Chapter 6: Home Is Not a Place

That night, when I got home, Arjun was in the kitchen, making soup. Seeing me, he called out, “Baby, mutton was thirty percent off at the supermarket, so I bought some for soup.”

The air was thick with ginger and cloves. “Take a rest, it’ll be ready soon.”

I couldn’t help but curl my lips, a bitter smile on my face. How could someone planning a thirty-lakh wedding be so thrifty with mutton?

Arjun carefully brought out the soup. “Garam garam hai, jaldi pee lo.”

I took a sip, barely tasting it. “It’s salty. Smells odd too.”

He looked stunned, as if seeing me for the first time. Before, I’d always praised his cooking, even if it wasn’t great.

This was the first time I’d said it wasn’t good.

Arjun put the bowl away, still gentle. “Mat peeyo then. What do you want? I’ll order Swiggy.”

“I’m not hungry. You eat.”

He asked, “Not feeling well?”

I kept my eyes down. “Just tired.”

Arjun started massaging my shoulders, pressing into my tense muscles the way Amma used to when I got headaches from studying. “Why does your company make you work overtime on weekends? Don’t go next time.”

He didn’t know I was working part-time as a wedding planner.

His hands started to wander lower. I stopped him and handed over a medical certificate—the ink still a little smudged. “Doctor said I have a ruptured cyst. No sex for a month.”

Of course, it was fake. I just didn’t want breakup sex.

Part of me even hoped he’d confess and end it.

But Arjun only frowned. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m sorry… Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

Me: “….”

Why was this not going as I’d imagined?

Arjun really started caring for me, properly.

He looked up precautions online, reminded me about medicines, and took over all the housework. Every morning, he’d bring me chai with just enough elaichi, sometimes a warm towel for my forehead. He even wanted to come with me to the hospital.

I refused, embarrassed. If he came, I’d be caught out.

Meanwhile, Riya’s wedding planning continued smoothly.

She loved my designs. “Miss Priya, this is even better than I imagined.”

I smiled quietly. Some of the ideas—the floating mandap, the personalised phoolon ki chadar—were from my private stash. I’d dreamt of using them for my own wedding.

Now, with nothing left to lose, I poured them all into this shaadi.

Riya’s friend marvelled, half annoyed. “Arjun is too much—full hands-off mode?”

“He hasn’t come even once.”

Riya shrugged. “Men don’t care for these things. Let him be.”

But I couldn’t help remembering how, when we bought the house, Arjun was so involved.

Every weekend, we’d bicker at furniture stores—me insisting on a pooja corner, Arjun joking about where his cricket trophies would go. We fought over curtain patterns, tested seventeen shades of paint before I let him pick the living room colour. Back then, I thought I’d found a rare man.

Now, I realised it was all just a role-play for him—a game he’d already finished.