Chapter 3: Guava and Ghosts of the Past

After he left, a friend came to visit me.

Her arrival was announced by a chorus of bangles and the sharp scent of guava—classic Ayesha. She barged in, flopped onto the bed, and wrinkled her nose at the hospital smell. "Arrey, Sneha, you look like you just survived a Karan Johar climax!"

"The Sinha family is in chaos right now, but when Rohan carried you in earlier, he was really anxious."

She leaned in, eyes wide with excitement, "Half the relatives were in tears, yaar. Dadi nearly fainted, and your mother-in-law has called every doctor in Mumbai."

"Arrey, is this pyaar after shaadi, or were you secretly crushing on him since college days?"

She grinned, waggling her eyebrows. "Come on, tell me—kuch toh hua hai!"

"I’m really happy for you. When you first got married, I was worried for you. But now, I think conquering this high mountain flower is just a matter of time."

She gave me a playful shove, then reached for a slice of guava. "Seriously, Sneha, you’re made of sterner stuff. Who can resist you, re?"

Sunlight streamed in, lighting up the pastel walls and casting golden patterns on the floor. Somewhere outside, a temple bell rang—Mumbai’s signature chaos.

I suddenly remembered that half an hour ago, I was unwrapping gifts in my room.

Ribbons, scented envelopes, a pile of glittering packages on my bed. My phone buzzed non-stop with messages: "Happy birthday, Sneha di!"

At the end, I saw Rohan’s gift—a necklace.

The velvet box was heavy, the kind of blue only seen in five-star stores. The necklace sparkled—a statement piece, meant to be noticed.

A very famous brand.

Ayesha whistled when she saw the logo, "Arey, this is the same brand Kareena wore at that Filmfare function, na?"

I put it on immediately.

It felt cool against my skin, a sudden thrill running through me. For a moment, I let myself hope.

But just now, I noticed a bracelet of the same brand on Priya’s wrist.

The flash of gold on her arm was unmistakable. The realization hit me hard—a cruel twist of fate. It was the kind of detail that would haunt me later.

The gift that had delighted me was actually something he picked up casually while buying a bracelet for someone else.

My heart sank. The irony was almost poetic, but it stung. The necklace felt heavier than before, almost suffocating.

I suddenly said, "I’ve already agreed. In two years, I’ll divorce him."

Ayesha froze, mouth open, slice of guava halfway to her lips. The words echoed in the sterile room.

My friend jumped up, shocked and angry.

"Huh? Why? Are you mad or what?"

She paced, her anklets jangling. "Divorce? What nonsense! Is someone blackmailing you? I’ll break their head, just say the word!"

"Is he keeping a girlfriend outside?"

She whispered the last bit, as if scandal could be summoned by saying it aloud.

I smiled faintly.

That’s not the case.

Rohan isn’t that kind of person.

I shook my head, defending him even when I didn’t have to. "No, yaar, he’s not that type."

On the contrary, he protects Priya very well.

He’s careful, almost to a fault. Always worried about her, always putting her before himself. There’s something noble about it, even if it hurts me.

He loves her with restraint, afraid that malicious people will cause her trouble, and also afraid she’ll be burdened with a bad reputation.

He hides his feelings, always aware of how Mumbai society gossips. In our world, reputation is everything—"log kya kahenge" hangs over every decision.

Besides me, only a few of his close friends know that he fell in love with a girl outside our social circle.

It’s a secret they guard fiercely, never letting it slip at parties or over drinks. Even Priya keeps her head down, careful not to draw attention.

"No."

I said it with finality, hoping she’d drop the subject.

"As for the reason… I can’t tell you yet. Anyway, this is already settled. What I’ve promised, I will definitely do."

Ayesha looked as if she wanted to argue, but stopped herself. She knew that once I made up my mind, there was no going back.

To spend a lifetime with a man who doesn’t love me, versus the practical benefits he might bring to me and the Sinha family—anyone would know which to choose.

The calculation was cold, but it was honest. I’d grown up watching women sacrifice for family name; at least I was choosing with open eyes.

My friend was stunned for a moment, but didn’t press further.

She patted my hand, her eyes softening. Sometimes, friends know when not to pry.

In the end, she only said, "But you’ve liked him for so many years."

She sounded almost defeated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Sneha, you’re not the type to give up so easily."

I sighed.

A long, deep sigh—the kind that carries years of unspoken stories. My chest felt hollow, but lighter.

So what?

Somewhere in the background, the nurse’s radio played an old Kishore Kumar song. Even the lyrics seemed to mock me.

I met Rohan at sixteen, and we were bench partners for half a year.

Those days were full of monsoon rain, chai at the canteen, and giggles over silly jokes. Rohan’s handwriting was always neat; mine was an indecipherable scrawl.

When I was sick, his rain-soaked shirt stuck to his back as he carried me down the corridor, ignoring the boys’ whistles and the peon’s frown. He stayed with me the whole morning, missing an important cricket match.

When others gossiped that my mother was a second wife and I was an illegitimate child, he scolded them one by one and taught me to hold my head high.

He stood up for me, even when the teachers looked away. "People will talk, Sneha," he’d say, "but their words don’t define you."

We competed in maths olympiads together, hosted New Year’s Eve parties together. He said, "May everything go as you wish," and I replied, "Let’s embark on a new journey together."

We were a team, even if nobody else saw it. Our bond was built on late-night study sessions and last-minute event planning. For a while, I thought it meant something more.

However, at twenty-three, when we were about to get engaged, sitting face to face at the same table—

The room was filled with relatives, their voices blending into background noise. My hands trembled under the table, waiting for a sign from him.

He looked at me with unfamiliar eyes and said only one sentence: "Have we met before?"

It felt like someone had pulled the rug from under my feet. For a moment, I thought he was joking, but his expression was blank.

He had forgotten me.

The realization settled slowly, like dust after a storm. I kept searching his face for any flicker of recognition, but found nothing.

At that moment, I was speechless.

I stared at the tablecloth, forcing myself not to cry. The room suddenly felt colder, the laughter around us turning hollow.

Actually, I hadn’t changed much. I was still calm, with long hair and a blue kurta, not fond of smiling.

The same girl who’d sat beside him all those years ago—just a little older, a little sadder.

The only change—

My makeup—just a dab of kajal, some lipstick—was new. Everything else was the same old Sneha.

Was probably just a bit of light makeup on my once bare face.

But not remembering is not remembering. The things I clung to as lifelines were just things he did casually.

It hurt, realising that what I treasured most was barely a blip on his radar. I was just another face in his busy life.

He was simply a good person, not someone who was good to me in particular.

That distinction cut deeper than any insult. I couldn’t even be angry—it wasn’t his fault.

So I smiled, pretending not to care, "You forgot? Class 11, first year of junior college. I’m Sneha Sinha."

My smile was steady, my tone playful, as if I didn’t care at all. But inside, a storm was raging.

Rohan looked up, the frown on his face easing.

He let out a small “oh,” as if a minor puzzle had been solved.

He sighed. "So it was you."

The sigh was heavy—maybe with relief, maybe with disappointment. In that moment, I realized our past meant different things to each of us.