“She asked me where I go when I leave at midnight. I couldn’t tell her — I go to the old age home. To sit with her ailing father who doesn’t remember anyone. He calls me ‘beta’ and asks for Rhea. I tell him, ‘She’s coming tomorrow, Papa.’ Every night, I lie. Every night, I hope. Tum bin jaoon kahan — without her, where would I go?”
Behind her, hidden behind a concrete pillar, stood Arjun — her husband of seven years. They hadn’t spoken in three days, not since the argument that shattered their dinner plates and their silences. “You never put us first,” she had yelled. “You and your charity cases, your orphanage, your endless nights away.” He had said nothing. Just picked up the broken pieces of ceramic and his heart.
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