Chapter 3: Canary's Escape Plan

That afternoon, I scheduled an abortion and bought a plane ticket for seven days later.

The same day as the wedding.

The travel agent looked at me curiously, probably wondering why a girl with swollen eyes and cheap shoes was buying a ticket to London. I just smiled, handed over my Aadhaar, and prayed my father's old passport drama wouldn't delay things.

These next few days, the sugar daddy would send living expenses. I could still get a bit more money.

In my phone, his WhatsApp messages popped up like clockwork: 'Beta, transfer done. Don't forget your vitamins.' He never asked what I needed the money for—just sent it, always late at night, when nobody else would know. I wondered if that was guilt, or habit.

Since they wanted to reveal everything and humiliate me at the wedding—

Why shouldn't I run away first and turn their script into a complete joke?

The thought brought a strange satisfaction. If their drama was a stage, maybe this time I could exit before the curtain fell. I imagined Priya's face when she realised the heroine of her story had disappeared without a trace.

After all, being a full-time canary these years, I've saved up quite a bit.

Especially lately, my savings doubled.

In a little red notebook, I kept all my accounts—scribbled numbers, every rupee tracked. I’d hidden cash in old steel dabbas and slipped gold bangles under my grandmother’s mattress, just in case. My little treasures, invisible to the world.

I used to wonder why Arjun kept forgetting to transfer money, always doing it twice.

Now the mystery was solved: Arjun sent it once, and his brother Kabir sent it again.

I gently touched my little savings account.

The screen glowed with my latest balance—enough, maybe, to buy freedom. I almost laughed at the irony.

I got involved with Arjun in college.

Priya Sharma was my college roommate.

She loved pulling pranks that ruined people's lives.

Back in school, she had a rich friend chase after an ordinary girl.

Every day, showering her with roses, branded gifts, and designer kurtis, endlessly.

The girl had never seen anything like it and fell for him quickly.

On the eve of the board exams, Priya had her friend dump the girl.

Because of the breakup, the girl, who used to have good grades, did terribly on her exams.

Afterwards, she jumped off a building and became bedridden.

Priya happily went to college and became my roommate.

Her side of the room always smelled of imported perfume and hot Cheetos, while mine had the faint scent of coconut oil and textbooks. Even then, the rest of us knew better than to cross her—Priya’s anger could get you barred from the mess for weeks.

She set her sights on me, the girl working three part-time jobs just to survive.

I worked three jobs a day because I was a broke campus beauty with a gambling father, a dead mother, and a sick grandmother.

This time, I became her new game.

Arjun was the male lead she carefully picked for me.

IIT Mumbai's math genius, the campus heartthrob whose candid photos could get thousands of likes on Instagram.

He was also the eldest son of the Malhotra Group, with a limitless future.

She had Arjun pursue me, making me his girlfriend.

According to Priya's script, Arjun would spoil me with money.

Once I got used to all the luxury, he'd dump me, leaving me to crash and burn in the aftermath.

Arjun really was good to me.

He gave me endless gifts, pitied my background, wouldn't let me work, and surprised me every day.

But I'm a hoarder mouse.

No matter how much money Arjun gave me, I saved every bit.

The jewellery he gifted me—I never wore it, just sold it on Flipkart for a good price.

I'm terrified of poverty, and my self-worth is low.

Money—the more I hoard, the safer I feel.

Besides, I'm not stupid. I could sense Arjun was just playing along.

Every time we held hands, I never missed the fleeting mockery in his eyes.

I didn't know why he confessed to me if he didn't like me.

But he really was stupid and rich.

I had to save more—opportunities like this don't come twice.

We dated like ordinary couples: hugged, kissed.

In winter, I knitted him a muffler as a gift.

The day my dadi got seriously ill, I asked Arjun for an expensive birthday present for the first time.

I remember Arjun was stunned at first, then smiled.

I didn't miss the wild joy and playfulness that flashed in his eyes—like a snake finally baring its fangs.

They thought I must have been spoiled rotten and would fall apart.

Everything was going according to their plan.

The next day, Arjun brought up breaking up.

Priya waited eagerly to see me unable to stand the poverty after the breakup, making a scene, pestering Arjun, acting pathetic.

But she found I was still the same—working when I should, going to class when I should, returning to my simple life.

Just a bit more relaxed, cutting down from three jobs to two a day.

Sometimes, I could add a samosa and an egg to my poha.

And have a bottle of Amul flavoured milk after meals.

I even gained three kilos.

My hostel warden pinched my cheek and said, “Beta, you’re looking healthy these days.” There is a peculiar joy in small comforts, the kind only someone who has known hunger can understand.

I didn't beg him to get back together, nor was I heartbroken over Arjun.

I even deleted all of Arjun's contacts after the breakup.

I scrolled through my inbox, deleting tickets and booking mails, my thumb moving faster every time a family group notification popped up. Nothing went as she expected, so she threw a tantrum, thinking the game was boring.

After that, she targeted me in the hostel.

Putting drawing pins in my chappals.

Or pouring cold water on my blanket in winter.

The corridor would fill with shrieks—mine muffled, hers delighted. But I kept my head down, never complained to the warden. That's how girls from chawls survive: quietly, stubbornly.

Later, my dad gambled and owed the Malhotra family a huge debt.

To pay it back, he gave me to them as collateral.

That's how I accidentally became Arjun's canary.

Actually, I'd been planning to live well with him lately.

Arjun was always cold and distant, never touched me.

But starting this year, he suddenly began to kiss me.

That night, he came home drunk.

I helped him to the sofa and made him some adrak chai for his hangover.

The whole flat was filled with the spicy-sweet scent of ginger and tea leaves. I sat beside him, holding the chipped white mug between my hands. He looked so tired, tie loose, hair falling into his eyes.

He suddenly wrapped his arms around my waist, pulled me into his embrace, and gently kissed my lips.

I had rarely kissed before, and almost ran out of breath.

He chuckled softly. "So this is what it tastes like—sweet."

"Next time you kiss, remember to breathe."

That night, he let me taste the forbidden fruit for the first time.

After that, he liked to try all sorts of exciting things with me.

When he pulled me close, I caught the faint scent of whisky and Davidoff, a sharp reminder this wasn’t my world. He always brushed my hand away when I reached for protection, like it was a game only he got to play.

He liked to mess with me when the maid and the cook were around.

I could only bite my lip and desperately hold back.

The more I did, the more fun he found it.

He had a habit: when we were together at night, he liked to make me call his name again and again.

"What's my name?"

"Arjun, you're Arjun."

"Wrong, say it again."

"What's wrong with you, Arjun, mm..."

He suppressed the wildness in his eyes.

The more I called his name, the rougher he became.

He was a bit strange when he was like that—like a mad dog that needed to be petted just right.

But he liked to act spoiled, liked to kiss me, knew my stomach was weak, and made khichdi to warm it.

On my birthday, he set off fireworks by the Juhu beach all night.

As the fireworks burst, I heard the distant call of chana sellers and the salty wind tangled my hair. He stroked my hair and said, "Baby, let's live well together."

When I had nightmares, he would wake me up, gently hold me in his arms, and say, "Good girl, don't be afraid."

I gradually found myself liking him a little.

A few months ago, again, he pressed me onto the bed, refusing to use protection.

I asked, "What if I get pregnant?"

He kissed me. "Then have the baby, I'll take care of it."

He was the one who proposed marriage.

That night, after everything ended, he leaned over me and said:

"Baby, don't just be my lover anymore—be my wife."

Now that I think about it, from the very first time we slept together, it was no longer Arjun, but Kabir, wasn't it?

And the proposal was just another cruel prank.

I really did want to have this child.

Now, it seems, there's no need.

My hands rested unconsciously on my belly, and for a second, I wondered if anyone would ever know—if anyone would care.