Chapter 3: Family Court and Silent Goodbyes

That afternoon, Rohan actually took me to the Family Court.

We drove in his black Honda, the seat sticky from the heat. I watched the city blur past—the old men playing chess under banyan trees, vegetable vendors shouting over the horns. Rohan was in a great mood the whole way.

He kept asking where I wanted to go for our third anniversary.

Rohan and I grew up together; this was our third year of marriage.

“How about Prague?”

He grinned. “You’ve wanted to go to Prague to feed the pigeons since you were seven.”

He got out, opened the car door, and helped me unbuckle my seatbelt.

His hand lingered a second, eyes softening. “Tch, why have you been crying?”

He frowned, gently rubbing the corner of my eye.

“I told you, it’s just an act. She’s just a little bird. I’m just curious when she’ll finally lower her head.”

As he spoke, something fell out of his pocket.

A box of condoms.

The box clattered to the floor mat, catching the light. I stared, swallowing my questions. Rohan coughed, touched his nose.

He didn’t explain. He took me into the Family Court.

The building smelled of musty files and wet earth. Everything went smoothly.

I have aphasia. The word always sat heavy on my tongue, but I was used to the stares. Often, I can’t speak in front of strangers.

But I can nod and shake my head.

The judge, a stern woman in a faded saree, barely glanced up from her stack of files. “Is this a voluntary divorce?”

“Yes.”

I nodded.

“Confirming emotional breakdown?”

“Yes.”

I nodded.

“One-month cooling-off period. Come back in a month.”

Rohan took the receipt.

He snapped a photo, lowered his head, and sent a message. I watched him, feeling like a bystander in my own story.

My message came too.

As always, from Ananya.

Rohan sent her the photo of the receipt, with an added line: [Satisfied? Freshen up and wait for me tonight.]

I tapped her profile picture and blocked her. The WhatsApp ping echoed in the silent waiting room. I pressed block, my thumb trembling, and finally exhaled.

Just as I finished, a ticket confirmation text came in.

At the same time, a WhatsApp message:

[Ticket booked. One month from now.]

[See you in Paris.]

The city’s noise faded for a moment. I clutched my phone, a strange hope bubbling in my chest.

That night, I still dreamed of Rohan.

When we were young, he had a sweet tongue.

“Priya, your eyes are so pretty. Can I always look at them and talk to you?”

I remembered how he’d twirl my braid in school, grinning mischievously. “Priya, your piano playing is beautiful. Can I come listen to your concerts every day?”

“Priya, I like you the most. When I grow up, I want to marry you.”

Those words felt true then. We sat together in class.

After school, we played together.

We’d race our bicycles past the mango trees in our society, the summer air sticky with the smell of ripe fruit, arguing over who got the last orange ice-cream. Even when my parents had a car accident, I was in his family’s car.

Playing rock-paper-scissors with him.

But the two cars were too close.

I watched as a big truck crossed over.

Boom——

The world exploded into sirens and screams. My dad, my mom, my brother, even the little dog I’d raised since I was a child, all struggled in the sea of fire.

For a long time, I couldn’t make a sound.

I needed Rohan to help me fall asleep.

Back then, he was very patient.

He’d sit beside me, telling silly stories about superheroes and lost kittens, his hand squeezing mine until I stopped shaking. He practised speaking with me, told me stories all night long.

If anyone dared call me “mute,” he’d punch them. He once got a black eye for me at school. Marrying him seemed only natural.

The day after I received my university degree, he leaned over my bed at dawn: “Priya, let’s get our certificate.”

That day, we became husband and wife.

In my dream, red roses covered our new flat.

He knelt on the bed and kissed me gently.

He said, Priya, let’s be this happy forever.

But when I opened my eyes, the world was pitch black.

I pulled out my phone; Ananya had sent another message.

A photo. A messy bed, a stain of scarlet.

My heart clenched. The humiliation and betrayal wrapped around me like the old, threadbare shawl my mother used to keep for cold nights. I suddenly felt nauseous.

I rushed into the bathroom and retched. But only tears came out, as if by habit.

In the end, I hugged my knees and sat on the cold floor. The white tiles were icy against my skin. My hair stuck to my damp cheeks, and I let my sobs dissolve into the silence. I must have touched something on my phone, because in the silent night, a deep male voice suddenly sounded:

“Priya?”

My heart skipped a beat.

I picked up the phone.

“Kabir?”

His voice was like a balm—gentle, patient. I almost smiled through my tears.