29/08/2025
It’s been 15 years, but I’ve never slept with my husband – until I overheard this conversation between him and his best friend.
The gas delivery man, the cleaning lady, the delivery boy in our Gurgaon apartment complex (a suburb of New Delhi), everyone still thinks my husband and I are the perfect office couple: leaving in the morning and returning in the evening, taking out the garbage on the right day, keeping shoes neatly at the door, watering the balcony plants on weekends and ordering masala noodles. No one knows that one thing is absolutely true in that ninth-floor apartment: for fifteen years, our two pillows have never met each other.
The bedroom has no lock. The door opens into the kitchen door, the balcony door. But the bed is as if divided into two parts by an invisible river. Its lamp stands upright in white light. Mine is yellow, with a cloth canopy. On rainy monsoon nights, I lie on my left side and listen to the sound of rain on the corrugated iron roof. He lies on his right side, back to the wall, sighing slowly as if pouring water.
I am used to him hanging his shirts neatly, folding his socks in half and placing his toothbrush in a cup at a 45-degree angle. I also remember well the smile that never met his eyes when relatives asked:
— When will you let your parents hold their grandchildren?
He replied:
— The company is busy with a big project.
We got married in the month of Sawan, which is the rainy season in North India. It rained lightly on the wedding night. After the party, my mother-in-law took off her hairpins and said:
— It is the daughters who keep the fire burning.
But the fire inside me slowly died out like an oil lamp. That night, she laid out new sheets, put my favorite book at the head of the bed and said:
— You are tired, go to sleep.
She pulled the blanket and turned her back. I bit my lip as I listened to the sound of a needle falling on the tiled floor.
Just the first night, I thought. But the second, the tenth, the hundredth night, every time I advanced, he would retreat. Not rudely, just as if avoiding a familiar stone.
He was still a good husband: early in the morning he would mix bottles, remember my mother’s death anniversary more than I do, during the pandemic, he would circle around entire houses in Delhi’s Dawa Bazar. My mother praised:
— You are so lucky.
I smiled sarcastically: Whose luck?
In the tenth year, I typed a draft of the divorce petition, named the file der_late.docx. Deleted and rewrote it over and over again. In the thirteenth year, I printed it out and gave it to him. He read it, looked up:
— Give me time.
— How much time?
He looked at the coat hanger:
— After this season.
Which season? The rainy season? The season of mango blossoms? Or the season when people stop waiting?
I tried everything: anger, straightforwardness, marriage counseling. The therapist asked:
— Do you have a problem with desires?
He nodded.
— About se:x:u:al orie:ntation?
He nodded.
— About trauma?
He remained silent.
At dinner, I wanted to break plates to hear a voice instead of silence.
Fifteen years. I stopped crying. Tears flowed like water from washing dishes, but the oil would not wash off.
That day, I came home early. It suddenly rained in Delhi. As soon as I opened the door, I heard his voice in the office:
Hello, Aarav?
Aarav - my best friend from high school. Every Saturday afternoon, he would go out to drink beer with Aarav, come home late, smelling slightly of alcohol, but with clear eyes. I had never felt jealous. Till that day. Full story in 1st comment 👇👇
