Chapter 2: The Call and the Cooling-Off

The day I agreed to the divorce was just an ordinary afternoon.

It was that kind of hot, sticky Delhi afternoon when even the crows can’t be bothered to caw. The fan whirred above, tired and groaning, as I stared at my phone for too long before finally dialling Meera’s number. Sunlight slanted in, falling on the old sofa where her scarf still lay folded from months ago.

I dialled Meera's number, but Arjun picked up.

"Hello?"

"Meera se baat karni hai."

"Woh shower mein hai, boss. Kuch kaam hai toh bol do, I’ll tell her."

His tone was cocky, full of that careless Mumbai confidence, a faint pride seeping through the phone.

I could picture him—Ray-Bans indoors, branded T-shirt, lounging on my old sofa. The old me would have lost it, but now, I just closed my eyes, feeling the anger fizz away like the last bubbles in a warm Thums Up.

But now, I knew very well that only Arjun could reach her.

I couldn't let her hang up on me like before, leaving me alone like a madman.

It was almost funny, really—how things change. Once, she’d drop everything for my call. Now, I was just another name, a story she’d rather skip.

"Didn’t she say earlier she wanted a divorce? I agree."

My voice sounded steadier than I felt. The words sat there, cold, like saying ‘chalo’ at the end of a fight, when both sides know it’s over.

Arjun went silent for a second, then repeated in disbelief,

"Tu maan gaya? Divorce ke liye?"

"Haan."

Some shuffling followed—

The phone must have been handed to Meera.

Soon, her pleasant yet distant voice sounded in my ear.

"Haan, main hoon."

I knew.

Hearing her voice, I felt a bit dazed.

Her voice still did that thing—soft but with a sharp edge, like when you touch broken glass. I wanted to ask if she still put extra adrak in her chai, but the words just wouldn’t come.

After all, ever since she left the flat half a year ago to be with Arjun,

we hadn't contacted each other at all.

It was strange—months of silence, and still her voice was both familiar and foreign. In the background, I caught the hiss of a pressure cooker and the faint sound of a Hindi serial. She had a new life now, and I was no longer part of its soundtrack.

The last thing she’d said to me back then was:

"Kabir, let's get a divorce. Agar tu nahi maanega, toh main alag ho jaungi, phir case file karungi."

Now, half a year later, I gave in.

I remembered her packing her suitcase—hands trembling, eyes dry. She didn’t look back, not even once.

"Arjun ne bola tum divorce chahte ho?"

Seeing my silence, Meera spoke first.

I pictured her—lips pursed, eyebrows knit, one hand fidgeting with her watch. Always trying to be the sensible one, even while walking away.

I really didn't understand where her confusion came from.

Wasn’t it she who brought up the divorce?

But I didn’t want to argue about who started it.

I gave a quiet hum.

Told her, "Agar time hai, milke agreement sign kar lete hain."

After saying this, I hung up the phone.

I let the silence stretch, like the last echo of a Kishore Kumar song fading on the radio.

For the first time since she left, it was me who ended the call. The silence tasted different—almost like freedom.