Chapter 2: Portraits, Police, and Old Wounds

I found a stack of portraits of Neha in Rohan’s locker!

His locker, always smelling faintly of Rexine and Axe body spray, was crammed with notebooks and half-torn textbooks. But seeing those careful pencil sketches of Neha—her delicate hair tied with a blue ribbon, that soft smile—made my heart stop for a second.

My mind went blank. He was dead for sure!

Jealousy stabbed through me, sharp and bitter. Even in this new life, would I always be second to Neha? Humiliation burned in my chest—was I just a shadow again? I glanced at my reflection in the glass pane beside the lockers; for a moment, Neha’s features seemed to overlay mine, ghostly and perfect.

Just like that, the rage flared up inside me. Only in India could someone’s love life end over such a small thing—and here I was, ready to turn it into a full-blown crime scene. Maa Kasam!

Without another word, I rushed over and slapped him twice, scratching up his face!

The sound echoed through the corridor, making two juniors drop their steel tiffins in shock. My nails left red lines across his cheek—my signature, apparently. A faint 'ting' rang out as someone’s tiffin rolled away, while from a classroom, the distant drone of a Hindi song filtered out, grounding the chaos in the bustle of real school life. "Arey, yeh kya kar rahi hai, Priya!" someone whispered, but I was too far gone to care.

At first, he just dodged, smirking like it was all some big joke. Typical Rohan—never taking things seriously unless absolutely forced.

Then, panicking, he shoved me away!

"Kya ho gaya tujhe? Pagal ho gayi hai kya?"

I grabbed the portraits and smashed them into his face!

The pages fluttered everywhere—Neha’s gentle smile now crumpled and torn. I wanted him to feel just a fraction of my humiliation, my jealousy, the burning ache inside me.

"I’m mad? You’re the sick one! Secretly sketching your bhabhi—aren’t you disgusting?"

In our college, the word ‘bhabhi’ carried special sting—a jab that meant you’d crossed a line. The boys hanging nearby snickered, but Rohan’s face darkened even further.

Looking at the scattered sketches on the ground, Rohan’s eyes turned bloodshot. He looked like he was about to cry or break something—hard to tell which. His fists balled up, knuckles white as chalk.

"Priya, I’ve never met anyone as vile and nasty as you!"

"You’re just jealous of Neha, full of malice! But you can’t compare to her—not even a little!"

"Why wasn’t it you who died back then?"

That line. I’d heard it so many times before, but every time, it cut deeper than any slap. My hands started trembling.

I’d heard that line too many times. It was the one phrase that always found its mark, no matter how hard I tried to be tough. My insides twisted, my ears rang.

But every time I heard it, I still snapped!

Anger boiling over, I could feel my blood pounding in my ears. The world blurred, and it was just me, him, and the urge to break something—anything.

I grabbed a plastic stool and charged at him!

"Go to hell!"

It was the cheap blue one from the canteen, the kind every school has, and it made a loud crack as it hit the ground. Someone shouted, “Bas karo, yaar!” but no one dared step in.

That day, we brawled our way into the police station!

It was almost comical—two college kids, covered in bruises, yelling at each other while the constables sipped their chai and rolled their eyes. The sub-inspector gave us that look only a weary Mumbai cop can pull off.

The sub-inspector looked at me sympathetically: "Did you suffer domestic violence?"

He spoke in a low voice, glancing at the other lady constable as if to say, “Another drama, hain na?” I wiped my face, feeling the sting of humiliation—my pride bruised, but a laugh bubbling up at the absurdity. For a second, I flashed back to a TV serial scene I’d watched with Maa, where the heroine did dramatic rona-dhona at the thana. The constable offered me a cup of water in a plastic glass, the rim still warm from the chai he’d just finished.

I sneered.

"Who do you think you’re looking down on? This is mutual assault, got it? Mutual!"

Even though my hair was a mess and my face was bruised—

But Rohan’s head was bleeding!

I totally won that round!

The constable offered me a cup of water, whispering, “Beta, don’t waste your life like this.” I just shrugged, because for me, this was victory.

Walking out of the police station, we pointed at each other’s noses.

We stood outside, under the flickering tubelight, still fuming.

"This marriage is over!"

"Whoever doesn’t get divorced is a kutta!"

That last line echoed down the lane, making a chaiwala chuckle and shake his head. It was the ultimate desi challenge—neither of us willing to be the kutta.

But in the end, when the truck came, it was his hand that reached for mine, not Neha’s.