Chapter 4: The Night That Changed Everything

After divorcing her ex-husband, she brought her daughter Riya back to Pune. A divorced woman with a child and no man around, she could only trouble me to help her rent a flat and find a job…

I still remember the day she landed at Pune Station—hair tied in a loose plait, Riya clutching her hand, a battered suitcase beside them. In India, a divorced woman’s arrival is always marked by whispers. I ignored the neighbours’ stares as I helped them into my car, the trunk barely closing over their luggage.

At first, I was very careful about boundaries, since I was a married man. But gradually, I grew more relaxed and familiar with Meera, like in college. And Meera’s unintentional vulnerability and helplessness made me want to protect her for a lifetime.

I would bring over dabbas of homemade food, give her lifts after work, help Riya with her homework. The first time she called me late at night—"There’s a lizard on the kitchen wall!"—I laughed, remembering how she’d always been scared of small things, brave about the big ones. My wife noticed, of course, but said nothing at first. In our house, silence was safer than suspicion.

At first, I perfunctorily reassured my wife that I was just helping an old friend. But gradually, I spent more and more time with Meera, and less and less time at home. Every time my wife called, I would brush her off, saying, “I’m working late at the office.”

The lies piled up like unpaid bills. I hated myself, but the pull was too strong. Meera’s loneliness mirrored my own, and we clung to each other in quiet moments—the world outside reduced to a background hum of duty and regret.

Until my wife came to the LIC office and saw me and Meera embracing in the parking garage, and all my lies were exposed. She slapped me twice in fury and screamed hysterically:

The sound echoed in the concrete parking lot, a sound that still stings in my ears. I saw the watchman, Sharmaji, look away awkwardly, pretending not to see. My wife’s bangles clattered to the floor as she raised her hand again, but stopped, defeated by her own pain.

“Who is this woman? Rakesh! Why did you lie to me!”

My furious wife and Meera, who was hiding in my arms with concern, formed a sharp contrast. A thought suddenly arose in my mind: Why can’t I divorce and be with Meera?

For one mad moment, I imagined a life with Meera—no secrets, no hiding, just us and the children. But the weight of old promises, family honour, my son—everything pulled me back. This is India, after all. People don’t just walk away from marriages.

But I quickly dismissed the idea. It was my wife who, despite my struggles, insisted on marrying me. It was also my father-in-law who helped me with connections and money, so I could achieve what I have today. Besides, we already had a son, Aryan. How could I abandon my wife for a fleeting temptation? First love is just that, and I had already crossed the line.

I remembered how my father-in-law had paid my first month’s rent when I started working, how my wife had pawned her gold chain for Aryan’s school admission. Guilt, like an old friend, settled in my chest.

I went home, folded my hands, head bowed, begging her to forgive me the way a child asks his mother for a second chance. That day, my wife cried for a long time. In the end, she agreed to forgive me, but covered her face and muttered, “How could I have been so blind to fall for you…?”

Her words cut deeper than any slap. I folded my hands, promising never to stray again. In our house, forgiveness was a ritual—repeated, never quite complete.

But she couldn’t resist her own heart. She still loved me. I apologised to Meera and painfully deleted all her contact information, but for some reason, I didn’t block her. I went back to being a good husband and father. Our family was as harmonious as before, just a bit quieter.

Meals became silent affairs; Aryan studied more, spoke less. Sometimes my wife would look at me with a sadness I couldn’t touch. The radio played old songs, but no one sang along.

But soon after, while tidying up the study, my wife found the 365 love letters I wrote to Meera in college, which I had carefully kept. She was agitated, had a congenital heart attack, and my son and I rushed her to the hospital. But on the way, Meera called me. On the phone, her voice trembled, sounding pitiful:

The letters, tied with a red ribbon, spilled across the desk like spilled secrets. My wife’s face turned ashen, her breath short. "Paani lao," Aryan cried, but I was already lifting her in my arms, racing down the stairs, praying it was not too late.

“Rakesh, can you come over? Someone’s knocking at my door, I’m home alone, I’m scared.”

Hearing this, I gasped in panic. Images of two recent robberies in the colony flashed through my mind, and my heart sank. In that instant, I almost couldn’t control myself and wanted to rush to Meera’s side. But my son Aryan was holding my unconscious wife in the back seat. Through the rearview mirror, I saw Aryan’s tear-streaked face and my wife’s pale complexion, and could only grit my teeth and say into the phone:

Even now, I can remember Aryan’s voice breaking as he pleaded with me, "Papa, jaldi chalo!" But duty, love, guilt—everything tangled inside me, and I hesitated, the car idling at the red light.

“Sorry, I have something to do. Lock yourself in your bedroom and call the police.”

I steadied myself and continued speeding to the hospital.

The air in the car felt thick, every honk outside an accusation. Aryan stroked his mother’s hair, whispering, “Mummy, please don’t leave me.”

“Ah…Rakesh, I’m scared…”

A scream came from the phone.

“Rakesh, don’t you want me anymore? If something happens to me today, will you remember me forever, sob sob…”

Her voice, usually so strong, was trembling. I tried to shut it out, but it echoed in my ears—old love, new duty, all fighting for a place in my heart.

Through the phone, I could even hear the pounding on Meera’s door. Every bang struck my heart.

I saw Aryan watching me, his eyes wild, not understanding why I wasn’t driving faster. In that moment, I hated myself.

“……”

I slammed on the brakes, stopped the car by the roadside, got out, and opened the rear door. “Aryan, take your mother out. I’ll call an auto for you. You take her to the hospital first, I’ll come right after.”

My tone was urgent; I didn’t even dare look at Aryan’s eyes.

My hands shook as I dialed for the auto. In the background, Aryan pleaded, "Papa, don’t leave us!" I forced myself not to listen.

“You’re going to see that woman again? The one whose life is in danger now is your wife!”

Aryan shouted at me in disbelief. I looked up, deliberately ignoring Aryan’s tear-streaked face, and tried to reason with him:

His fists balled up, knuckles white. I felt the whole world watching me through his eyes—every wrong choice, every broken promise.

“I’ve already called an auto for you. Your Aunty Meera is in danger too. Aryan, this is about lives, be understanding.”

I knew I was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t let anything happen to my moon, or I’d regret it forever.

In our country, we have a saying: "Pehla pyaar bhoolta nahi koi." I wondered if that was my curse.

We were at an impasse for three minutes. Seeing that I was determined not to drive, Aryan numbly carried his mother out of the car.

His footsteps on the pavement sounded heavier than the night. I watched him go, part of me wanting to run after, but I didn’t.

“Is the auto really coming soon?”

I was anxious, ignored Aryan’s increasingly cold gaze, got in the car, and sped off with a heavy heart. At that moment, my worry for Meera had surpassed my worry for my wife. I subconsciously comforted myself: my wife’s old illness—it should be fine.

I pressed my foot to the accelerator, every bump in the road a reminder of what I was leaving behind. I promised myself I’d make it up to Aryan someday. But some debts can’t be paid.

I rushed to Meera’s flat and knocked anxiously. Meera opened the door and threw herself into my arms, her body carrying her gentle fragrance. To my surprise, I felt a sense of joy at regaining something lost. It turned out to be a false alarm; a drunken man from upstairs had knocked on the wrong door. Meera and I hugged and, muddle-headed, ended up in bed together. At that moment, all thoughts of family and morality were thrown away, replaced by the excitement of regaining what was lost.

The flat was still, the world outside distant. I let go of everything—wife, son, duty. It was only Meera, only now.

Until Meera undid my belt and knelt down. Suddenly, my phone rang, breaking the mood.

The ringtone—Aryan’s number. My heart stopped.

“Mummy didn’t make it. She passed away five minutes ago.”

On the phone, Aryan’s calm, emotionless voice struck my eardrums. My wife was gone.

His words sounded cold, but I knew the pain behind them. In that moment, the world crashed in—no amount of love, no amount of regret could change what had happened.