Chapter 4: Hope Flickers, Truth Revealed

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my phone screen flicker.

A faint light pulsed in the broken glass, hope sparking in my chest. I grabbed it, turning it every which way.

I juggled it, pressing every button, praying to every god I could name. My heart hammered.

The screen glitched, flickered, sometimes black, as if the display cable was loose. I tapped it, sweat beading on my forehead.

I squeezed the cracked part, and in the top left corner, a signal bar appeared.

A single bar—enough for a miracle, if only for a second. I held my breath as the screen flickered, praying harder than ever. For a second, hope flickered—then died.

Most of the screen was shattered, but a few slivers still worked—enough to see a dozen missed calls and an SOS text.

I scrolled frantically, the world narrowing to that tiny patch of screen. My fingers trembled with urgency.

"Aao, dekho Papa ne kya likha hai," I called out, voice raw, holding the phone like a lifeline.

Ananya stormed over, snatched the phone, and hurled it at me in a rage.

Her eyes were wild, mascara smudged by angry tears. The phone hit my chest, clattering to the floor, hope dying again.

"Kya nautanki hai? Kya dikhana hai?"

Her accusation was shrill, echoing off the walls. The others egged her on, “Drama baaz!”

The phone that had just come back to life went dark again, no matter what I did.

I knelt, pressing buttons in vain, the shattered screen reflecting my own broken hope.

"Turn on your phone and see what you’ve done."

I looked up at her, pleading. My voice was barely a whisper.

She laughed coldly. "Rohan, do I have to do whatever you say? With all my classmates here, you just want to humiliate me?"

Her laughter was icy, the crowd backing her with murmurs. I felt smaller than ever.

"Turn it on. If I’m lying, I’ll do everything they just said."

I threw down the gauntlet, my pride a small price for Ma’s life. The group buzzed, waiting for the showdown.

The short girl whispered, "Ananya, maybe you should check. It’s a matter of life and death. Better safe than sorry..."

Her voice was hesitant, but it pierced the tension. Some heads turned, uncertainty flickering in their eyes.

Ananya stood up, took her phone from her classmate, pointed at me. "Fine, I’ll turn it on. Remember what you said."

She held her phone high, pressing the power button with a flourish. The room watched, breathless.

She pressed the button. The white logo appeared on the black screen.

The familiar chime played, the phone waking sluggishly, as if reluctant to join the chaos.

I thought this farce would finally end. Relief washed over me. I prayed silently, promising anything to any god who would listen if Ma was still alive.

"Ananya, don’t do this to yourself." Kabir stepped over, gently took her phone, and put it in the corner fridge. "No one can force you—not even yourself."

Kabir’s gesture was theatrical, for the audience as much as Ananya. He closed the fridge with a flourish, turning the key like a melodramatic villain.

"Kabir..."

Her voice was soft, vulnerable. Some friends swooned, caught in the drama.

"Ananya, I have something to say."

He dropped to one knee, a white flower appearing as if by magic. The crowd gasped in unison.

He pulled a lily from his sleeve, petals glowing in the light—a symbol of all the promises left unfulfilled.

"Ananya, on your birthday back in college, you wanted a lily. I was so broke, I couldn’t get you anything. I was lucky—you didn’t mind, never complained. But now I realize it wasn’t luck. It’s because... you’re so good."

His words were practiced, dripping with nostalgia. The group listened, spellbound, as if it was the love story of the century.

Ananya stared, dazed, lips trembling, eyes brimming with tears. The moment hung, the world shrinking to just them.

"Ananya, do you remember before graduation, you told me you’d wait for me to marry you? At that moment, it felt like a chainsaw ripped through my heart, the pain reaching the ends of the earth. Honestly, after that day, I didn’t eat, drink, or sleep for seven days. I lost fifteen kilos. Only at death’s door did I find my fighting spirit: I had to work hard, strive, ride a rainbow cloud and come back to marry you."

His voice broke, real or fake I couldn’t tell. The crowd was silent, some wiping away tears.

I was stunned too. Even I couldn’t help but feel the power of his confession.

The fridge was just for drinks—a black metal box with a tinted glass door. I could almost see the phone’s screen flickering inside, but no sound came out.

I stared at the fridge, willing it to open, but Kabir had the key now. The phone—my only link to home—was trapped, as was I.

"Ananya, even though you’re married, I made up my mind. I’ll ignore all the world’s judgments, face the storm. I want you to know: I have everything now. Even this lounge is mine. I finally came back."

Kabir’s words rang with triumph. He gestured around, claiming his territory. The others cheered, celebrating as if he was a hero in a homecoming parade.

Ananya burst into sobs, her whole body shaking. Her friends held her, whispering comfort. It was as if they were all reliving heartbreaks of their own.

Honestly, if Kabir had said that to me, I’d probably cry too.

His words had the weight of a hundred Bollywood dialogues—the kind that make even grown men cry in a dark cinema.

But these tears should have been for the hospital. The thought burned in my chest. Ma needed me, needed us, but here we were, lost in our own drama.

"Kabir, I’m already married. Why bother?"

Ananya’s voice was muffled by tears, but clear. The group waited, breath held, for Kabir’s reply.

"Ananya, I just wanted you to know—I never forgot what you said to me, and I did it."

His voice was soft, full of hope and regret.

"Kabir, it’s too late."

She shook her head, sadness weighing down her words. The group sighed in sympathy.

"Ananya, the best time to plant a tree was ten years ago. The second best is now."

Kabir’s words hung in the air, wise and foolish. The girls murmured, "So deep, yaar."

"Kabir."

Her voice trembled, heavy with things unsaid.

"Ananya."

Kabir reached for her hand, their fingers brushing.

"Kabir."

She looked up, meeting his gaze, the connection undeniable.

"Ananya."

He smiled, eyes shining with hope. The world seemed to fade away.

"Kab—"

I cut through the moment, unable to bear it any longer.

"Enough!" I shouted, my voice cracking like thunder. The room held its breath. Ananya’s eyes met mine, and for the first time that night, I saw fear.

Everyone turned to stare, all moved and silent.

I felt every eye burning into me, their sympathy vanishing, replaced by annoyance at the interruption.

"Ananya, enough! What kind of TV drama are you putting on? If you’re not happy in our marriage, let’s get divorced. I agree. We don’t have kids, our finances are clear. We can go to the family court right now—you’ll still make it back for dinner."

My voice was hoarse, the words tumbling out. For the first time, I felt free—free of hope, free of fear.

I was fired up too. My hands shook, but not from nerves—from the strange exhilaration that comes only after everything else is lost.

Even now, I can’t understand how things got here. I thought back to the start—two people in love, ready to take on the world. Where did we go wrong?

During Holi, we’d come home from work. Ananya said her long-lost classmates were having a reunion and wanted me to join too. I’d said yes, hoping to see her smile again. Instead, I’d walked into a nightmare.

I loved her. I was willing to come, to do my part as a husband. I’d let her pick out my shirt, endured the jokes about 'ghar jamai', smiled for the endless selfies. None of it mattered now.

But how did things turn out like this—her first love shows up, and she becomes a totally different person?

I looked at her, trying to remember the girl I’d married. She was gone, replaced by a stranger.

"Why? Why do you have to treat me like this?" she asked, barely a whisper, but it cut me deeper than any shout.

I was at a loss.

For once, I had no answers, no justifications, nothing left to say. She’d already gone off with her first love, and I was the unreasonable one for suggesting divorce? The irony was almost laughable. Even now, I was the villain in her story.

"What did I do for you to treat me this way?" she pressed.

Her words echoed in the silent room, everyone watching our marriage fall apart like a scene from a tragic play.

"Ananya, let me ask you: do you still want this marriage? If you do, come home with me now and take Ma to the hospital. If not, let’s get divorced. You stay here with him, and I’ll go back and take care of Ma myself."

My voice was steady, the finality of my words hanging in the air like the last note of a funeral song. The choice was hers now, for better or worse.