Chapter 4: Cold Wars and Family Ties

Back home, Meera’s nakhra began—moving around the house as if I was invisible, slamming cupboards, letting her presence chill the air. She made tea in the morning, sliding my cup across the table without a word, the TV serial blaring in the background as she ignored me.

Her silence was sharper than any argument—a weapon she wielded with skill.

I remembered her birthday two years ago. I’d spent weeks picking a designer handbag from Myntra, only for her to pout and stay silent, lips pressed in disappointment. She wouldn’t even open the gift. My apologies went unanswered until finally, she snapped, “I don’t like the colour.”

I offered to exchange it, but she accused me of not caring, not listening—her words stung deeper than any fight. She stormed out, slamming the door. The echo haunted me all night, her absence heavier than silence.

She ignored my calls, my WhatsApp messages. I drove around looking for her, desperate. Late that night, I saw her Instagram story—celebrating with Kabir and their group, blowing out candles, her face smeared with cake and joy. The exact bag I’d bought was on her arm, with the caption: “The most handsome man is the one who puts in the effort.”

She ignored me for days, the silence at home suffocating. Only after a dozen apologies and a bouquet of lilies did she finally relent.

But this time, I refused to chase. I wouldn’t apologise for things I hadn’t done.

A few days later, her parents invited us for dinner. The drive was silent, her face a thundercloud.

Her mother noticed immediately, fussing with her pallu as she scolded Meera gently: “Are you being stubborn again? Arjun stayed here for you, working and buying a flat. Don’t always lose your temper with him.”

Her father patted my back: “Arjun, tum jaise damaad har kisi ko nahi milte. Bahut achha ladka hai.”

Meera softened, her eyes shining with apology, though her lips stayed in a pout.

The doorbell rang. Her mother went to answer, calling, “It’s Kabir—have you eaten yet?”

The mood in the house shifted instantly as Kabir walked in, dropping his bag on the sofa, helping himself to water, joking with her parents. The warmth in the room was unmistakable, the gap between me and the family suddenly huge.

Kabir grinned, “I heard Meera was coming, so I came to ask her out.”

Meera shook her head, “No, we have plans after dinner.” Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic.

Kabir pleaded, “We haven’t all hung out in ages. Ritu and the others are here too—they want to see you.” Meera hesitated, looking at me, almost reaching for my hand.

I avoided her gaze, staring at my plate. Kabir caught on, inviting me too, “Arjun, come with us. We all grew up together—all Meera’s friends.”

His voice was polite, but his eyes held a challenge. My in-laws just smiled, “You young people should get together more.” Her father poured more chai, oblivious to the tension.

Kabir hugged her parents, “Uncle, Aunty, you’re still young—join us!” Everyone laughed, even Meera’s mother, hiding her giggle behind her dupatta.

For a moment, I felt like an intruder, the outsider in my own marriage. The ache in my chest was a silent weight.

I stood up. “You all go ahead. I’m tired—heading home first.”

Meera called after me, her voice small, “Drive safe. I’ll come home early.”

There was a pause, a question in her eyes. But I just nodded and left, the night air outside finally cool on my skin.