Aisha Kapoor
Ishould have known I was marrying the wrong man the day I found out he liked hischaiblack.
But clearly, I didn’t think it would turn out to be a major red flag. At the time, I was a lovesick fool, thinking it was one of his “quirks.” Now I think it’s utter bullshit.
I am yet to find another desi person who likes theirchaiblack. No milk. No sugar. Atrocious.
“Why does mychaihave so much sugar in it? And milk?” Reyansh questions, annoying me in the morning itself
Reyansh Carter—my dear husband, who once was the light of my eyes—has apparently made it his life’s mission to annoy me every single morning with his weird requests. Though he is half Indian—from his father’s side—he clearly takes after his British mother, who reeks of elegance and etiquette, though she is the sweetest woman alive. I used to think he was a great combination of wit and intelligence. Little did I know.
I heave in a calm breath, smoothing a hand over my beige pencil skirt as I make my way out of our kitchen—my properchaiin hand. With milk and sugar.
“How many times have I told you that if you want that thing that tastes like poison derived from the gates of hell itself, then you have to mention it as black tea? If you ask me to make youchai, then you will get a properchai,” I say with a smile on myface, even when my insides burn with something other than just agitation.
Is it because my husband of six years doesn’t remember today is my birthday eve? Or is it because he is just a man? Or is it because after six years the love in our relationship that everyone used to praise has fizzled out?
He rolls his eyes, taking a sip from the cup with a grimace plastered on his face as if I made him drink expired milk.
“It’s been six years to our marriage, Aisha.” He shakes his head, breaking his toast into pieces before taking a bite. “You should know by now what I like and what I don’t.”
I look at him from over my cup, sipping my hotchaiand burning the tip of my tongue. A retort sits on my tongue, but I refrain from saying it out loud. I want to say that nothing has remained the same in these past six years. That in these six years both of us have changed so much to the point that I can’t recognize who we were back in university, when we were falling madly for each other. Back when one look from each other was enough to say what words could not.
Now, no matter how much we talk to each other, we are still not able to understand what we want.
“Well, I am not the same woman you fell for six years ago now, am I, Reyansh?” I ask, hope lingering in my heart that maybe his answer would make me feel slightly better.
But I have learned from the past that hoping leads to nothing. Especially from my dear husband.
After all, when has he actually stood up to my expectations?
He looks at me for a beat, his hazel brown eyes, the ones that used to warm me up from one look itself, gazing deeply into mine. If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed for the worse in the past six years, it’s his beauty. Reyansh Carter remains the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on. He can give any Bollywood hero a run for their money with his chiseled jawline,the beard that is the perfect amount and always styled, and hair that is as smooth as silk that no amount of gel can keep in place.
He gulps down the entire cup in one go before letting his thoughts out.
“You are still the same for me, Aisha,” he says, and for a moment I let myself believe in our dying marriage. But his next words prove otherwise. “But I am not. We both know that.”
He doesn’t wait for my response, choosing to get up and leave. No goodbye. No forehead kiss, which was our ritual from the day we started dating. Just the loud thud of our front door and silence that has become my best friend now. In the silence and loneliness that engulfs me and leaves me feeling cold, I realize the blatant truth—the one I had been avoiding for months—our marriage is dying.
And nothing can save it at this point.
* * *
I punch in the button in my office’s elevator to take me straight up to the sixth floor—where I spend most of my days now. And sometimes, even nights.
When I first started working as an editor at Maple & Sage Publishing House, I felt like I was living in a dream. I couldn’t stop working. I would always take on more than was offered to me on my plate. Yet a part of me would yearn to go back home to my loving husband—the one I couldn’t get enough of. After spending all our time together in university, it was a pain to spend so much time away from him.
I would look at ways I could see him more during lunch break, or I would make sure to FaceTime him in between breaks.
Now, I hate going back home. I take up work that can still wait for months to be done. Overworking made me climb up the ladder, positioning me as senior editor & executive of thepublishing house. While I have had immense growth career-wise, my personal life has deteriorated massively, and no one is to be blamed for it except me.
I push the thoughts aside as I greet my colleagues good morning before rushing into the safety of my cabin. There’s work that needs to be done and meetings that need to be attended, and I cannot wallow in any more self-pity and loathing than I already have.
Today is my birthday eve. I should be excited. But my mood is completely sour, and I doubt something will change it, and if this is any indication, my birthday is going to be only more terrible.
I shake my head and settle down on my chair facing my Macbook. I take a look at the Post-it note that has been placed on top of it by my assistant—Sasha. The name Sienna Hayes is underlined with red two times, making me realize that I have once again forgotten about my meeting due with her.
As a lover of all things romance, I love working with romance authors. This is why I took up this job when it was offered to me right after I finished university. The pay was less, but the exposure was a lot, and Reyansh promised he would take care of all of my finances even though he had no job of his own at that time.
