Chapter 6: Divorce Papers

I slam the door, pull out the red deed to the meat shop from the top of the almirah. During the day, I’d already looked for several shopkeepers, planning to transfer the shop. Everything in the subtitles is coming true, one by one. Someone’s already searching for Kabir in the streets. If I don’t want to end up like that, I have to leave.

The weight of my decision presses on my shoulders. I can almost hear my amma’s voice in my head: "Beta, never stay in a place where your dignity is trampled." My hands shake as I sort through the yellowed papers, old receipts fluttering to the floor. The smell of camphor lingers in the wooden almirah, reminding me of prayers and old losses.

I take out paper and pen, spreading them on the table. During the day, I asked the bookshop uncle: according to current law, if husband and wife want to separate, there must be a divorce letter.*

Kabir cares most about his reputation. To keep him from clinging stubbornly, I plan to write a divorce letter first.

But I can’t write. My handwriting is ugly, ink dripping onto the paper. I don’t even know what to say.

There’s a knock at the door—twice. Kabir pushes it open, his tone indifferent: "Khana kha lo."

I don’t look up. He couldn’t even light a fire or cook at first. Luckily, he learned quickly. If it weren’t for those subtitles, I might really have thought…

The smell of jeera rice mixes with old camphor and dust, and for a second, I wonder if this is what loneliness tastes like.

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*In old India, a formal divorce letter was required for the dissolution of a marriage in some communities.