Chapter 3: Street Interviews and Samosas Shared

Since discovering Meera's affair, this was the first time I hung up first.

That single click—so final. The old me would have waited, hoping she’d say something, anything. This time, I let the silence be mine.

Before, it was always me bombarding her with calls and messages.

I had cursed her with the harshest words, and also pleaded with her in the most desperate voice.

I remember those nights—my phone lighting up with my own desperate messages, my voice breaking on the 99th call, neighbours throwing dirty looks when I shouted into the phone on the balcony.

But every time, Meera would snap,

"Pagal ho gaya hai kya? Shaant ho jao, phir baat karte hain."

Then she’d hang up—no mercy.

The line would die, leaving me staring at my reflection in the screen, the city’s hum outside feeling like mockery.

No matter how many times I called or messaged, she ignored me.

I wanted to let go, but whenever I thought that our years of relationship would end like this,

I couldn't control myself.

The flat felt like a prison then—the scent of her perfume on the bedsheet, lipstick stains on her old coffee cup, all mocking me, reminding me of what we’d lost.

I wanted to ask Meera—why did she betray me?

I also wanted to beg her to come back, that I would forgive her.

But after all the resentment and waiting,

Meera remained unchanged.

And I gradually became anxious and insecure, truly as she said:

Like a madman, more like a resentful man.

Somewhere, I’d lost myself. I started avoiding old friends, refusing chai invitations, living like a shadow in my own life.

I muddled through a long period like this,

immersed in this tormenting relationship.

Until three days ago.

I came across a street interview video by a vlogger named Time Capsule.

The question was: "What would you like to say to yourself five years ago?"

Some said to study hard.

Some said they wished they could spend more time with their family.

Some said their seven-years-later self was excellent and didn't let themselves down.

……

Among all these answers,

I saw Meera and her boyfriend, Arjun.

This made me believe it wasn't staged.

After all, with Meera’s current status, even top reporters would need an appointment to see her.

But this vlogger really did seem to interview random passersby.

And he interviewed Meera.

At first, Meera looked irritated by the camera.

It was Arjun, full of surprise and interest, who pushed her into it.

"Mast hai, Meera, try kar na."

He put his arm around her and coaxed.

Meera looked helpless, but gave in and agreed.

The vlogger did his spiel and asked the question.

Arjun fell into thought. Meera answered for him.

"Agar ho sake toh, kaash Meera ne Arjun ko pehle mil liya hota."

She said it with steady eyes, gripping his hand tight.

Her voice was cool, but you could hear the depth of her feelings for Arjun.

He looked at her, surprised, then smiled and echoed,

"Me too."

The city was moving all around them—rickshaws, buses, old men playing cards on the kerb—but in that moment, it was just the two of them, hand in hand, rewriting the past as if it were as easy as changing a WhatsApp status.

When I saw this video, it already had tens of thousands of likes.

Below were many people commenting:

[Wah, kya jodi hai. Dil jeet liya dono ne.]

[Arrey, asli love story hai. Ab toh humara bhi bharosa hai.]

[Itna sweet. Hamesha khush raho, dono.]

The comments came in waves. Someone wrote in Hindi, “Jodi salamat rahe!” Another said, “Dekh ke dil khush ho gaya yaar.” There was even a joke about Bollywood casting them in the next rom-com. Everyone was busy blessing them, not knowing the real story.

I stared blankly at the video.

Did Meera really like Arjun that much?

Had she forgotten?

Five years ago, we had just gotten married.

That was when our relationship was at its best.

Even though we were broke, we felt extremely happy.

We’d save up for a Sunday treat—cutting chai and two samosas, sharing both on a broken bench outside the railway station, pretending we owned the city. Those early days—splitting a vada pav for lunch, taking the last bus home together, holding hands under an umbrella in the first Mumbai rain. We had nothing, but it was enough. I wanted to shake the screen, ask her, "Meera, did you forget all that?"

And now, in the video, she said

she wished her five-years-ago self had met Arjun first.

I thought I would be as angry as usual, furious and unable to contain myself.

Then grab my phone and bombard Meera with calls and questions.

If I couldn't reach her, I would smash things in the flat and yell to vent.

But surprisingly—

This time, I just sat there motionless.

Those comments that should have stung just scrolled past like lines of code.

Then, it was as if something was drawn out and scattered in my mind.

I was surprised to find—

I actually felt nothing about Meera's behaviour.

Obsession happens in a moment, understanding also happens in a moment.

So, that was why I made the phone call earlier.

I let out a long sigh, the kind that rattles in your chest. I didn’t even feel the need to break anything. Even the chai tasted bitter but bearable. Maybe, this is what people mean by moving on.