Chapter 5: The Double Life

After a year of dating, even as her official boyfriend, I still had to ask before holding her hand or kissing her—depending on her mood. Anything more? Not a chance. She’d always say, girls should be reserved, marriage is sacred. Her most precious thing must be saved for her husband.

At Holi, she wouldn’t let me put colour on her cheeks. “Thoda distance rakh, haan?” At family events, she’d stick with the aunties, never with me. Late night texts? “Papa dekh lenge, phir kya hoga?”

I respected her. I thought I’d found a good girl. But what did I get?

She’d quote her mother, her dadi, always about family values. Sometimes I’d feel guilty for even thinking otherwise. Now, it all seemed like a bad joke.

In front of me, she was all pious. Behind my back, she was with another woman’s husband.

That phrase—"another woman’s husband"—echoed in my mind. She’d always say, "Shaadi is sacred, yaar. Don’t joke about such things." Yet she was breaking someone else’s home.

Is anyone more pathetic than me?

I looked in the mirror, my eyes bloodshot. Friends used to tease, “Tu toh fully trapped hai, bhai.” I thought they were jealous. Maybe they just saw what I refused to.

Rage bubbled up, hot and wild.

My hands trembled, my breath came fast and harsh. My heartbeat thundered like a baraat dhol. I wanted to scream, to make her confess.

I couldn’t take it anymore—I burst into the bathroom.

She shrieked, “Pagal ho gaye ho kya? Kya kar rahe ho yahan?”

Her voice sliced through the steam, angry and embarrassed. She grabbed her towel, clutching it around her waist, eyes blazing. The steam clung to her face—part fury, part shame.

She covered herself below the waist, not caring about the top. Fresh red marks below her collarbone burned my eyes.

Those marks—not mosquito bites. I forced myself to look away, bile in my throat.

No, not now. Amma always said, “Patience, beta. Never react in anger.” I clenched my fists, nails biting my skin. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.

I took a shaky breath, pointed at the razor. “Bas, razor lene aaya tha.”

My voice wobbled, but I kept it together. I grabbed the razor with fingers that wouldn’t stop twitching, not meeting her glare.

She hurled the soap at the door. “Nikal jao!”

The soap hit with a dull thud, sliding on the tiles. Her voice was shrill, nothing like her sweet chai requests. She turned away, fuming, like a kid caught stealing sweets.

That disgusted look—so different from the flirty girl on WhatsApp. Arms crossed, jaw set, she looked like a stranger. I backed out, ashamed.

Forget it. I have to break up. Enough.

I closed the door softly. My decision was made. This drama ends now.