Chapter 3: The Slap and the Fallout

"Thappad!" The slap echoed off the walls, louder than the pressure cooker whistle from next door. My cheek stung, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

"Kabir, what the hell are you thinking?" Her voice cracked—furious, hurt, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"No, Neha, let me explain…" I reached for her hand, but she jerked away, her anger burning hotter than a pressure cooker left on the stove.

"You’re disgusting. Doing that with me, but thinking of my sister? Are you even human?" Her words cut deeper than any slap. I felt smaller than an ant, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

"No, I—let me explain." I tried, but words caught in my throat, choking me.

Could I tell her I’d mistaken Ritu for her last time and kissed her hard? How could I even explain that I couldn’t recognise my own girlfriend?

Wouldn’t that make things worse? But if I stayed silent, how could I make her understand my worry?

I paced the room, wringing my hands, glancing everywhere but at her face.

"You two just look too much alike… I was afraid I’d mix you up." My voice was small, as pathetic as I felt.

"What are you thinking? My sister would do that with you? Are you filthy or what? I must have been blind to be with you." Her words landed heavy and cold. Pain flickered behind her anger—I’d never seen Neha so furious.

"Neha, I was wrong. You really misunderstood." I pleaded, my voice weak, almost childish.

"Did you two ever do anything?" She stared, eyes boring into mine, searching for guilt.

"No, really, no." I shook my head, desperation in every word.

"I don’t believe you." She folded her arms, jaw clenched, refusing to meet my eyes.

"It’s just that you two look too much alike. I thought I should ask, otherwise… otherwise, how could I be sure…" I trailed off, knowing how flimsy my excuse sounded.

"If you two never did anything, why would you even worry about that?" She slapped me again.

My ears rang. I tasted blood. Still, I couldn’t blame her. I deserved it.

I watched her cry, silent at first, packing her things in a mechanical way. She put on her clothes, hands trembling, stuffing her belongings into her bag. The silence was thick—she didn’t shout or throw things, just moved like a machine, her pride holding her together.

Her sobs started softly, barely audible, only breaking down after a few lines. The emptiness after she left was heavier than any fight we’d had.

There was nothing I could do. The more I tried to explain, the worse it got. I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, regret thick in the air.

I could only wait for her to calm down, rehearsing apology after apology in my mind, searching for words to make this right.

Her warmth still lingered on the sheets, along with evidence of our intimacy. The crumpled bedsheet, her scent, the empty condom packet—everything reminded me of what I’d just lost.

How did something so beautiful get so messed up?

I stared at the ceiling, blinking back tears, my heart aching with every beat. I scratched my head, too upset to clean up, and opened a bottle of Old Monk, gulping it down. The rum burned my throat, but it was better than the pain inside. The clock ticked loudly, mocking my misery.

If we broke up over this, it really wouldn’t be worth it. I remembered our first date, her smile over chole bhature. Was it all going to end like this?

I’ve known Neha for half a year. We fell in love at first sight. She’s gentle, soft—just like her name. My mother loved her instantly, saying she was “pavitra, shant, ghar sambhalne wali.” Even my cranky grandmother laughed with her.

Neha is beautiful, virtuous, thoughtful—the kind of girl who’d pack extra rotis in my tiffin, bring nankhatai from the bakery. Her sister is her weak spot—Neha always spoke about Ritu with pride, defending her even when she messed up. “Bas, she’s my twin—what else can I do?” she’d say, eyes shining.

I don’t know how long I drank, but I felt dizzy. The door opened. The sound startled me, bottle slipping from my hand. I turned, half-hoping, half-dreading.

Neha came back, looking exhausted—eyes red, hair loose, bag slung carelessly. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all.

I hurried to grab her hand. "Sorry, sorry, it’s all my fault." I clung to her fingers, desperate for forgiveness. I’d have fallen at her feet if it would help.

She looked at me coldly. "Are you sick?" Her voice was flat, distant—the kind that says, “Don’t even try.”

"Don’t be angry, okay? I really was wrong." I pleaded, voice thick with remorse, but she didn’t soften.

"No, did you get yourself drunk alone? I just got off work and I’m exhausted. Don’t bother me." She pulled her hand away, her face unreadable, and walked to the wardrobe, ignoring me.

In that instant, the alcohol turned to sweat, pouring from every pore. My shirt stuck to my skin, my palms slick. I felt more exposed than if I’d been standing in the colony courtyard in just my baniyan.

A bead of sweat ran down my neck, stinging my eyes. I wiped it away, trying to focus.

"Just now… that wasn’t you?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

"What do you mean, not me? You’re drunk." She gently pushed my head away. Her hand was cool, her touch brief, but it broke my heart. She turned away, busying herself with her bag.

That push sobered me up completely—but left me even more confused. My mind was a mess, unable to think. I stood there, mouth open, as if struck dumb by a teacher in class. What was going on?

"I’m not talking to you. I’m going to lie down for a while." She brushed past, voice tired. Before I could reply, she headed for the bedroom.

Before I could stop her, she’d already seen the messy bedsheets and the condom wrapper on the bedside table. She froze, her back stiff, hands trembling just slightly.