A month afterward, when the policy was validated, we divorced officially. Vikram shifted to a flat near the hospital.
I went back 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 tell you: “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.
