In a bustling Gurgaon residential complex skirting the edges of New Delhi, those who see us—the gas cylinder delivery person, the housekeeper, the courier boy—assume my husband and I share the perfect routine. They observe our synchronized mornings and evenings, our timely trash disposal, the methodical alignment of shoes by the doorway, the Sunday ritual of tending to balcony plants, and our penchant for ordering fiery masala noodles. Yet, what none of them fathom is the unspoken reality within our ninth-floor apartment: for a full fifteen years, our pillows have lain separately, never touching.
Our bedroom door remains unlocked, swinging freely like the kitchen and balcony entrances. Despite this openness, an invisible divide runs through our bed’s mattress. His bedside lamp emits a stark white light, contrasting my softer yellow glow, diffused by a delicate cloth shade. On stormy monsoon evenings, I nestle to my left, listening intently as raindrops batter the tin roof. He faces the opposite direction, lying on his right side, back pressed to the wall, his breaths light amid the rainfall.
With quiet care, I hang up his shirts, fold his socks methodically, and place his toothbrush angled precisely at forty-five degrees within its cup. Memories of his forced smiles during family teasing remain vivid:
“When will you allow your parents to hold their grandchildren?”
To which he calmly responded,
“The company is managing a critical project right now.”
Our wedding united us during Sawan, the monsoon season of North India. That evening, a gentle drizzle fell. After the celebration, my mother-in-law, removing her hairpin, reminded me,
“It is the daughter-in-law who keeps the household’s fire alight.”
Yet, the flame inside me faded quietly like an oil lamp losing its fuel. That first night, he spread fresh sheets, placed my favorite book beside the headboard, and softly said,
“You must be exhausted. Rest now.”
He peeled back the quilt and turned away. I stifled a sob as a single pin dropped onto the tiled floor. I told myself it was just the first night. However, as nights passed—second, tenth, hundredth—each attempt to nearness was met with withdrawal, never harshly, but as if avoiding a well-known obstacle.
Throughout, he fulfilled his role as a devoted husband: preparing bottles at dawn, remembering my late mother’s anniversary before I did, venturing through Delhi’s Dawa Bazaar during an epidemic to fetch medicine. My mother admired him, saying,
“You truly are a blessed man.”
Key Insight: I often wondered—blessed for whom?
By our tenth anniversary, I had composed a divorce petition repeatedly saved as ‘der_late.docx’, edited dozens of times. At thirteen years, I printed and left it before him. After reading, he looked up and said,
“Give me some more time.”
“Time for what?” I asked.
His eyes rested on the coat rack.
“Until this season ends.”
Which season could he mean? Was it the monsoon? The mango blossom? Or the season when patience finally wears thin?
I tried every approach: anger, brutal honesty, and even therapy. During sessions, the counselor inquired,
“Do you find it difficult to experience desire?”
He affirmed. Then she asked,
“Is orientation a challenge?”
Again, he nodded. She pressed further,
“Have you endured any trauma?”
This time he remained silent.
During dinners, the urge to shatter plates to break the heavy silence was overwhelming. Over fifteen years, my tears ceased in torrents; they flowed continuously but never washed away the lingering pain.
One rainy afternoon in Delhi, I came home early. Upon entering, his voice drifted from the study:
“Hello, Aarav?”
Aarav was my closest friend since school. Every weekend, they shared beer, and my husband returned late, breath scenting of alcohol, yet his eyes stayed clear. Jealousy never touched me—until now.
“She has filed for divorce again,” my husband sighed.
“Divorce?” asked Aarav, surprised.
He replied bitterly,
“Fifteen years, Aarav.”
“What next?”
“I won’t divorce. I have given my word.”
“Whose vow do you resent? Mine? Or his?”
“Both,” he admitted softly.
I froze as he continued,
“That night, the brakes screeched in my ears still. We share blame. My vow is to ensure his peace; yours is to uphold my strength.”
Trembling, I moved back to the kitchen.
That evening, when I confronted him face to face, I asked,
“Do you love Aarav?”
His answer was unexpected:
“I love promises—from you, and from Aarav.”
Leaving for my mother’s house with only a suitcase and a cactus, I later opened his desk drawer to discover:
- An extensive life insurance policy naming me the beneficiary, with a clause voiding the contract if we divorced within 24 months. Signed September 23, two years prior.
- A chemotherapy receipt from the hematology ward.
- An aged photo of me and a smiling young man at Delhi University, holding a helmet. Rohan—my first love—who I believed had died in a rainy night accident.
- A note scrawled on the photo: “Rohan, showers come early this season.”
- A torn slip with the phrase: “I’m sorry. – V.” (Vikram, my husband)
Upon seeking Aarav, he handed me a letter from Vikram that included the insurance documents and hospital bills. Aarav explained,
“Vikram was battling lymphoma, a fact he hid to ensure the policy’s conditions were met—the signing date was September 23.”
Meeting my gaze meaningfully, Aarav disclosed,
“And Rohan never died. His face was disfigured when Vikram’s car hit his bike that night. Unable to face you, he disappeared. Rohan promised Vikram that he would protect you and let you marry but never be intimate with you.”
At that moment, Aarav removed his glasses, revealing a faint scar. He whispered,
“I am Rohan. Fifteen years by your side, but under another name.”
Confronting Vikram, he simply acknowledged,
“I honored the promise to Rohan. I never touched you. I merely waited until the insurance secured your future.”
He presented his organ donor form, bearing his name.
By the twenty-third of September, Vikram was weak in the hospital. He handed me the signed divorce papers, saying,
“Sign if you wish.”
I paused, placing down the pen, responding,
“You sign first. I will decide later.”
A month following the policy’s validation, we legally ended our marriage. Vikram relocated near the hospital. I moved back to my mother’s and bought a new bed with only a single pillow.
Rohan—formerly Aarav—reached out multiple times. I answered once:
“He never asked for anything, only to say: ‘I’m Rohan, the coward who fled.'”
I replied,
“Now my name is Aarav. You must learn to call me that—and yourself too.”
We reunited by the Yamuna River, where he narrated years of solitude. I listened as though absorbing another woman’s history and admitted,
“I don’t know if love remains. I feel gratitude, anger, and pity. Yet, I want to learn to share a bed’s center.”
Rohan shook his head, promising,
“This time, I will wait. I won’t run anymore.”
Upon returning home, I found a bank slip marked “15 years’ rent – Vikram” and a note:
“I did my part: released the brake, exhaled the breath. Now, do yours: burn the divorce documents, buy flowers, place a pillow in the bed’s center. Should you need help hanging curtains, I’ll come as a neighbor.
Vikram—The man who didn’t touch you, not from lack of love, but fear of loving you wrong.”
I switched on the gentle yellow lamp and placed a round cushion in the mattress’s middle. For the first time after fifteen years, I chose myself.
Conclusion: This profound story reveals the depth of unspoken sacrifices and silent commitments within a marriage shadowed by illness and past tragedies. It challenges the conventional perceptions of love and companionship, reminding us that sometimes enduring love manifests through promises kept in the quiet spaces between two souls. Ultimately, embracing oneself and acknowledging complex emotions marks the beginning of healing and hope.