Chapter 4: The Marriage Ultimatum

About marriage—

It was the question that never left the dinner table, always hanging over me like the smell of frying onions—familiar and heavy.

The second year after graduation, my parents urged me to get a commitment from Rohan. I was too embarrassed to bring it up directly, afraid I’d seem desperate, so I mentioned it jokingly.

It was at his flat, over Domino’s pizza, TV blaring IPL. I said, half-laughing, "Accha, so when’s the baraat coming, Mr. Rohan? Or should I tell my parents to keep searching?"

Rohan’s hands paused on his PlayStation controller, pretending not to hear.

He acted like he was chasing the last goal in FIFA, refusing to meet my eyes. The silence stretched, thick as malai on hot milk.

His mother remained warm, but never brought up marriage.

She continued to send me festival greetings, sometimes a recipe on WhatsApp, but never mentioned anything about mangalsutra or wedding shopping. Her silence was louder than any question.

By the fourth year after graduation, a college roommate asked why I still wasn’t married.

We were at a friend’s haldi ceremony, surrounded by yellow marigold and giggling aunties. She nudged me and whispered, "Arrey Neha, tu abhi tak single hai? Itni achhi job, ab toh shaadi kar le!"

I pretended to be casual, “Still young—no rush to step into the shaadi ka bandhan.”

I laughed, tossing my hair, hiding the knot in my stomach. Inside, though, I was counting years the way my mother counted coconuts for puja—one, two, three…

Time flew by.

Sometimes I wondered if I’d missed the last train home, while everyone else had already bought their tickets.

The sixth year after graduation—our tenth year together—on Valentine’s Day, I booked a romantic restaurant. Halfway through dinner, I smiled and asked, “Shouldn’t we think about getting married?”

I had reserved a corner table, heart-shaped balloons above us, even ordered his favourite gulab jamun. I wanted to make the moment special, so I wore the red kurti he once said made me look like a heroine.

Under the candlelight, Rohan’s affectionate expression instantly turned cold. “Alright, I’ll talk to my mom.”

The smile froze on my face. I tried to hide my disappointment, swirling my cold coffee, hoping he’d change the subject back to our silly banter.

Relieved, I quickly changed the subject to avoid the awkwardness.

I started talking about work, anything to fill the silence. He nodded distractedly, eyes on his phone.

But nothing happened after that.

Weeks passed, and there was no mention of marriage, no hints from his side—only the usual calls about office politics or weekend plans.

I brought it up a few more times. Each time, he grew more impatient.

Once, after a particularly long day, I tried to broach the topic gently, but he snapped, saying, "Yaar, har baar shaadi ki baat karke mood kyun kharab karti ho?"

Finally, during an argument over something trivial, he blurted out the truth—

“Neha, my mom doesn’t agree to me marrying you.”

His words felt like a slap. My fingers twisted the end of my dupatta, knuckles white, as if holding on could keep everything from falling apart. The fight—about who forgot to pay the electricity bill—suddenly seemed meaningless.

I froze. But deep down, I wasn’t as surprised as I thought I’d be. The fight stopped abruptly.

A strange calmness settled over me, like the stillness before a storm. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, I’d always known.

Rohan realised what he’d said, but didn’t try to fix it. He just took out his phone in silence.

He scrolled mindlessly, pretending to check emails. The glow of the screen lit up his face, but he wouldn’t look at me.

My anger wasn’t a sudden blaze, but a cold lake spreading quietly—slow and suffocating.

I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioner. My thoughts kept circling the same question—how did we reach here?

“So you never planned to marry me, did you?”

My voice came out quieter than I intended, but he heard every word.

Rohan rubbed his brow, frustrated, as if giving up. “Isn’t it fine for us to just keep dating? Why do we have to get married? What’s the point of a marriage certificate? And you’re at a critical stage in your career—wouldn’t marriage just get in the way?”

He rattled off excuses like my younger cousin listing reasons to skip tuitions. My heart thudded, each word making the gap between us wider.

Every word was an excuse. Every sentence, a reason to avoid commitment.

Suddenly, I saw the pattern—every promise deferred, every conversation dodged. It was all so clear now.

I cut him off. “Rohan, you really disgust me.”

My words were sharp, but my throat felt tight. I stared at him, waiting for some sign of regret.

Someone I knew so well now felt like a stranger.

He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time—no affection, only irritation.

I couldn’t hold back my tears.

I tried to blink them away, but one slipped down anyway. I wiped it quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but he did.

Rohan wasn’t the type to comfort me; he’d long since stopped caring about my tears. He muttered under his breath, then looked at me with mocking eyes.

He rolled his eyes, as if my emotions were a childish inconvenience. His tone turned cruel, words like daggers.

“Neha, don’t act like you’re so wronged, like you love me so much. Aren’t you just looking for a local guy to marry? There are plenty of women at my mom’s office from out of town who think like you. I’m already the best you can get—aren’t you pushing so hard because you’re afraid to lose me?”

His words stung, every syllable a reminder of how little I now meant to him. I could barely breathe. The trust we’d built over a decade crumbled in one careless outburst.

Before he could finish, I turned and left.

I grabbed my bag and ran out, heart pounding, ignoring the curious glances of his neighbours. The Mumbai night air was thick, but I didn’t care—I just needed to get away.

That night, I stayed at a friend’s place. The next morning, looking at my swollen eyes in the mirror, I quickly washed my face. No matter how heartbroken, adults still have to go to work.

Priya pressed a cup of adrak chai into my hand and made me eat toast, muttering, "Kya yaar, Neha, men are hopeless. But you’re stronger than all this." I managed a weak smile, forcing myself to get ready. Life doesn’t pause for heartbreak, especially not in Mumbai.

Rohan and I had argued before. We always made up. Friends said, this time he’d gone too far—I shouldn’t forgive him so easily. I had just replied “okay,” when a message from Rohan popped up:

His message came as I was fixing my kajal, trying to make my eyes look less puffy.

“Matching family backgrounds is important.”

“Neha, let’s break up.”

I stared at my phone, the words blurring. My fingers shook so much I nearly dropped it.

My phone nearly slipped from my hand.

I sat on the edge of Priya’s bed, numb. There were no more tears—just a strange emptiness, as if a part of me had vanished overnight.