Chapter 2: The Contract Husband

The day I picked up Kabir, I knew he was the male lead. Heaven’s golden child, heartbreakingly handsome. Too bad he’d gone bankrupt. Now he could only be kept in my private bungalow in Kaveripur. And on top of that, he’d become autistic. Wouldn’t step out during the day, wouldn’t even cross the main gate. At night, he’d hug his knees on the floor and quietly cry. Truly pitiful.

The day I first saw Kabir, the heat had melted all the ice-cream in the freezer. My bungalow in Kaveripur wasn’t posh by Mumbai standards, but for a bankrupt hero, it was paradise. He was all long eyelashes and sharp jaw, the kind who’d get aunts gossiping at weddings. Now, reduced to sitting on the floor, clutching his knees, eyes distant as the moon. Sometimes I heard him sobbing in the darkness, the sound so soft it could make even a stone-hearted mother-in-law feel pity. Itna dukh toh serials main bhi nahi hota, I thought, heart aching yet oddly determined.

I wanted to cheer him up, so I pulled out our marriage certificate. He stared at me, numb and unresponsive, not saying a word. I scratched my nose awkwardly.

I waved the maroon marriage certificate under his nose, hoping the gold letters would snap him out of it. He stared at it like it was an expired ration card, face expressionless. I scratched my nose—a nervous tick from childhood—waiting for some reaction. Silence stretched, only broken by the pressure cooker’s final whistle from the kitchen. The air between us grew heavy, almost like waiting for a power cut.

Although this marriage certificate was issued by the system, from Kabir’s perspective, I was the one who took advantage of his drunkenness and tricked him into getting married. He must really hate me.

On paper, we were man and wife. In reality, the truth stung: I had him sign while he was drunk—system’s fault, not mine, but he wouldn’t know that. To him, I must’ve seemed like one of those scheming TV vamps, using his weakness to tie him down. I caught my reflection in the window—was I really that bad? Still, in my heart, a small hope flickered that someday he’d see past all this. Or maybe, at least, forgive me enough to share some tea and Parle-G biscuits without that haunted look.

I thought I was running the show, but maybe Kabir was the real player all along.