Chapter 3: Shattered Illusions

I sat in the study, staring at the torn stockings, lost in thought for a long time. The soft yellow lamp barely touched the corners of the room. I fingered the ruined stockings, Amma’s warnings echoing in my mind. Even the whir of the ceiling fan sounded mournful. My palms were clammy, and I wiped them on my saree, feeling more out of place than ever.

For the first time, I realised Arjun wasn’t pretending—he truly didn’t like me. All these years, I’d lied to myself, believing patience and love could change things. But tonight, staring at the evidence in my hands, I finally saw the truth. My heart clenched with pain both old and new.

I remembered my arrival in the Mehra family—I came with my one steel trunk, the scent of nimbu achaar and train dust clinging to my clothes. At eighteen, I knew I was meant to marry Arjun one day. Everyone in the colony whispered—the orphan girl from Indore, chosen for the city’s most eligible bachelor. Dadi’s kindness had felt like a blessing, now it felt like a trap.

He was always cold, the high-society ladies couldn’t stand his icy ways. At parties, Arjun stood apart, scanning the crowd. The other girls tried to charm him, but he shrugged them off. They called him "the Mehra iceberg," and I always thought it was shyness, not indifference.

So Dadi chose me as Arjun’s backup bride in case he refused to marry. Dadi, with her shrewd eyes and soft hands, took me aside one evening. “Beta, if Arjun refuses those other girls, you’ll step in. The family’s respect is everything.” I nodded, not understanding the weight of those words.

At the time, it seemed like a fairytale—chosen, wanted. I convinced myself it was fate, not charity. Even when I missed Amma’s faded sarees and the sharp tang of raw mango, I told myself I was lucky.

He was handsome, tall as a deodar tree, and I admired him. In the morning sun, he looked almost regal. I watched him from the kitchen doorway, heart fluttering, believing admiration would turn into love.

When I turned twenty-one, Dadi brought up marriage. She sat me down with a steel dabba of sweets, her eyes crinkling. “Meera, it’s time.” My heart leapt with excitement and dread. The house buzzed with preparations, even though Arjun barely seemed to notice.

Arjun wasn’t particularly happy, but he didn’t object either. He simply nodded when Dadi told him. No smile, no complaints. Just acceptance, as if he was signing another business contract. I told myself he was shy, not cold.

I always thought, as long as I worked hard, I could melt this iceberg. I watched every romantic movie, learned his favourite dishes, memorised his schedule. I believed that if I loved him enough, he would change. Amma always said, “Patience, beta. Even stone wears down with water.”

Looking back now, I was so naive. I laughed bitterly, my tears drying on my cheeks. All those late nights, all those sacrifices—for what? The silence of the study swallowed my dreams whole.

After sitting for a long time, I contacted the caretaker at the old house, telling him I’d return tomorrow. I typed out the message with shaking hands, my thumb hovering before pressing send. I didn’t know if I was running away or finally coming home.

I also spent ages figuring out how to tell Dadi I wanted a divorce. I rehearsed my speech a hundred times, pacing the room, clutching a pillow to my chest. How do you break a grandmother’s heart without shattering your own?

It was late at night when I finally returned to the bedroom, my eyes red and swollen. I crept in quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. My reflection was almost unrecognizable—eyes puffy, skin blotchy, hair a tangled mess. I wrapped myself in a blanket and lay awake, counting the hours until morning.