Chapter 2: Livestream of a Nightmare

Now, it’s just awkward.

Awkward isn’t even the word—there’s no English or Hindi for this kind of embarrassment. The kind that makes you wish the ground would open up and swallow you, or that you could go back in time and never set up the camera in the first place.

What’s being livestreamed through the camera is her clothes being stripped off, piece by piece, by that adulterer.

The camera, intended for a fairytale, was now recording a nightmare. Her dupatta, her kurti, everything coming undone, all for the world to see. I could almost hear the sound of WhatsApp notifications buzzing, aunties gasping, uncles looking away in shock.

The guy grinned wickedly and said, “Phone kyun nahi uthati apne boyfriend ka? Dar lag raha hai kya?”

He spoke with that cocky, overconfident Mumbai twang, like some local Don trying to be a hero in his own B-grade film. His gold chain flashed in the light, a tacky badge of honour.

My girlfriend kissed him, breathlessly replying, “Dar nahi hai. Agar phone game khelna hai, toh main abhi call kar sakti hoon usko.”

Her tone was bold, almost challenging, like she was daring him—or maybe the universe—to catch them. It was the same voice that used to tease me when I forgot anniversaries, now turned into something unrecognizable.

The man laughed loudly, pinning her to the seat. “Pagal hai tu bilkul.”

His laughter echoed in the car, mixing with the AC’s low hum. Outside, the city’s traffic roared on, as if nothing had happened. But inside, their world was completely separate from mine, and I was just an unwanted ghost at my own celebration.

My girlfriend teased, twisting her dupatta around her finger, eyes shining with mischief and malice, “Jab thrill ki baat hai, toh pura maza lena hi padega na?”

Her words hung in the air, brazen and sharp. I remembered how she used to blush at even the smallest public displays of affection—now she was a different person, almost like a character from some web series. My mind struggled to keep up with this new reality.

The two of them were already sprawled across the back seat, completely unaware of me hiding in the boot.

I pressed myself further back, trying to become invisible, every muscle tensed. I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket—probably frantic messages from my friends or relatives trying to warn me, or maybe just the universe mocking me with every ping. I wiped sweat from my brow, biting my lip till it hurt.

Awkwardly, I turned on my phone. At a glance, I saw the two of them on the seat, deep in the throes of passion, and the livestream was broadcasting all of it.

My hands shook as I watched the feed, the little hearts and thumbs-up floating across the screen like confetti at a funeral. My own face, pale and sweaty, reflected faintly in the glass. The world outside was bright and ordinary, but inside the car, everything was falling apart.

The stream was password-protected, but at that moment, there were over a hundred people watching.

Somehow, the password had spread—maybe my cousin had forwarded it, or maybe someone just guessed it from my birthday hints. The number kept climbing, every new viewer another witness to my humiliation.

I don’t even have that many friends. Clearly, some relative or friend couldn’t resist and invited others to watch the spectacle.

I imagined my uncle from Jaipur, my old tuition friends from Kota, her distant relatives in Kerala—all watching, popcorn in hand, unable to look away. For once, the entire extended family was united, not by joy, but by collective awkwardness.

Over a hundred people, and not a single comment.

The chat box was eerily silent—no emojis, no “Wah beta!”—just a row of watching eyes. Even the family’s usual chatter had vanished, replaced by stunned silence. The absence of any “Arrey wah!” or “Kya scene hai!” made it even more unbearable.

I could imagine everyone sitting at my house, holding cakes and confetti cannons, awkwardly staring at their phones, watching this disaster unfold.

Maybe my youngest cousin was giggling behind her hand, while the elders exchanged worried glances. The air would be thick with the smell of cake, incense, and unspoken questions. Someone’s tea would go cold, untouched. Even the neighbours might be peeking in, sensing something was wrong.

Worst of all, I saw an account frantically sending me virtual gifts.

The special effects kept popping up—digital fireworks, raining hearts, spinning chakris—blurring the screen for a moment before the reality returned. Each time, my phone buzzed, the momentary relief followed by fresh humiliation.

That was my girlfriend’s mother—my future mother-in-law.

Her username, a mix of her daughter’s name and a few random numbers, was unmistakable. I could picture her in her bedroom, adjusting her glasses, fingers trembling as she tried to cover up what she was seeing, hoping somehow to restore her daughter’s dignity with every rupee spent.

She kept sending gifts because each time she did, a special effect would pop up on the screen, covering up the embarrassing scene.

It was her own way of protecting her child, throwing digital colours over the shame. Maybe she prayed in her heart, reciting a silent hanuman chalisa or just wishing the internet would crash.

My future mother-in-law isn’t tech-savvy; she doesn’t know you can clear the screen with a single tap while watching a livestream, so the special effects wouldn’t get in the way.

I could almost hear her muttering, “Yeh kya ho gaya, bhagwan?” as she clicked furiously, desperate to help. In another house, her husband probably sat silently, his face unreadable, a tension in the air thicker than any Delhi fog.

Unfortunately, she didn’t know, and just kept sending gifts, burning through her pension money.

The irony hurt—her well-meaning attempts, draining her savings, only making the disaster more spectacular. I wanted to reach out, to tell her to stop, but my hands were tied, my world spinning further out of control.

I couldn’t turn off the livestream, because the software was running on the car’s system. I’d have to use the car’s controls to shut it down.

But even if I tried, what excuse would I give? If I climbed out now, it would just make things worse. My mind raced, searching for some jugaad, some miracle fix, but nothing came to mind except a sinking dread.