Chapter 3: Rum, Rants & Red Marks

At Meera’s place, everything was chaos—movie posters, fairy lights, incense barely covering up last night’s Old Monk. The smell of last night’s incense clung to my hair, and the taste of Old Monk still coated my tongue. Here, at least, I could breathe.

My phone kept buzzing, WhatsApp pings from Arjun and memes from Meera’s group. I shoved it under a cushion. No energy to explain.

“Not answering?” Meera peered at me, anklets jingling as she crossed her legs on the divan.

I took a swig of Old Monk. The burn was sharp, but it dulled the ache in my chest. “Bas, ho gaya. No drama tonight,” I said, tossing my phone aside like it was rotten aloo.

I scolded her: “What are these sasta cigarettes? One drag and my throat’s gone.”

She grinned, wiggling her rhinestone-tipped fingers, waving the box in my face, trying to lighten the mood.

She coaxed, “Spill, yaar. Why the long face?”

I didn’t want to hide anything, but the doubt was always there: “Why doesn’t Arjun touch me?” My voice was a whisper, like saying it out loud would make it more real.

Meera’s eyes softened. “Maybe he doesn’t like women?”

I shook my head. Back in college, Arjun dated girls—never any drama, never any scandal. He was almost too good to be true.

I squinted. “Maybe he’s still hung up on my sister in London.”

Everyone in the building used to say Arjun only had eyes for my elder sister, the golden girl. Now I wondered if the old gossip was true.

This marriage—I was just a substitute. My bitterness surprised even me. Meera looked away, pretending to admire her nails.

The one who was supposed to marry Arjun was my sister, but she ran off abroad with that artist. The family WhatsApp group was a warzone for weeks, but no one asked how I felt. Typical.

Arjun was polite, never refused my requests—except that one thing. Never raised his voice, never argued. Sometimes I wished he would—at least I’d know he cared.

But whenever he ‘helped’ me, it was with that same cool, restrained look. No trace of desire, like he was just an outsider.

Does he still find me disgusting? The thought made my mind explode.

I slammed my glass down. “I’ve decided.”

Meera jumped. “Decided what?”

“Divorce.” The word hung in the air like an uninvited guest.

She grinned, “Arrey, kya faayda of good looks if the man is totally bekaar?”

What’s more, he’s still hung up on someone else. I, Priya, don’t need a man like him.

Meera teased, “You want Tinder or shaadi.com, madam?”

I rolled my eyes. “First let me divorce this one, then I’ll think.”

“All right, all right, stop drinking,” she said, dragging me to the shower, still fussing even as she rolled her eyes. She’d just gotten her nails done, so her hands scratched my neck. The next morning, I woke up with red marks—looked at myself in the mirror and laughed. What would Arjun think?

Countless messages from Arjun when I turned on my phone. I read one, then tossed the phone aside, annoyed.

Back home, I was surprised to see him. He usually left before sunrise. Today, he was still there, the house thick with the stale smell of last night’s cigarettes and something sharper—maybe regret.

He looked up, features sharp. “You’re back?” His voice was hoarse, dark circles under his eyes. He saw the marks on my neck, his pupils shrinking. I almost smirked—maybe I wanted to provoke him.

His eyes instantly dimmed. The silence was louder than any accusation.

My throat hurt from too many cigarettes, my voice croaky. I just wanted to sleep. As he opened his mouth, I waved my hand: “I was exhausted last night. I’m going upstairs.”

I’m not joking; I really intend to divorce Arjun. Already started googling lawyers. Ma would have a fit, but I didn’t care. A marriage without sexual happiness is not a marriage. I deserve better.