The lights were off. Lying in bed, I was scrolling through Instagram Reels, and I was feeling increasingly restless. Whats wrong with Instagram—every other reel is either about women who proudly call themselves housewives, talking about how they quit their jobs and chose to be housewives and how happy they are; or reels where girls are dancing and changing outfits; or of men spreading propaganda and hate against independent women. The more reels I watched, the more anxious I felt. A one-second reel doesn't show anyone's entire life. I know how dangerous it is to depend on a man—there's no bigger foolishness than that. And the people badmouthing independent women? Are they going to come and run those women's households and solve their problems? Ugh, it's all just so stupid. I should just delete my Instagram account.
Rajat hadn't told me the name of that employee until the very last hour, and instead, he placed baseless accusations on me. I felt suffocated. I wanted to speak, but I couldn't. This feeling of helplessness was eating me alive. If I had a strong shoulder to lean on—if I had a husband like Pratibha's—would I still be in this situation? That question kept gnawing at me. I felt small, crushed. I don't know how long the tears flowed from my eyes, and then suddenly, a sob escaped.
Suddenly, Varsha's concerned voice came—"Didi, are you crying?"
I couldn't answer; my throat was choked.
Varsha: "Say something…"
I wiped my tears, got up slowly, and lay down next to her in her bed. I placed my hand over hers and buried my face into her back. She placed her hand gently over mine, pressed it lightly, and asked softly, "What happened?"
In a tearful, slightly aching voice, I said, "Nothing… I just miss mom."
Varsha turned toward me and slowly began to stroke my back. We stayed like that for a long time. Then she got up and made ginger and cardamom tea—after which the pain in my throat eased, and even my constantly running nose took a break.
Then I said softly, "Varsha, you should get married. I'll save up your dowry."
Varsha: "What nonsense are you suddenly spouting, Didi ( elder sister ) ? Have you lost your mind?"
Me: "Varsha, my time for marriage has passed, but your life is just beginning. If there's a guy you like, or someone who likes you and is kind, thoughtful, then say yes. Get married, build a home, have your own children."
Varsha: "First of all, you're just thirty—you can still get married. If only you took better care of yourself, you could make guys twist their necks to look at you. Second, what about our promise? That we'll stay together forever? Never get married? And third—what's happened to you all of a sudden?"
Me: "I just realized a truth—until you have a strong support system, everyone will try to crush you. And if something happens to me tomorrow, you'll be left all alone. That thought haunts me. If you had your own family, at least you wouldn't have to rely on anyone else."
Varsha: "What's changed now that you suddenly want support? You're the one who always said we don't need anyone. You refused to even go stay with Papa. I'm your support, and you're mine. And even if I get married, who's to say the guy will be good? What if he turns out toxic like Papa and leaves me helpless like Mom? It's better you give me my dowry now, we'll invest it, make a ton of money, travel the world, and buy a house in the mountains. What do you say? Good idea, right?"
Suddenly, my worries disappeared. "Okay, as you wish—but if you really do find a good guy, at least put 'getting married' on your bucket list too."
Then the two of us sisters talked for hours—about Pratibha, her husband, her kids, the politics at the office—and we didn't even realize when we fell asleep.
The day of the office party had arrived. Varsha had picked out everything—my clothes and my footwear. A maroon gown and golden sandals. When I wore the gown, it felt like there was no softer or more comfortable fabric in the world; it glided over my skin like a layer of cream. Varsha even helped me get ready—I had no idea how to do makeup. She was explaining how to maintain it throughout the party and how to touch it up now and then. Just then, the doorbell rang, and Varsha went to open it.
Rajeev was standing outside, smiling. He had brought Varsha's favorite Belgian chocolate ice cream, and for me, coconut cream. Varsha went to the kitchen to put them in the fridge.
I came out and, lost in my own thoughts, began speaking—"Varsha, who is it? Should I not go? I feel really weird in this dress."
I felt someone's eyes on me. I looked up—and there was Rajeev standing in front of me, smiling. He was in full black. For the first time, I saw him in an Armani suit. His tall frame and fair skin looked even more striking. For a moment, I wondered—who is this stranger? This couldn't possibly be the same clumsy Rajeev.
He cleared his throat slightly and, with a deep smile on his face, stepped closer and said, "How do I look?"
From behind, Varsha's voice chimed in—"Heartthrob! Today no girl's going to be able to take her eyes off you."
Rajeev: "Really? But the one I'm waiting to notice me doesn't even give me a second glance. What's the point?"
Me: "You probably opened that big mouth of yours and cracked some gross joke in front of her. Serves you right. You deserve it."
Rajeev: "Come on, my jokes aren't gross—they're witty comments. And I've seen you laughing at them till your belly hurt."
Me: "As your friend, I have to pretend. It's called preserving a friend's dignity."
Rajeev laughed: "Oh really? Alright then, let's go. Pratibha's waiting—she's in the car downstairs."
Gathering my gown, slipping on my sandals, and grabbing my handbag, I said reluctantly, "Hmm, fine. I'm ready."
Rajeev opened the door and tightly held my hand. It felt strange—he'd never done that before. I said goodbye to Varsha, and we both left the house. Noticing my discomfort, he let go of my hand, and we began descending the stairs.
Rajeev, wiping sweat: "Are you crazy or what? You took an apartment without a lift—and on the sixth floor? Why? Be honest, you enjoy suffering, don't you? And now poor Varsha has to suffer with you too. How many times have I said there's a flat in my building, I could get it for you cheap—come live there. But madam values her pride more than our lives."
Me: "You could've waited in the car like Pratibha. A phone call and I'd have come down."
Rajeev: "You? Who can trust you? You literally just said—" mimicking me—"'I don't feel like going, should I just skip it?' You girls and your moods—no one knows what you'll do next. And it's us poor guys who get caught in the chaos."
Me: "I still could say no and not go. What would you do then? Come up or not—I'll always do what I want."
Rajeev: "Listen, if after all this effort you back out now, I'll carry you down like a sack of potatoes."
Me: "Try it, and I'll file a POSH complaint against you the next day. Don't test me."
Rajeev, who was walking ahead, leaping down the stairs like some giant with long strides, suddenly stopped. Then, climbing back up just as quickly, he returned to me. Before I could turn around and go back, he placed his hands on either side of the stair wall, blocking my way. His face was right in front of mine—my breath caught. For the first time, I noticed the color of his eyes—they were a deep hazel, piercing to the soul, strangely familiar yet distant.
He whispered, "Do you even know the procedure for filing a POSH complaint? And when management asks for a reason, what will you say? That he threw me in the car like a sack of potatoes? That'll be a sight. Fun, right? Let's try it."
And suddenly, he snapped back into action with that same mischievous smile I knew so well.
I yelled, "Rajeev, stop joking! I'll fall—and I swear I'll never talk to you again!" I couldn't understand why he was acting so strangely. For a second, I even suspected—had he been drinking? I tried to sniff him, but he stepped back, giving me space to breathe.
Rajeev laughed: "Threats, threats, and more threats—that's all I ever get."
Then his tone got changed-". I've got the "name" for you. But if you want to know who is it, get in the car, now."
Me: "Really?"
Rajeev: "Hmm."
I pushed past him and quickly hurried down the stairs. From behind, I heard Rajeev call out—"slow down, be Careful!"