Chapter 4: Endings and Exits

Arjun sent Neha out. She looked a little reluctant, but didn’t argue, just glanced back at me hesitantly as she left.

Her dupatta trailed behind her, and for a moment I felt sorry for her. She was young, but she would learn—some lessons only come with heartbreak.

Arjun and I faced each other. He broke the silence first.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Our eyes met, and for the first time in years, I felt like we were truly alone.

“How long have you been planning your resignation?”

His tone was accusing, but there was a hint of curiosity too.

“Half a year.”

He raised his eyebrows, not surprised. In India, the heart always knows before the mind catches up.

“So you were ready for a divorce half a year ago, weren’t you?”

I neither confirmed nor denied it.

He let out a cold laugh. “Meera, what right do you have to ask for a divorce?”

Old wounds, old pride. In our society, the right to leave is still seen as a privilege, not a choice.

I looked at him. “Is there any point in discussing this now?”

We had already said our goodbyes in a thousand small ways over the years.

“Right, no point.”

He pulled a divorce agreement from the bottom drawer. “You can set any terms you want. Just one thing: I don’t want anyone saying Neha is a homewrecker. Our divorce must be kept secret. In fact, I don’t want anyone to know we were ever married.”

His words carried the desperation of a man trapped by his own choices. In India, secrets are kept not out of shame, but to protect what little dignity is left.

I skimmed the agreement and nodded. “No problem.”

Then I picked up the pen and added another zero to the property division. As I did, the memory of us counting coins flickered again—how distant it felt now.

I did it slowly, making sure he saw. If this was going to be a transaction, then let it be one I could walk away from.

Arjun looked at me with a mocking smile. “Meera, is money all you care about?”

His voice was softer now, almost pleading. But I couldn’t give him what he wanted.

I curled my lips. “After all these years together, you still know me best.”

The irony of it all made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

That day, I packed up and left the company. Some people were gleeful, some reluctant to see me go. The most conflicted was probably Neha. She seemed like she wanted to say something, but the relief on her face was clear.

My desk, covered with little Ganesh idols and cheap mugs, felt strangely bare as I packed my things. Outside, the office peon watched, ready to help but not wanting to get involved. The peon’s tray rattled as he passed by, and someone’s phone blared a Govinda ringtone, but nobody dared meet my eyes.

Back home, suddenly without work, I felt a bit lost—like a cat with its tail cut off, not knowing what to do with myself.

I wandered from room to room, adjusting cushions that didn’t need adjusting. The silence of the house felt heavy. Even the old wall clock seemed to tick slower. On the fridge, a faded wedding invitation peeked from behind a fridge magnet—a secret, hidden in plain sight.

In the afternoon, my assistant messaged me:

[Arjun sir was breathing fire today, even scolded the future boss lady.]

[Ms. Meera, I bet it won’t be long before he realises he’s cut off his own lifeline.]

[If you find a good opportunity, take us with you. We all want to follow you, hehe.]

I smiled and replied:

[Don’t overthink it. As long as the Prakash Infra project succeeds, the company will be fine.]

[At least your salaries and benefits are safe.]

My team was my family, and I wanted them to know I would never leave them in the lurch. Loyalty still meant something to me.

As for me—

I didn’t plan to work for a while.

For the first time in years, I let myself nap in the afternoon, the fan humming above, a faint smell of agarbatti in the air.

That evening, Ritu invited me out for drinks. Like clockwork, she asked every day.

Her persistence was almost comical—she would have dragged me out by my hair if I refused.

I replied: [Send me the address.]

The next second, she called.

“What a rare sight—the workaholic is actually taking a break? Did Arjun go bankrupt or something?”

She laughed, her voice full of mischief. I could hear the sound of clinking glasses in the background, the distant beat of Bollywood music.

Hearing her lively voice, I couldn’t help but smile.

I adjusted my earrings, suddenly feeling lighter.

“So, am I invited or not?”

“Of course! Hurry up, private room, drinks, men—we’ve got it all.”

I met Ritu because of Arjun, but unexpectedly, we became friends. She’s one of the few who knew Arjun and I were married. So when Arjun openly had an affair, she didn’t just look down on him—she dedicated herself to introducing men to me.

She was relentless, the kind of friend who would create a Shaadi.com profile for you without asking.

In her words: “If he can cheat, so can you. Who knows whose market value is higher?”

She said it with a wink, but I knew she meant every word.

When I arrived, Ritu was already having a blast, dancing and shouting with a group of six-foot-tall male models, wine glass in hand.

The bar was filled with laughter and the thump of Punjabi beats. Ritu, in her sequinned kurti, owned the room. A waiter in a Nehru jacket kept refilling our bowls with masala peanuts, and the smell of Old Monk mixed with the perfume of marigold garlands from the entrance.

“Meera, over here!”

She waved, her bangles jingling, and pushed a man towards me.

She pushed the most handsome one toward me. He played along, calling me “didi” and pouring me a drink. I smiled and downed it in one go.

The alcohol burned, but the momentary freedom tasted sweet.

“Alright, you guys go out for now.”

Ritu shooed them away, her bossiness on full display.

“What? Meera, you’re such a buzzkill.”

One of the boys pouted, but she rolled her eyes.

I rubbed my temples. “Too noisy.”

The music was making my head spin, and I just wanted a little peace.

She winked. “I thought you were shy.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do I really seem that innocent to you?”

“Of course not. That’s why I don’t get it—Arjun’s like that, why are you still loyal to him?”

Her question was blunt, but she meant well. Ritu was never one for subtlety.

Ritu was blunt to the point of exasperation.

She leaned closer, voice dropping. "No use crying over spilt milk, Meera. Time to find some fresh chai."

“He cheats, you cheat—that’s revenge.”

I shook my head. Life isn’t a balance sheet, but Ritu always saw things in black and white.

“‘Revenge’ is too strong. We’re not at that point. Besides, he cheated after we broke up.”

I kept my tone light, not wanting to go down that road.

…

“Does he admit it?”

Ritu sat up straight, eyes shining. “I think I just found the key.”

She was already plotting, and I could almost see the gears turning in her head.

I asked her what she meant, but she just acted mysterious.

She smirked, refusing to tell me. Ritu loved her secrets.

“Anyway, I mostly wanted to tell you I’m going abroad soon.”

Her words took me by surprise.

“Why, for travel? Work?”

I reached for my glass, curiosity piqued.

“School.”

“Huh?”

“I got into a business school for a master’s.”

I felt a burst of pride—she’d always been the smart one, even if she hid it behind jokes.

“What about your job? And you and Arjun…”

She shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“I already quit. As for Arjun, we agreed to go to the family court tomorrow.”

There was a finality in her voice I’d never heard before.

Reaching this point with Arjun was almost inevitable. I always thought I’d feel nothing. But when Ritu’s eyes turned red, I couldn’t help but feel a pang in my chest.

Sometimes, someone else’s tears make your own seem real.

“Is he giving you trouble again?”

“No.”

“Is he targeting you on purpose?”

“No.”

“Why are you the one resigning? If someone has to go, it should be him.”

Ritu and I drank glass after glass. She cursed Arjun, felt sorry for me, and said I deserved better.

By midnight, the both of us were leaning on each other, singing old Bollywood songs and laughing at nothing.

In this world, only love is so disproportionate between what you put in and what you get out.

I remembered my nani’s words: "Love is like a pressure cooker. Too much, and it whistles; too little, and nothing cooks."

It’s strange—two people who once loved each other, both end up feeling like they got the short end of the stick.

It was a bitter truth, but sitting with Ritu, I realised I wasn’t alone in it.