Chapter 5: The Final Goodbye

"Sit."

Inside the office, Arjun greeted me like a guest.

The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and air-freshener. It was a world away from the cluttered chaos of our old flat.

I looked at the sofa, now piled with cute soft toys. The bookshelf that once held books was filled with snacks. The door to the private lounge was ajar, and through the gap, I could see women’s clothes tossed at the foot of the bed.

Every corner of the room screamed Priya’s presence – her perfume lingering in the air, her laughter echoing in the softness of the toys.

Arjun watched me, his expression unreadable. I felt uncomfortable and looked away.

He looked at me with a mixture of pity and curiosity, as if waiting for me to break down.

"The agreement?"

He handed me the divorce agreement from his desk. As I read, his gaze never left me.

His fingers tapped impatiently on the desk, the sound sharp in the silence.

"We’ve been together so many years—I won’t shortchange you. You can choose any car or house you want. If you have other requests, just say so."

Was this supposed to be compensation?

I almost laughed at the irony. As if money could buy back lost years or heal old wounds.

That was the only thought that flashed through my mind, but it didn’t slow my reading at all.

My eyes scanned the paper quickly – legal jargon interspersed with cold facts. Our entire life together, reduced to lines on a page.

What Arjun was offering me, I couldn’t spend in several lifetimes. He’d always been generous about these things.

But I didn’t want anything more. Material comfort meant nothing compared to peace of mind.

"No need. This is enough. Also, the flat I’m living in now—just give it to me."

I spoke up. I quickly signed, then handed it back to Arjun.

The scratch of the pen felt like a full stop at the end of a long, painful chapter.

He seemed to want to say something more. I saw his mouth open, then close as I moved.

There was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but he swallowed it, jaw clenched.

He watched as I handed the agreement over, looking almost incredulous that the whole process had taken less than five minutes.

Maybe he expected tears or accusations, but I was done giving him that satisfaction.

I stood up.

My back was straight, head held high. I wouldn’t let him see me crumble.

"There’s a one-month cooling-off period. I’ll contact you after a month."

I turned to leave.

The urge to look back was strong, but I resisted. There was nothing left for me here.

"Meera."

His voice was softer this time, almost unsure.

"Anything else?"

"Don’t you have anything to say to me?"

Arjun frowned, a hint of confusion and disbelief in his tone.

It was almost as if he was hoping for one last dramatic scene, something to prove I still cared.

I looked at him, seeing he was genuinely asking. After thinking for a moment, I replied seriously,

"At this point, you don’t expect me to wish you and Priya a happy marriage and lots of kids, do you?"

My tone was dry, my eyes steady. I’ve let go, but I’m not that generous.

...

He was speechless. Arjun looked at me, his gaze deep and unreadable.

For once, the silence between us felt final – no more words left to say.

As I put my hand on the doorknob, his voice sounded behind me again.

His words hung in the air, hesitant, almost regretful.

"Meera, in the end, it’s me who wronged you. I’ll always take care of your mother’s medical bills."

At the mention of my mum, I paused.

Her name was the only thing that could still break me. The thought of her, alone and fragile, kept me up at night.

If anyone was most unwilling for me and Arjun to divorce, it was my mum.

She adored Arjun – saw him as the son she never had. She’d light a diya for our marriage every Thursday, even when things got bad.

Arjun and I had struggled together since we were seventeen. During the hardest times, we’d share a single tiffin, and he’d pick out all the paneer for me. In the freezing winter, Arjun drove an auto-rickshaw to take passengers and save money. He was always reluctant to spend on himself, but he bought me a ring.

Sometimes, when we had only five hundred rupees left, he’d insist on buying me kulfi after dinner, saying, "Zindagi ka maza choti khushiyon mein hai, Meera."

"It’s just a plain band now, but I’ll get you a bigger, brighter diamond someday."

He’d said it with such conviction, I almost believed him. I wore that thin gold ring every day, twisting it absently during exams and job interviews.

We once lived in a tiny rented apartment. There was no geyser in winter, so we’d heat water on the gas stove. In summer, when it was too hot, Arjun took me to sleep in the park under the banyan tree.

We’d lie there, counting stars, the city’s lights flickering through the leaves. Sometimes, a stray dog would come sniffing around and Arjun would shoo it away, laughing.

My mum saw all of this. She felt sorry for me and sold everything she had to help Arjun start his business.

She pawned her bangles and even her old wedding saree, all so Arjun could take a loan and start something of his own. She never once complained.

When he made his first big profit, he bought a spacious flat in the city centre, with 24-hour power backup and AC. In front of my mum, he swore he’d be good to me forever.

She cried quietly, pressing her hands together in gratitude, blessing us for happiness and success. For a while, it felt like all her prayers had worked.

My mum was moved to tears and only said one thing:

"You two must be happy in the future."

Her voice echoed in my memory, a blessing now turned into a silent plea.

I was once full of hope, thinking life would be good.

I had dreams of travel, a family, lazy Sunday breakfasts and Diwali lights strung across our balcony.

But in just two or three years, everything changed beyond recognition. Arjun cheated. My mum got cancer. Her treatment cost lakhs every year. If it weren’t for Arjun’s support, I might have lost her long ago.

Some nights, as I watched her sleep after a round of chemo, I’d thank Arjun in my heart, even as I hated him for everything else.

But now…

"No need to trouble you. Thank you."

I politely ended the conversation and left.

I walked away with a sense of finality – one chapter closing, another waiting to begin.