Chapter 1: The Video and the Call

I came across a street interview by a popular blogger.

The video popped up on my Instagram feed just as I sipped my evening chai, steam curling up and mingling with the kitchen’s aroma of cardamom. From the kitchen, Amma called out, "Meera, chai thanda ho jayega!" while the family WhatsApp group pinged with forwarded good morning messages. The faint honk of autos and distant shouts of a sabziwala on the street below filtered into the living room. That familiar feeling crept in—idle curiosity blending with a strange, bone-deep anticipation, as if I already sensed what was coming.

"What would you like to say to yourself from five years ago?"

In the video, Arjun had his arm around his young girlfriend.

They looked like any typical Bandra couple: him in a crisp shirt, her in a flowy kurta, gold jhumkas dancing as she leaned into him. Bandra’s footpaths crowded with college kids, delivery boys weaving through, and the scent of frankincense from the roadside temple—Mumbai in every frame. The Mumbai humidity made their skin glisten, and a vendor in the background kept calling, "Nimbu pani, thanda nimbu pani!"

His tone was calm, with a hint of tenderness.

There was that gentle lilt in his voice he reserved for people he truly cared about – I remembered it well. His eyes softened as he looked at her, the kind of softness that, once upon a time, had been just for me.

"I wish the Arjun from five years ago could have met Priya sooner."

My thumb hovered uncertainly over the 'heart' button, but as Arjun said those words, my hand froze. The phone slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the sofa, shock and a wave of internal conflict flooding me.

The girl in his arms blushed, covering her mouth as she echoed softly,

"Me too."

Priya’s cheeks turned a deeper pink, and she shot him a sideways glance, her bangles clinking as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. For a moment, it almost looked like a scene from a Yash Raj film—so filmy, so perfect.

People online gushed about how sweet they were and sent their blessings.

Comments came pouring in, filled with heart emojis and those overused, sparkly GIFs of couples dancing. Some aunty-types wrote, "Aap dono hamesha khush raho," while younger ones typed, "Major couple goals yaar!" You could almost hear the collective sigh of social media’s romantic dreamers.

No one knew that five years ago was the day Arjun and I got married.

The date was carved in my memory with the permanence of sindoor—every anniversary quietly marked on the corner of my mind, even after everything else faded. Our wedding was a simple affair: marigold garlands, Amma’s old silk saree, and Arjun’s nervous smile as he fumbled with the mangalsutra. As I watched the video, my fingers absently traced the faded mehendi that still lingered on my palm, a ghost of that day’s joy.

Not even he remembered.

Until a week later.

That same blogger posted another street interview.

This time, I found myself staring at my own face on the screen, my dupatta neatly arranged, a tired confidence in my eyes. The background noise was the same—traffic, people haggling with a pani puri wala, distant temple bells.

In the footage, I looked straight into the camera and said seriously,

"If possible, Meera, don’t marry Arjun. You’ll regret it."

I remember how the air felt thick around me as I spoke those words, the weight of five years settling on my shoulders. For once, my voice didn’t shake.

This time, Arjun saw it.