t randomly pat me.” Her eyes were sharp, her tone brittle. For once, it seemed like she was aware of how this looked.

Kabir raised his eyebrows, trying to play it cool. “Alright, let’s order. My treat—order anything.”

Meera opened her phone to order, pretending to focus, but kept glancing at me, waiting for a reaction. Kabir leaned in, their heads nearly touching, as if nothing had changed.

It was like watching a play I’d seen a hundred times—too close, too familiar. My stomach twisted. For a moment, I felt like a third wheel in my own marriage.

As they laughed and chatted, Kabir said, “Arjun, see anything else? Let Meera add it for you.” His tone was patronizing. I forced a smile.

I cleared my throat, my voice steady: “Hang on.” For the first time, I decided to change the script.

I waved to a woman at the entrance—a slim figure in a long kurta. Sneha spotted me, weaving through the tables, her silver bangles jingling. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, giving a small namaste.

I pulled out a chair for her. “No worries, we just finished ordering. See if you want to add anything?”

Meera’s lips pressed into a thin line as Sneha sat, the mood at the table shifting instantly. Meera’s hands fidgeted with her dupatta, her eyes hard.

“Who is this?” Meera asked, voice artificially sweet, her gaze drilling into me.

“She’s my colleague, Sneha,” I replied, calm as ever.

Sneha smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Hello, everyone. I’m Arjun bhaiya’s colleague. He’s always looking out for me. I see him as my big brother.”

Meera scooted closer, grabbing my hand under the table, holding on tightly, as if to mark her territory.

The waiter brought our food, the aroma of oregano and cheese battling with the tension. Kabir served Meera her favourite, slicing her pizza just the way she liked. Meera accepted it without a word, her eyes flickering with discomfort.

Sneha struggled with her pasta, so I swapped mine with hers. She blushed, murmuring, “Thank you, bhaiya.”

Meera’s tone was pointed: “Miss Sneha, Arjun’s just a nice guy, considerate to everyone. Always getting misunderstood.” Her sarcasm was thick, her eyes cold.

Sneha replied with poise, “That just means Arjun bhaiya is too charming.” She leaned in, her words playful but pointed. “Bhabhi, at work, everyone says he’s handsome and a great family man.”

Meera forced a smile. “Really?” Her voice was icy, lips tight.

Sneha glanced at Kabir. “But compared to the guy next to you, Arjun bhaiya’s a bit behind. Look at him—throughout this whole meal, his eyes never left you.”

Kabir coughed, looking away. Meera’s cheeks flushed, the words landing with a thud.

The rest of the meal passed in awkward silence, every gesture heavy with meaning. Sneha left first, her scent of mogra lingering. Kabir offered to drive us, but I jingled my keys, making it clear I’d handle my own wife.

He asked Meera, “Want to go for another round?” She shook her head, pulling me away.

In the car, Meera started interrogating: “Who exactly is this Sneha?” Her hands twisted her earrings, voice cracking with jealousy disguised as anger.

“Colleague,” I said, not meeting her eyes.

“You treat a colleague that well? Serving food, pouring water?”

“I’m just being polite. Besides, isn’t Kabir even more attentive to you?”

She looked away, speechless. For the first time, I felt like I’d won, if only by default.