Chapter 4: Shards and Shadows

Arjun was raging when I woke up.

He’d smashed my phone, broken the wall TV, overturned tables and chairs. When he saw me awake, he stormed over, shoving the mirror at me—jaw clenched, eyes narrowed like I’d tracked mud onto a white bedsheet.

I saw my reflection—still barely dressed, my skin covered in red marks and bruises.

He hissed, "You’re dirty. Disgusting."

"I hate you."

"Don’t want to see you again."

My body throbbed with pain; every step was agony.

But when Arjun had an episode, he vanished.

I had no choice but to search for him.

I didn’t even eat, wandering from noon till midnight, legs trembling, heart pounding. I checked every place he might go. By the end, I could barely stand.

When I finally collapsed by the gate, at 1 a.m., Arjun came back.

There was a girl with him.

She had a dimpled smile, sweet as fresh malai.

She wore a simple silver anklet, the kind you find in Janpath, and her laugh was as bright as a filmi heroine’s.

She looked up at him, "It’s the first time I’ve met someone so like-minded as you. Knowing you is the best part of this concert."

That’s when I realised—Arjun had gone alone to a concert. His phone had died, and he couldn’t find his way home; she brought him back.

Arjun walked slowly, taking forever even on the short path home. They chatted about music, composers, and singers I didn’t know.

Music had always been Arjun’s world.

He trained with a guru, then opened a studio, composing songs everyone hummed.

I just stood by the gate, silent, listening to them talk.

They spoke for half an hour. Arjun never noticed me standing there.

It was the house manager who finally broke the silence.

"Arjun baba, bahut der ho gayi, chaliye andar. Madam wait kar rahi hain."

The girl turned, pausing, "Is this your wife?"

A flicker of discomfort crossed Arjun’s face. He paused, then nodded.

Then added flatly, "Forced. Don’t like her. Really hate her."

I froze, shame crawling up my neck, my mouth dry as old toast. The humiliation was sharp, like biting into raw tamarind. Even the watchman looked away, pretending to check the mailbox.

The girl’s name was Priya Sharma.

Priya tugged at his sleeve, eyes crinkling with her smile. "It’s late, let’s meet next time."

After that, things between Arjun and me dropped to freezing.

He wouldn’t speak to me.

On his birthday, I gifted him the latest over-ear headphones, ordered months in advance.

He burned them to ash with a lighter right in front of me.

"Don’t like you. Don’t like your gifts. Rubbish. I don’t want it."

That year, he spent his birthday with Priya.

Since then, they kept in touch.

Priya started interning at his studio.

One night, he came home wearing a silver ring—her birthday gift.

Staring at the headphone debris scattered across the floor, exhaustion pressed down on me.

I swept up the pieces, hands shaking. The acrid smell of burnt plastic lingered, clinging to my skin. Later, I stood by the kitchen window, rain blurring the city lights, wondering when I’d faded so completely from my own life.

The next day, Dadaji Kapoor called me to the study for a file.

But Arjun never let me in there.

I hesitated. Dadaji insisted—the secretary was already waiting.

So I went, careful to put everything back as it was.

Still, Arjun found out.

His phone was connected to the CCTV.

He stormed home from the studio, eyes dark with anger.

"You can’t go in. Not allowed."

His mood swept through the room like a storm. Because I’d entered the study, he had the entire place scrubbed clean.

I stared at him, confusion spilling out. "Why can’t I go in?"

These days, Priya came over often—they’d talk music in the study all day. Why could she go in, but not me?

"And I’m not dirty. Why do you have people clean the study?"

His face tightened. "She’s not like you. She understands music. She’s a soulmate. You don’t get it. If you go in, it’s dirty."

I’d grown used to his bluntness, but today I couldn’t just swallow it.

I closed my eyes. "Arjun, the way you talk really hurts."

My sugar crashed—I swayed back, and my heel slipped across the study’s threshold.

Arjun’s anger boiled over. Veins bulged on his forehead.

He pointed, voice sharp as broken glass. "Go away. This is my house, not yours. Get out. Don’t come back."

These weren’t new words.

When I first entered the Sharma family, my half-sisters had said the same. Back then, I’d hide in the damp-smelling storeroom, clutching my textbooks, waiting for the shouting to stop.

I thought, someday I’ll have a home of my own.

After marriage, I thought this bungalow was my home.

Even if it couldn’t shelter me from the storm, at least it was mine.

But today, he made it clear—it was never mine. He said the house was in his name, bought with his family’s money. I should leave.

A wave of helplessness threatened to drown me.

I hung my head, silently counting the years.

Met Arjun at fifteen—engagement brought five good years.

Married at twenty—five years of careful service.

Five years repaid the Kapoor family’s kindness.

I was tired.

I wanted a divorce.

Outside, thunder rumbled. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed shut.