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, perched on the edge of New Delhi, all still believe my husband and I are the perfect office couple: leaving together in the morning, returning at dusk, taking out the trash on schedule, arranging shoes neatly by the entrance, watering balcony plants on Sundays, ordering spicy masala noodles. None of them know the truth behind the locked door of our ninth-floor flat: for fifteen years, our pillows have never touched.
Our bedroom has no lock. The door swings freely, like the kitchen’s, like the balcony’s. Yet the mattress is split by an invisible river. His lamp casts a harsh white glow; mine glows soft yellow, draped in a thin cloth shade. On stormy monsoon nights, I curl on my left, listening to rain pound the tin roof, while he turns on his right, back against the wall, breathing lightly as the water rushes down.
I hang his shirts with care, fold his socks, tilt the toothbrush in its cup at forty-five degrees. I recall too clearly the smile that never reached 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 whispered:
— 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, placed 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. But on the second, the tenth, the hundredth, each time I moved closer, he withdrew—not cruelly, only as if sidestepping a stone he already knew.
He remained a dutiful husband: mixing bottles at dawn, remembering my mother’s death anniversary before I did, circling Delhi’s Dawa Bazaar for medicine during the epidemic. My mother praised 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 it 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 asked:
— 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 over Delhi. As I opened the door, I heard his voice from the study:
— Hello, Aarav?
Aarav—my dearest friend from high school. Every Saturday, he drank with Aarav, returned home late, breath smelling of liquor, yet eyes 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 and 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, helmet in hand, smiling wide. Rohan—my first love. I believed he had died in a rainy-night crash.
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 handed me a letter from Vikram, with 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 die. 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, revealing 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 handed me signed divorce papers:
— Sign them if you wish.
I set down the pen:
— You sign first. I’ll… decide later.
A month later, when the policy was validated, we divorced officially. Vikram moved near the hospital. I returned 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 say: “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.
