It has been fifteen years, yet I never once lay with my husband—until I stumbled upon a conversation between him and his closest friend.
The gas cylinder man, the maid, the delivery boy in our Gurgaon housing complex (on the edge of New Delhi), still believe that my husband and I are an ideal office couple: leaving together in the morning, returning at dusk, throwing out the trash on the right day, arranging shoes neatly by the entrance, watering balcony plants on Sundays, ordering spicy masala noodles. None of them realize the only true fact inside that ninth-floor flat: for fifteen years, our two pillows have never touched.
Our bedroom has no lock. The door swings like the kitchen’s, like the one to the balcony. Yet the mattress is split by an unseen river. His lamp stands tall with a harsh white glow. Mine is soft yellow, covered with a thin cloth shade. On stormy monsoon nights, I curl on my left, listening to rain pound the tin roof. He turns on his right, back against the wall, breathing lightly as the water rushes down.
I carefully hang his shirts, fold his socks, place the toothbrush at a forty-five-degree slant in the cup. I also recall too clearly the smile that never touched his eyes whenever relatives teased:
— When will you let your parents cradle grandchildren?
His reply was always:
— The company is handling a major project.
We married in Sawan, the rainy season of North India. It drizzled faintly that wedding night. After the feast, my mother-in-law removed her hairpin and told me:
— It is the daughter-in-law who keeps the household fire burning.
But the flame within me dimmed, like an oil lamp running dry. That first night, he spread fresh sheets, set my favorite book by the headboard and whispered:
— You’re tired, rest.
He pulled away the quilt and turned aside. I bit my lip when I heard a pin drop onto the tiled floor.
Only the first night, I thought. Yet on the second, the tenth, the hundredth, each time I moved closer, he withdrew. Never cruelly, only as if skirting a stone he already knew by heart.
He remained a dutiful husband: mixing bottles early at dawn, remembering my mother’s death anniversary before I did, during the epidemic circling Delhi’s Dawa Bazaar to buy medicine. My mother would praise him:
— You are truly blessed.
I smiled bitterly: Blessed for whom?
By the tenth year, I drafted a divorce petition, saved as der_late.docx. Deleted, rewrote, over and over. By the thirteenth, I printed and placed it before him. He read, looked up:
— Give me some time.
— Time until when?
He stared at the coat rack:
— After this season.
Which season? Monsoon? Mango bloom? Or the season when patience finally ends?
I tried everything: rage, blunt honesty, counseling. The therapist questioned:
— Do you struggle with desire?
He nodded.
— With orientation?
He nodded again.
— With trauma?
This time silence.
At dinner, I longed to smash plates, just to hear sound break through emptiness.
Fifteen years. I stopped sobbing. Tears came like dishwater running, but the oil never rinsed away.
One day, I returned early. Rain burst suddenly in Delhi. As I opened the door, I heard his voice inside the study:
— Hello, Aarav?
Aarav—my dearest friend from high school. Every Saturday, he and Aarav drank beer, he came home late, breath smelling of liquor, yet his eyes stayed clear. I never felt jealous. Until that day.
— She filed for divorce again, — my husband sighed.
— Divorce? — Aarav sounded shocked.
He laughed bitterly: — Fifteen years, Aarav.
— What now?
— I will not divorce. I gave my word.
— I despise that vow. To whom did you promise? To me or to him?
— To both.
I froze. He continued softly:
— That night, I still hear the brakes screech.
Then silence.
— We are both to blame. My duty is to let him rest at night. Yours is to give me strength.
I trembled in the kitchen.
That evening, face to face, I asked:
— Do you love Aarav?
He answered:
— I love promises. From you. From Aarav.
…
I left for my mother’s house, carrying a suitcase, a cactus, and opened his desk drawer. Inside I found:
A hefty life insurance policy naming me as beneficiary. Clause: “If marital status changes within twenty-four months, contract becomes void.” Date signed: September 23, two years earlier.
A receipt from the hematology ward for chemotherapy.
An old photograph: me with a boy at Delhi University gate, helmet in his hand, smiling wide. Rohan—my first love. I believed he had di:ed in a rainy-night cr:ash.
On the back I had written: “Rohan, showers always come early this season.”
Beside it, a slip of paper: “I’m sorry. – V.” (Vikram, my husband).
I sought Aarav. He gave me a letter from Vikram. Inside: the insurance files, hospital bills. Aarav explained:
— Vikram had lymphoma. He hid it so the policy would take effect. Signed September 23.
Then he met my gaze:
— And… Rohan did not di:e. That night Vikram’s car braked and struck Rohan’s bike. His face was disfigured. He couldn’t bear you seeing him. He vanished. He promised Vikram: he would let you marry, protect you, but never touch you.
I was shaken. Aarav removed his glasses, exposing a faint scar. He whispered:
— I am Rohan. I took the name Aarav. For fifteen years I remained near you, only under another identity.
…
When I confronted Vikram, he nodded:
— I kept the vow to Rohan. I never touched you. I only waited until the insurance secured your future.
He handed me his organ donation form. Donor’s name: Vikram Sharma.
By September 23, Vikram lay frail in the hospital. He gave me signed divorce papers:
— Sign them if you wish.
I set down the pen:
— You sign first. I’ll… decide later.
A month afterward, when the policy was validated, we divorced officially. Vikram shifted to a flat near the hospital. I went back to my mother’s, purchased a new bed with only one pillow.
Aarav—Rohan—called several times. Once I picked up.
— He never asked anything, only to tell you: “I’m Rohan. The coward who ran away.”
I answered:
— My name is Aarav now. You must learn to call me that. And call yourself too.
We met by the Yamuna river. Peering at me through a tea-stall window, he described his years of exile. I listened carefully, as if hearing another woman’s tale. I admitted:
— I don’t know if love remains. I feel gratitude, fury, pity. But I wish to learn to lie in the middle of a bed.
Rohan shook his head:
— This time I’ll wait. Right here. I won’t flee again.
…
When I returned, Vikram had left a bank slip marked “15 years rent – Vikram” and a note:
“I did my share: released the brake, let out the breath.
You do yours: burn the divorce files, buy flowers, place a pillow in the center of the bed. If someday you need someone to hang curtains, I’ll arrive as a neighbor.
Vikram – The man who didn’t touch you not from lack of love, but from fear of loving you wrongly.”
I turned on the yellow lamp, set the round cushion in the middle of the mattress. After fifteen years, for the very first time, I chose myself.
