After the Wedding Chapter-2

Chapter 2: The Mirror Blurs

The apartment was quiet that Tuesday evening.

Anand stood in the bathroom, shaving cream spread along his jaw. The mirror had fogged lightly from the hot water tap. As he wiped it clean, he paused there was a tiny red bindi stuck to the corner of the mirror. He smiled faintly.“She must’ve stuck it last week,” he thought, then carefully left it untouched.

He took longer to shave that day. Not because of carelessness, but because he was looking at his face, not just grooming it. His chin looked softer than before. His lips, naturally pinker. Maybe he was just noticing himself differently now.

He didn’t know why

Divya returned late that night. Not too late—but just past their dinner time. She had messaged earlier: “One extra call. Sorry, da.”

She entered wearing a kurti and leggings, her laptop bag slung on one shoulder. Her kajal was smudged from the day, her hair messy but tied. She looked busy. Real. Confident.“Did you eat?” she asked, slipping off her sandals. I waited, Anand replied, standing with two plates. Aiyo, you should’ve eaten.Not alone. Doesn’t feel right.”

She looked at him with a sudden softness. Almost like gratitude.

They sat on the floor, cross-legged, sharing rasam rice and fryums. She picked at her food while checking mails. He watched her hands their rhythm, the way she held the spoon, the faint chipped paint on one nail.

Over the next few weeks, Anand began to settle into the domestic rhythm. It wasn’t spoken or agreed. It just… happened.

He started folding their laundry when she came home late. He’d sometimes prep dinner a simple sambar, or upma. On Sundays, she’d ask him to help with things like plaiting her hair before oiling it.“Appa used to do it for Amma, she said once.“You don’t mind? Not at all,” he said, fingers slowly weaving her long hair.

And sometimes, on slow evenings, she’d look at him in a quiet way. As if seeing something unfold. But she never rushed it. She never said it aloud.

One weekend, while folding clothes, Anand found one of her old cotton blouses tucked in with the towels. A plain one blue with small white lines. Soft to touch.

He didn’t know what came over him, but he held it against his chest and looked in the mirror.

It hung loose, but… right.

He smiled to himself. A small smile. Not embarrassed. Not proud. Just… gentle.

He kept it back where it belonged.

Divya was fixing a nail on her cupboard the next day, hammering it softly. Anand stood nearby, holding her phone to play music.“When I was a girl,” she said casually, “I always wanted to see how it felt to walk like Appa. With that bike key spin, that lean walk. You know? Why didn’t you? They’d laugh. But I still watched him every morning."

She didn’t say anything else. But Anand noticed, that night, her walk down the corridor was… different. Freer. Slower. She walked like she wasn’t being watched anymore.

That week, it rained every afternoon. The kind of coastal drizzle that blurred the sky but didn’t cool the air. Everything smelt of wet jasmine and steel. The walls of their flat stayed warm to the touch, and clothes on the line took longer to dry. Life felt paused—but in a thoughtful way.

One Thursday evening, Anand was folding laundry when he found her bangles inside his drawer. Not placed by accident, but stacked with quiet care on top of a white vest. Their soft metallic clink made him pause.

He picked them up. They were the thin golden ones she wore only with certain sarees not the heavy wedding set. Simple. Practical. They still held the faint scent of talcum and coconut oil.

He didn’t ask her why they were there. But when he went to bed that night, he noticed she’d switched sides—sleeping near the window for the first time. Her elbow slightly outstretched, her breathing slower, facing away from him. She seemed to sleep deeper that way.

The next morning, her bangles were back on her dresser.

They had gone out for sundal and rose milk at their usual corner near the church. On the way back, they passed the small cycle mechanic shop that had expanded into bike rentals recently. Anand slowed down to glance at it.

“You really thinking of getting a Bullet?” he asked, half teasing.  Divya didn’t smile. Her eyes were on a black Thunderbird with dull chrome and a maroon tank.

“I dreamt I was riding it down ECR,” she said softly. “Hair open. You were holding on from behind... but not tight. Just there.” Anand looked at her.“Did I look scared? She finally smiled. “You looked… surprised.”

They didn’t speak more about it. But that night, when she came to bed, she wore a plain black nightshirt with no lace—one he hadn't seen before. It looked like something she’d borrowed from someone. Or chosen deliberately.

Saturday was dinner at her friend Sangeetha’s house. The same group from college. Divya wore a dull gold kurta and maroon pants—no dupatta. Her hair was tied into a loose, mid-height ponytail. She wore square studs instead of her usual gold drops.

Anand, meanwhile, wore the kurta they’d bought during Pongal. He’d ironed it himself. It still smelled faintly of starch.

At dinner, someone asked how his work was going.

“Quiet,” he replied. “I’ve taken a pause. Letting myself... observe.”

Sangeetha turned to Divya. “You’re handling two portfolios now, right?”

Divya nodded and bit into her dosa. “Yeah. Head office’s call. Short-staffed. It's hectic, but I enjoy it.”

Later, when the bill arrived at the restaurant, the waiter handed it automatically to Anand.

But Divya was already reaching into her handbag. She didn't even glance at him.

On the way home, she offered to drive. He didn’t object. The wind tugged at her ponytail. She whistled softly—something she hadn't done in years.

Anand, sitting pillion, noticed how her spine stayed straight even when she braked. He felt, strangely, safe.

On Sunday morning, while Anand was cleaning the living room shelf, he noticed something. His perfumes two bottles of a mild, citrusy scent had been pushed to the back. In front were hers. Stronger ones. With darker caps and heavier bottles.She hadn't done it carelessly. The way the bottles stood slightly angled, centered, dusted it looked intentional.When he asked her if she had moved them, she only said, “I was trying to make more space. Later that evening, she was browsing sarees online—not the soft pastels she once preferred, but stiffer cottons, bold checks.He sat beside her, quietly sipping coffee. That mustard and navy one looks... different,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Different good?” I think... different new. She added it to the cart.

That week, Divya bought a new comb. A wide-toothed one. Anand found it placed on their bed, beside his book. She didn’t mention it. But when he stepped out of the bath the next morning, he saw her holding it.

“You should try this,” she said. “Doesn’t pull.”

He sat on the stool near the mirror. She came behind and began combing his hair—gently, slowly. Her fingers brushing his nape. She wasn’t in a hurry.

“Let it grow a bit more,” she said. “It suits you.” He didn’t reply. But he didn’t reach for his scissors that week.