Chapter 1: Promises Written in Plaits

Since I was a little girl, my destiny had already been spoken for—I was to become the Kapoor family’s bahu.

Even before I could tell jalebi from imli or learn carrom tricks, the elders had already whispered my future into the smoky corners of living rooms, tying my life to the grand old Kapoor bungalow. The place had a brass nameplate, and every morning the air was thick with sandalwood agarbatti. My mother would half-laugh, half-sigh, “Ritu beta, you’ll see. These things are decided when you’re still in school uniform, hair in plaits.”

At twenty, I married Arjun Kapoor, who was on the autism spectrum.

My wedding lehenga was so heavy, the zari scraping my ankles, and the mehendi on my hands had barely faded when I stepped into my new home. They all called it an auspicious match; the astrologer nodded with that secretive smile. Still, not even the scent of marigold garlands could settle the nervous ache in my belly, the way everyone’s hopes pressed at my back, straightening my posture whether I liked it or not.

After five years of marriage, Arjun never warmed up to me.

Five monsoons, five Diwalis—never once did he soften. His words were always short, eyes flicking away when I walked in. Every family gathering was a battle of forced smiles and careful silences. Sometimes, the hush in our house was so thick, even the fan seemed scared to whir too loudly.

He kept his distance, always finding a reason to sleep elsewhere.

On festival nights, when couples lit diyas together, I’d stand on the verandah alone, watching Arjun fiddle with his music player, lost in his own world. Even a brush of my hand made him jerk away, like he’d touched a live wire.

Then, he met a girl.

She entered his life like the first monsoon shower after a long, burning May—soft, sudden, full of promise. I saw it in the way he sat up straighter, the rare, genuine smile—awkward, but real—whenever her name came up.

With her, he’d try to control his temper, even try to please her in his own clumsy way.

He wrote songs for her, picked out gifts.

Even the study, his sacred space, was wide open for her.

That’s when I understood: Arjun’s heart belonged to someone else, and I was done being his caretaker.

So, I went to Dadaji Kapoor.

I told him, quietly but firmly, that I wanted a divorce.