Chapter 2: Under Watchful Eyes

I had just come back from shopping.

It was one of those Delhi afternoons where the air clings to your skin, sunlight pooling on the marble floors. The faint buzz of the ceiling fan mixed with the distant honk of autos and the scent of pressure-cooked dal drifting from the kitchen. Arjun sat on the sofa, scrolling his phone, his face unreadable.

He barely looked up. “Where did you go?”

No pleasantries, not even a glass of water. From the kitchen, Sunita’s bangles jingled, then stilled as she peeked out, curiosity written all over her face.

I held up my shopping bag. “Went shopping. Bought a few things.”

He frowned. “Shopping again? Sunita said you just bought a bunch of stuff yesterday.”

I could picture Sunita gossiping with the other staff—kya madam roz-roz shopping karti hain!

“I see what Kunal and the others said is true—you really are materialistic, obsessed with money...”

His voice carried the sharpness of borrowed gossip, his gaze dropping to the Sunehra bag in my hand.

The Sunehra logo gleamed in the afternoon light—a Delhi status symbol, worth more than my entire monthly allowance. His jaw tightened.

“Meera, you actually bought a Sunehra bag? Where did you get the money for that?”

I blinked innocently. “Aap hi toh dete ho mujhe har mahine. Aur kisne dega?”

He bristled. “Don’t I know how much I give you? ₹10,000 a month—what can you do with that?”

His voice echoed in the big living room, and I caught Sunita’s silhouette, still as a shadow behind the kitchen door.

I looked at him steadily. “But didn’t you say before that ₹10,000 a month was enough?”

I kept my face calm, adjusting my dupatta just so. The TV in the next room blared a saas-bahu serial, laugh tracks spilling into our argument.

“If you think ₹10,000 is too little, why did you just accuse me of being materialistic?”

My words left the air heavy, the silence broken only by the ping of a WhatsApp message from the family group.

Arjun’s ears flushed red. He fumbled with his phone, tapping it nervously on the glass table.

Just then, his phone rang. He shot me a look, then hurried out, shoulders stiff—the smallest details you learn after living together.

I retreated to my room, closing the door quietly behind me. I sat on the bed, letting out a long, shaky breath. The honking from the street outside, the serial’s background music, the clatter of steel tiffins—all of Delhi kept moving.

My phone buzzed. Kunal messaged:

[Meera, did you like what you bought today? 😏]

[Do you still have enough money?]

Before I could reply, the second message vanished—deleted in haste.

Amusement flickered through my unease. I was used to being watched, whispered about—but this was a new game.

The bank app pinged: ₹2 lakh deposited.

That’s the thing. A real man never asks a woman if she has enough money—he just sends it.

In this, Arjun’s friends were far more generous than he’d ever been.

Sometimes, the universe’s irony is sharper than Delhi’s summer sun. Maybe Arjun should take notes from his own friends.