Chapter 2: Nightgowns & Nautanki

Late at night, Mumbai’s lights blinked like restless fireflies outside, the ceiling fan whirred overhead, and the flat was filled with that sticky heat only this city can give. Once again, I took out the black nightgown from Myntra—lace sleeves, not at all my style—and went to Arjun’s room.

My feet made no sound on the marble floor, but my heart thudded like a tabla. I paused at his door, fidgeting with my dupatta, replaying Ma’s advice in my head: ‘Beta, pati ke paas jao, sab theek ho jayega.’ I adjusted my nightgown, palms sweaty, but decided—enough was enough.

Ever since our wedding, Arjun had moved into the guest room—said he didn’t want to disturb me with late work calls. Our big flat made us feel even further apart. I’d leave coffee at his door, he’d forget it, the mug cold by noon. This was our dance—awkward, silent, like two paying guests sharing a kitchen.

If I count, it’s been two weeks since he’s touched me. Two weeks of Ma’s ‘good news’ calls, two weeks of pretending I don’t care, two weeks of my reflection looking back at me like a stranger.

Arjun came out of the shower, towel-drying his hair. For a second, he looked like a TV serial hero—wet hair, white towel, faint Park Avenue scent mixing with that something-else that was all him. I tried to keep my face blank, but inside I was all nerves.

“Why are you here?”

No namaste, no welcome, just a flat question. But I was ready. Tonight, his mood swings wouldn’t push me away.

I looked him up and down—broad chest, abs peeking through. The bedside lamp caught his jaw, hair damp and tousled. Anyone else would be drooling. Me? I just felt that tightness in my throat—desire, resentment, everything tangled.

Dadi always said, ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’ I thought, at least let me find out if he lives up to it!

But half a year of marriage, and we’re still strangers.

We did all the rituals, smiled for the world, but inside these walls… nothing. Tonight, I wasn’t going to pretend.

I got straight to the point. “I’m here to sleep with you.”

Even I was shocked by my boldness. I straightened my back, cheeks burning. No matter how he tried to brush me off, tonight I wanted something real.

I’d even prayed to all the gods—Hanumanji, Ganpati, Lakshmi—enough of this cold war. Arrey, ek raat toh banta hai!

Arjun’s expression froze. He noticed what I was wearing and gave a soft, “Okay.”

Was he serious? Or just going along to get it over with? I was suspicious, overthinking every syllable. He walked over, sat beside me, keeping a careful distance. I saw him fidget with his watch, eyes flickering from the lamp to me.

Only the small night lamp was on, casting soft shadows. The silence was thick as halwa.

He lay down, the faint coolness of water vapour still clinging to him. I shifted closer, my arm brushing his. My hand circled his waist, feeling the taut muscle, my breath catching—half excited, half anxious.

Arjun stiffened, eyes lowered, jaw quivering. He swallowed, fighting something inside himself.

His voice was hoarse, careful: “Want me to help you?”

He didn’t wait for my answer, just pulled away and opened the drawer.

The flutter in my heart died with his practiced actions. The drawer meant duty, not desire. I felt cold, foolish, like a teenager misreading the signs.

I could predict every move—each touch, each sigh—too controlled. Where was the passion?

To fulfil his duty as a husband, but never with his own body. Why did it always feel like he was ticking boxes on a shaadi checklist, not really present with me?

His pyjamas might as well have been locked. Even if he was hard, it was useless. I hated how clinical it all felt.

When I saw him take out the condom, my patience snapped. Annoyed, I snatched it and threw it at him.

“Help, help, help—so old-fashioned, what tricks do you have left?” I muttered under my breath, “Bas, enough of this nautanki.”

My voice was sharp. The night light was hazy, unable to show Arjun’s real expression. But I could feel his eyes on me—burning, maybe confused. I saw his jaw tighten, that muscle flicker, like he was holding something back.

The grievance in my heart surged up. “Arjun, if you can’t do it, just say so. You’re not the only man in the world; I really could find someone else.”

My voice trembled with months of pent-up frustration. In my head, I could hear Ma’s gasp: “Beta, sab theek toh hai na? You know, society will talk…” But anger drowned her out.

Marriage isn’t a business contract, yaar. At least act like you want to be here!

Arjun’s voice was dry. “That’s not what I mean.” But he didn’t move closer. Not even to hold my face, to kiss me. For the third time—three strikes, that’s it. In cricket, you get another over, but in marriage?

I’d been ready to go further, but was still rejected. There’s only so much pride a woman can swallow.

A dull ache settled in my chest, heavy as a monsoon cloud. I didn’t want to cry, but my eyes stung. I grabbed my kurti from the bedside, yanked it over my head—my bangles clinked as I did, and I slammed the door with all the drama of a daily soap heroine.

The echo rang down the hallway, louder than the local train. I waited, just a second, to see if he’d come after me. He didn’t.