After the Wedding Chapter- 3

For the first time since they were married, a Monday morning didn’t feel rushed.

Divya had woken early, dressed in her soft grey cotton kurta, and left with barely a whisper. A single kiss on Anand’s forehead. The way one kisses a sleeping child. He stirred but didn’t open his eyes.

The flat felt wider that morning. Slower. Anand walked into the kitchen still in his checked lungi, his hair messily tied with a rubber band he'd picked up from the floor. He hadn’t planned to stay home. But after breakfast, he found himself not logging in.

He simply… paused.The office laptop was closed on the corner desk. His phone buzzed with meeting reminders. A voice message from his colleague, Karthik. A polite nudge: “Joining in 15 mins?”

He didn’t reply.Instead, Anand looked around the living room, tracing the light that fell diagonally across their bookshelf. Dust had gathered in the corners. A vase held two marigolds that had long dried and curled.

Something about the silence between 9 and 5 felt necessary. Like a season changing under the skin.

Divya came home later than usual. She had switched to her office bike last week—a dark blue 150cc model with clean lines and a new number plate. It idled smoothly beneath their flat’s balcony. Anand heard it before he saw her.

When she stepped in, her ponytail had come loose slightly. She tossed her bag on the table, unzipped her riding jacket, and went straight to the sink.

“Today was insane,” she said, cupping water in her palms. “Three back-to-back client calls. The new team lead from Pune talks like he’s reading an audiobook.”

She noticed Anand standing near the balcony. He hadn’t changed from morning—just added a shawl around his shoulders when the evening chill set in.

“You didn’t go in? He shook his head. I messaged HR. Said I’d take a week off. Needed... to reset.”

Divya didn’t ask why. She only nodded.That night, she offered to cook. Simple rasam, a thogayal, and leftover rice.

She wore her office pants and an old tee while chopping. Anand stood beside her, holding the garlic cloves.

“Can I crush them?”She handed him the stone grinder.That was the first meal he plated and served her. And she didn’t stop 

By Wednesday, the rhythms had settled. Divya left early. Anand stayed in. He began folding her washed clothes with a strange care smoothing the pleats of her kurtas, aligning the shoulders of her shirts. He didn’t know when he began doing it automatically.

One afternoon, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Unshaven. Hair combed back. Wearing her soft green towel over his shoulder.

He smiled and walked away. Later that week, when she returned from work, he had brewed filter coffee. Not instant. He’d called her mother to ask how to make it properly.

Divya sipped it and raised an eyebrow.“You remembered the decoction?“I measured,” he said. “Your mother said, just go by smell.”

“You’re dangerous,” she smiled.She placed her bag on his lap. “Undo the zipper?”

He did. It felt… natural On Friday, Anand found the old saree box tucked under the bed. Their wedding gifts, mostly. Silks in bright tones, soft cottons, some never worn. One pale blue one with faded silver borders sat loosely on top. He remembered it from a temple trip last year.

He didn’t pull it out. Just ran his hand gently across it.That night, Divya came home early. She looked tired. He placed a jasmine-scented towel on her neck as she sat on the sofa.

“You smell like roads and wind,” he said.She laughed. 

Then she paused.“Do you miss dressing up?” she asked, without looking at him.

He wasn’t sure what she meant. But instead of asking, he answered, “I’m not sure who I want to be dressed as right now.”

She took that in, quietly. No correction. No smile. Just silence.The next morning, Anand found a small round mirror placed on the shelf near his desk. It wasn’t there before. It was angled slightly enough to catch the light, and just high enough to show his collarbone and neck.

He didn’t ask her about it. But he used it while brushing his hair.And later, when Divya called from the kitchen and asked if he’d seen her hairband, he handed her his own.

She tied her hair, but her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than usual.

The old ceiling fan in their bedroom began making a soft tapping sound. It wasn’t loud, but just enough to be noticeable in the afternoon stillness.

Divya had started keeping her helmet on the table instead of the shelf. Her blazers hung outside the cupboard now. One morning, she forgot to carry her lunchbox. Another evening, she came home with a pen still tucked behind her ear.

Anand noticed it all—quietly.Anand still hadn’t returned to work.His manager had sent two polite emails asking for his plans. Karthik forwarded an internal memo marked “restructuring.” Anand had read that word twice.

Then he simply archived the mail.He was still waking early, doing the clothes, sweeping the kitchen floor before the sun hit it. The stillness was no longer foreign. But the silence had begun to ask a question he couldn’t yet answer.

That evening, Divya came home, her braid messy, eyes puffy. She didn’t speak until her second cup of coffee.“They moved the project again. I’m on site lead now. More pay, they said. But it’s not about that.”

He nodded, waiting.“I… don’t even think I like what I do anymore,” she said, rubbing her temples. “But it’s stable. It’s mine.”

She didn't mention his job. Not even once.But the weight of her words hovered between them like an open door.

A week later, it rained heavily.The corridor outside flooded a little. Anand placed old newspapers near the threshold so they wouldn’t slip. Divya’s bike was covered in wet leaves. He cleaned it with a towel that smelled faintly of sandalwood soap.

Inside, she sat on the couch, still in her work pants, quietly watching him move.“I was thinking,” she said, her voice casual. “If your company’s downsizing anyway... do you really want to go back?”

He didn't answer immediately. He poured her some hot water, added tulsi leaves.“I thought I did. But… I’m not sure anymore.”

She leaned her head back. “Maybe we don’t both need to keep chasing that kind of grind. He sat beside her.“Are you saying you’ll resign?”

She looked at him—not surprised by the question. Almost like she expected it.

“No,” she said. “I think I’m going to stay. For now. I don’t love it. But I can carry it.”

He nodded.“And you?” she asked softly.“I think I’ve already let it go,” he said. “Just haven’t told anyone yet she smiled.

“I’ll support us, Anand.After that conversation, something subtle but irreversible shifted.She began leaving cash on the shelf before stepping out. Not out of obligation—just habit. He began lighting the lamp before sunset.

When she returned, the house was fragrant with soap and fresh dosa batter. He had started wearing soft cotton kurtas. Still plain. Still quiet. But a little longer. Looser. Sometimes he used her comb, which she didn’t mention. Sometimes she wore his shirt to sleep, which he didn’t either.

One evening, she rode her bike back with a cigarette box peeking slightly from her bag’s inner pocket. She kept it in the cupboard. Anand said nothing, but the next day, when he cleaned the drawer, he replaced it neatly.

They didn’t argue. Or label anything.But their days had started rotating around her orbit now.

And he? He wasn’t floating.He was beginning to find his shape again—just softer.