Chapter 2: Heartbeats and Old Scars

2

Hot spring resort in Lonavala.

Two rooms, divided by a wall.

Reality show livestream.

There was an observation room inside, and viewers could comment outside. The set was draped in marigold garlands, the white noise of ceiling fans mixing with the producers’ instructions. Somewhere, a pressure cooker whistled from the kitchen.

[Arjun and Priya are actually on a divorce show, sharing a room, that’s bold]

[Their couple vibe is incredible, they match so well.]

[I’ve said before, Arjun and his wife have no feelings left. After all, no one likes the one who holds them back.]

[I’ve been waiting for them to divorce for so long]

[Is he blind? He used to love her so much...]

The staff clipped heart rate bands onto Arjun and Priya.

“If your heart rate hits 70, you can leave the room.”

[It’ll break instantly, right?]

But, both their numbers stopped at 68.

Privately, he and Priya were close.

Too familiar, worried about public drama.

So on the show, they kept it all formal.

[Priya is so polite, she doesn’t dare get too close.]

[Arjun, don’t hold back, we support you]

Priya sat at the door.

Arjun stood on the balcony for fresh air, and through a corner, he could glimpse my room.

Kabir hadn’t arrived yet.

I sat alone on the bed, heart rate band on my wrist.

A knock at the door.

A tall, lean man entered.

A baseball cap hid half his face, his hair damp with steam from the hot spring.

It was drizzling outside. A faint trail of mitti from the rain clung to his shoes.

He brought with him the chill of night and heavy mist. I caught the scent of earth after rain, mixed with a hint of aftershave.

[My white moonlight is back]

[How to say this, Arjun, without comparison there’s no harm.]

[Don’t pit them against each other.]

“You have to wear this.”

I handed the extra heart rate band to Kabir.

Arjun always bristled when people compared him to Kabir.

I remembered—first year of marriage, walking with Arjun on Marine Drive at midnight, staring up at Kabir’s massive billboard. I stood frozen. Arjun pulled my dupatta over my head, blocking my view, and said sourly:

“I just know you like this kind of face.”

His jaw clenched, pretending to joke, but his voice was tight.

Now.

In the other room, Arjun lingered on the balcony.

He watched.

He watched Kabir walk into my room and close the door.

Put on the band.

Arjun acted cool, but I could feel his eyes tracking every move. His fingers drummed the railing, eyes narrowed, calculating.

“Hello, Meera.”

My number held steady at 50. I reached out to Kabir.

“Hello, Kabir.”

He shook my hand.

A few seconds later, the band shrieked with a sharp beep.

Kabir’s number shot off the charts.

But he stayed calm as ever.

“The band’s faulty,” he said.

I just nodded, “Oh.”

3

Once we swapped the band, everything worked fine.

Over on Arjun and Priya’s side, after a few rounds of couple games, their heart rates spiked above 70—they left the room early.

But for us,

Kabir’s heart rate barely reached 25.

“So if it never goes over,” I asked the staff, “do we have to spend the night in here?”

Kabir overheard, standing tall, broad-shouldered, a thin black hoodie skimming his frame, his eyes distant and unreadable. The rain-streaked window cast silver shadows on the floor.

The staff replied, “It’s a failed mission. You can leave after an hour.”

Kabir and I were the last out.

[So lame.]

[They don’t have a shred of couple vibe.]

[Take them away, can I not watch her? I only want to see Priya and Arjun.]

The comments stayed grim till the livestream cut.

Post-show interviews in tiny rooms.

Cameras, lights, and people everywhere. The air was thick with makeup and sweat, makeup artists darting about, someone yelling for chai.

Arjun stood in the corner, watching Priya’s interview, but his eyes kept darting to me.

“Excited?”

He asked, for no reason.

“Ever felt Kabir could actually like you, even for a second?”

I ignored him, tried to slip away.

He blocked me.

“Kya kare, Meera,” he shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting his head, “now I feel even more, divorcing you was the right choice.”

Someone walked by, and Arjun straightened, slipping on that gentle, heartbroken face for the cameras.

Like I was the one who’d wronged him most.

Priya finished her interview and, in front of everyone, walked up and grabbed my hand.

“Meera-didi,” she said, an old red thread tied at her wrist, “cherish Arjun-bhaiya, he really loves you.”

That red thread.

I’d seen it before.

Last year, on our anniversary, Arjun was chased by a crazy fan and got into a minor accident.

He was fine.

I took him to Siddhivinayak Mandir to pray, eyes closed, wishing only for his safety.

When I opened my eyes, he’d bought another red thread.

I thought he’d give it to me.

But he kept it for his own peace of mind.

Now, it was on Priya’s wrist. My stomach twisted, just a little.

“Don’t create a scene,” Priya added for the camera, “I hope you two will be well, more than anyone.”

I stayed silent. I pressed my thumb into my palm, steadying myself the way Ma taught me.

Arjun didn’t know.

Priya didn’t either.

Actually, I joined this show for another reason I couldn’t say aloud.

That day, when I closed my eyes at the temple, Arjun wasn’t even in my heart.

4

The show shot on weekends.

Theme: “weekend couples.”

Weekdays,

I picked up my old job, hoping to return to my Mumbai talent agency as a manager. The office was in a Bandra lane, with glass partitions and a faded Ganesha sticker above the door.

“Kabir and Priya are already divorced.”

My old boss told me, peeling an orange, the sharp citrus scent filling the air.

“He signed a ten-year contract with Priya’s father’s company—now he’s finally free.”

“He’s reorganizing his studio, and I put your name forward.”

I went to meet Kabir at the studio.

His profile caught in the sunlight—sharp, unruly, a face made for the movies.

He was even more distant than I’d imagined. The staff buzzed around but never looked him in the eye.

I waited outside for ages.

Finally, his assistant came out.

“Sorry, Meera ma’am, today’s not possible.”

On the way back, my car broke down.

Eleven at night, on the city’s edge, raining.

I stood with an umbrella, waiting for the tow truck.

Cars whizzed past, shadows in the wet darkness. My feet were wet, the hem of my kurti muddied. A stray dog barked somewhere, and I shivered, hugging my bag closer.

A pair of headlights flashed, and a black Innova pulled up. Kabir’s assistant rolled down the window.

“Meera ma’am, please get in.”

Kabir sat in the back, cap low, sleeping.

His breaths were slow, long legs folded awkwardly.

The car was cluttered—old jackets hanging, the air scented faintly of sandalwood.

The same scent as when he’d held my hand, once.

“Meera ma’am, I’ll get water at the petrol pump. Want one?” the assistant whispered.

“Just call me Meera, I’ll come with.”

“Arre, I’ll go, be back soon.”

He stepped out, leaving me and Kabir alone.

No one else.

No cameras.

The headlights flickered, the car dim.

Though seats separated us, his breathing felt close.

I stared at the blue-lit supermarket, the assistant pacing inside.

I remembered, seeing Priya’s ad in a supermarket, once.

“She’s so pretty.”

I’d said to Arjun then.

He just shrugged.

“She’s okay.”

I didn’t realise then—‘okay’ meant he’d stopped coming home.

Later, I heard Priya was his first love.

He never let go.

But back then, in the supermarket, he changed the topic:

“Meera, you never dated anyone before me?”

“No.”

At least, that’s what I told him—and everyone else.

In the car, someone tapped my calf.

A long leg stretched from the back seat, deliberate, playful, like a secret code from the past. He tapped my calf with his foot, just once, like an old secret code. I shifted away, pretending not to notice, but my heart thudded loud enough to drown out the rain.

“Meera.”

He spoke—maybe just woken up, voice lazy and familiar. “Long time no see.”

So many years, but he still called my name that way.

Just like in that cramped Andheri flat, long ago…

Always drowning in his touch, wild and gentle, all at once.