Chapter 4: Home Truths and Digital Guilt
Because of this, I didn’t dare divorce Priya. I had to act like the ideal husband in front of her family.
Just a while ago, I’d finished washing her swollen feet, as my mother-in-law had shown me. Her toes were puffed up, the skin shiny and tight. I knelt by the bed, bucket sloshing, pressing my fingers gently into her ankles. Priya smiled, adjusting her mangalsutra and humming a faint Lata Mangeshkar tune as she folded tiny baby clothes nearby. Then she handed me the stethoscope, making me listen to the baby’s heartbeat pressed against her coconut oil-scented belly.
Looking at her tired eyes and unfamiliar, softened body, I felt a wave of impatience I couldn’t admit, even to myself. Still, I forced a smile, nodding at every kick, pretending excitement.
I couldn’t understand it. She’d been the campus beauty once. Now, just seven months pregnant, everything felt different—her body soft in new places, marked by a journey I hadn’t shared.
Yet every night, before bed, she’d ask the same question: “Rohan, I haven’t let you touch me for so long. Are you uncomfortable?”
Each time, I swallowed my frustration and put on a noble face: “For the baby’s health, what’s a little discomfort?”
She’d smile, kiss my cheek, and soon after, be snoring softly beside me. Sometimes, I used to put on my headphones to drown her out. But tonight, as soon as she fell asleep, I couldn’t wait—I pulled out my phone and messaged Neha.
I scrolled through our WhatsApp family group, thumb pausing on a photo of Priya’s godh bharai—her smile wide, bangles clinking, surrounded by aunties. I swiped it away quickly, typing:
[Who was the guy who picked you up after work today?]