Chapter 5: Lingerie, Longings & Insta Truths

A few days later, I noticed my clothes missing. At first, I didn’t care—Mumbai flats are always chaos. But when even Meera’s gift lace lingerie vanished, I was annoyed. Lingerie isn’t cheap, and Meera had picked it out special. Who would steal it?

I dug through the laundry basket, cursing under my breath as the maid’s radio played Lata Mangeshkar classics in the background. No CCTV, no leads. Was there a peeping tom in the building? I shivered, making a mental note to check the windows.

At breakfast, I told Arjun. He sat at the table, newspaper in one hand, butter knife in the other, spreading Amul butter on my bread as usual. When he heard, his hand paused—fingers trembling, knife pressing too hard.

“What’s missing?”

“Underwear.” I watched his face, waiting for a reaction. For a split second, he froze, then let out a breathy laugh. “What do you think?” His voice was lower, more intimate than usual.

Before heading to BKC, he always dressed neatly, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. Today, behind those lenses, his eyes looked unreadable.

I sneered lightly. Think what? Arjun was so proper—what would he do with my underwear? I changed the topic: “What time will you be back? I have something for you.” The divorce papers burned in my bag.

He handed me the bread. “As long as you want, I’ll come back as soon as possible.” His words tumbled out, betraying nerves. His phone rang—his assistant outside, colony aunty’s gossip filtering through the window. Arjun left. I touched my heart, which had skipped a beat, and my inexplicably flushed earlobe. Why did his words get to me?

After dinner, with some free time, I went to the hospital. The doctor, saree pallu fluttering as she wrote the prescription, said, “Beta, you need to sort things with your husband, not just your hormones.” I almost laughed—only in India would a doctor prescribe marriage as medicine. The nurse tittered in the corner.

Meera, hearing this, sent me shirtless gym trainer pics. I rolled my eyes. “Arrey Meera, keep your gym trainers. I’m not that desperate.” She teased, “You’ve been breaking out lately?” I glared, covering my chin—two pimples, thanks to Arjun’s uselessness.

“Homegrown flowers can’t compare to wild ones. Besides, you two are getting divorced soon, why not give it a try?” Meera coaxed.

I put down my Apple Pencil, debated texting my sister or ranting in my private WhatsApp group, but stopped myself, feeling too exposed. I scrolled through reels, ignoring Meera’s WhatsApp memes about ‘divorce party’.

That night, I dreamed of kissing someone passionately. The man’s face was Arjun’s. I woke up sweating, went to the kitchen for water, the kitchen tiles cold beneath my feet. Suddenly, I heard lazy, teasing voices in the living room—Arjun’s friends, whisky glasses in hand, their banter floating through the walls.

I ducked behind the curtain, just out of sight, listening shamelessly. “Women are most susceptible to temptation. Arjun, if you keep this up, if your wife runs off with someone else, you’ll regret it when it’s too late.” Arjun took a sip, but I saw his fingers tighten on the glass. His handsome face showed nothing.

Their voices dropped: “Stop pretending to be so generous. If you’re really that capable, stop moping on your Insta burner account every day.”

My mind raced. I quickly opened his alt Insta account—sure enough, the same avatar as Arjun. My thumb hovered, heart hammering as I read his pinned post: [Finally married my crush, but I have an addiction problem. How can I give my partner a good experience without scaring her?]

The next post: [This dazzling world is so tempting. She thinks I’m old-fashioned and useless. If I pleased her like this, would she refuse?] The attached picture—a butler outfit and a puppy bell.

My ears burned. All this time, we’d been circling each other, too afraid to speak, too afraid to be honest. I stared at Arjun’s Insta post, my heart pounding. Maybe we were both just pretending. But tonight, I wasn’t going to pretend anymore.