Our Car: Strike That, My Car

 It’s funny — or maybe tragic — how after a separation, every little effort, every gesture, suddenly feels wasted. Especially for those of us who gave something real in the relationship.

I’ll admit it: I am a hopeless romantic. Too emotional, too much of an overthinker maybe… but never when it comes to showing love. That part, I’ve always done plenty.

So let me rewind. Back when we were in a “relationship” — or at least when I thought we were. Because looking back now, he was just window shopping, weighing which girl would do the most for him. Around that time, his father sold his car. Obvious reasons — the drinking, the gallivanting, the carelessness. He was devastated. He always said he loved his car, and I believed him. Cars, in a way, became his identity. He loved driving, especially after drinking. Dangerous, yes. But to him, it was freedom.

When the car was gone, he wasn’t himself. And almost at the same time, I caught him cheating on me — I don’t even remember which number of betrayal that was. I cut him off, shut him out.

But when I found out about the car being sold, I felt bad for him. I even told my friend, “If we were together, if he was loyal, I would buy a car that we both could call ours. He’d drive it most of the time anyway since my office gave me a cab, and I had my little second-hand car for my needs.”

That was just a conversation, nothing more.

But maybe God heard me. Maybe He was sleepy, because He only heard half of it. He brought Landon back into my life, made me believe he’d changed. And in that foolish, hopeful love of mine, I went and bought a car.

I won’t give you every detail, but this much I’ll say: my birth date is 28, his is 09. And the car’s number? 2809. That’s how deep in love I was — so deep I carved us into the very number plate of my life.

This car saw everything. The love, the fights, the reconciliations. And one day, it even saw him cruising around with another woman, while I was out of town.

So no, it was never really our car. It was always mine. My love, my effort, my foolish hope — painted in its numbers, etched in its journeys.

The Sindoor Ritual

 Indian weddings — no matter how chaotic, noisy, and exhausting — always carry a sense of romance. Even those who are single can’t help but get swept away when the bride and groom exchange garlands, when the mangalsutra is tied, or when the sindoor is placed tenderly on the bride’s forehead.

There’s a small hidden belief too — the bride closes her eyes, secretly wishing for the sindoor to fall a little bit on her nose. Because someone once said, “If it does, it means he loves you a lot.” Funny, isn’t it, how rituals carry such hidden meanings? But what if they also plant a false sense of forever in your heart?

It rained on my wedding day. I even had a silly fight with my bridesmaid about my entry. But when it was time to sit around the holy fire, vowing ourselves to each other, I felt like the most accomplished woman in the world. I was happy. I was in love.

The first day in his house, in his room, I stood before the mirror draped in a saree I barely knew how to wear. My hands were full of mehndi, my heart full of pride. I reached out to him with a box of sindoor, and he applied it on my forehead again. I wanted this to become our ritual.

No matter the hurry, no matter the chaos of the world, I wanted us to pause — for those few seconds each day — and remind each other what this relationship meant. A promise that in the middle of all the madness, we would still slow down, look at each other, and choose each other.

Sounds like a dream from a Bollywood movie, doesn’t it?
Only… dreams don’t always match the endings we imagine.

Who Do You Blame?

 When you love someone with your whole heart, when you give them 100% of yourself and betrayal is all you get in return… who do you blame?

By law, the blame lies with the one who cheats. But women are wired differently. We turn inward. We question our worth. We wonder what we could have done differently.

I don’t know how or when, but I fell into the trap of something that looked like love, smelled like love — but wasn’t. Landon’s mistakes, his betrayals, they should have been dealbreakers. But they never stood tall enough in front of me. I kept giving, and giving, until there was nothing left of me but fragments.

God has always been tough on me. Nothing ever came straight or easy. So I convinced myself that maybe this was the price of unconditional love — to endure, to struggle, to sacrifice. With that conviction, I walked into marriage.

It wasn’t a fairy tale wedding, but to me, it felt like magic. I was madly in love with my so-called Prince Charming. Even though we had known each other for a while, I felt butterflies in my stomach as the day grew closer. The idea of becoming Mrs. Landon filled me with a hope I had never known.

A friend told me, “The first three months of marriage are the honeymoon phase — you won’t want to do anything but enjoy each other.” That promise thrilled me. All I had ever wanted was a family to call mine and a partner who wanted me simply for being me.

But reality knocked too soon. And it didn’t come gently. It came like a cyclone, tearing through the fragile walls of my new life, leaving behind damage that could never be undone.

So who do you blame? The woman who gave her everything? The man who took everything and left her with pain? Or do you turn your eyes upward and blame the supreme power for writing such a cruel destiny?

When the World Sleeps

 When the world goes to sleep, that’s when the demons in my head wake up. They whisper, they scratch at memories I’ve been trying to bury. I didn’t want to relive the days that were never meant to happen, so I stopped writing for a while. I thought silence would protect me.

But today, I realise that the more I run, the more it chases me. Grief, betrayal, loneliness — they always find a way to stand right in front of me, demanding to be faced.

My divorce is done. I am now, officially, a single mother. And yet, life hasn’t paused for me to catch my breath. It hasn’t given me a break, a moment of kindness. It keeps throwing curveballs, one after another, like it wants to test how much I can endure before I break.

All this time, I survived because I had faith in God. I believed He was walking beside me through the darkness, carrying me when I felt too weak. But today, it feels like even He betrayed me. He left me alone — just like everyone else has.

My savings are gone. My money is gone. Even the money my sister trusted me with — gone. A fraud stripped me bare of the little security I had built. And now I sit here, with nothing in my hands but my son, my courage hanging by a thread, and a hollow ache where faith used to be.

The pressure of being a good single parent feels crushing. To provide the best, to protect my son from every scar, to make sure no one can point out my failures — it’s a weight I carry alone. But how do I do all this now? If God can leave me, if humans have already left me, then what do I have exactly?

Maybe just this pen. Maybe just these words. Maybe just the strength to keep breathing into tomorrow, for the sake of my little boy who deserves a world better than this one.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s still enough.

The Mistake I Called Protection

 What happened that night?

That call was just a trailer.
The main story? It started the very next day.

They met.
They got into a fight.
And she called the cops.

Yes, the cops.

There he was—caught in his own chaos, the same chaos I thought I had finally walked away from. And still… my heart skipped beats. My hands shook. I ran to help him.

I called his friends.
I checked with his sister.
I couldn’t sleep—not because of fear for myself, but for him.

All I wanted in that moment was for him to be safe.

Because there was this voice in my head, and it wouldn’t stop.

“What if it was you? Wouldn’t you want someone to help you?”

That thought stayed with me.
It swallowed the betrayal. It softened the blow. It made me forget, for a moment, all the things he had already done to me.

She was threatening to file a case if he didn’t marry her.
And somehow, by morning, things cooled down.

He thanked me.

He looked me in the eye, full of guilt and need, and said,
“I need to disappear for a while… until this blows over.”

And I—so, so stupid—offered him shelter.
I offered him my home.
Because I thought no one could touch him if he was under my roof. If I was protecting him.

I had no idea what I was inviting into my life.

This was the biggest mistake I ever made.

When My Gut Knew Before His Mouth Did

We had been together for almost a year.

It wasn’t a relationship I could define easily—it was everything and nothing at once. I was exhausted by the confusion, but still holding on, still choosing him, still hoping I could be enough.

That night, he was at my apartment again. I was cooking for him—because of course I was—at some godforsaken hour past midnight. I think I was making eggs or tossing something in the pan when his phone rang.

He looked at it.
He didn’t say anything, but something in me knew.

My gut said, it’s her.

He hesitated. That hesitation said it all.

So I told him, “Pick it up. On speaker.”

He didn’t want to. But he did.

And there she was.
The voice of the woman he had always gone back to. The one who never really left the picture. The one I cried over so many nights, wondering what she had that I didn’t. Wondering why he kept circling back to her every time I thought we were finally getting somewhere.

He tried to act smart—like he didn’t know why she was calling.

But they spoke in a language I didn’t belong to.
Foul words. Casual aggression. That sick kind of intimacy two people share when they’ve been toxic for so long, it starts to feel like home.

And then she heard my voice.

She didn’t hesitate. She started listing the nights. The places. The times he was “at his cousin’s,” or “working late,” or “visiting his uncle.” She listed all the times he was with her instead. The dates overlapped with the days he said he loved me. Lied to me. Slept next to me.

It all unravelled right in front of me.
But the worst part?

I wasn’t surprised.
I was hurt—very hurt. But not surprised.

Because somewhere deep down, I had known. I just hadn’t wanted to accept it.

You’d think that after all this, he would have begged for forgiveness. That he’d fall to his knees and promise to make it right.

But he didn’t.

Once the night was over and the truth was out there in all its filth, I asked him to leave. I told him not to contact me again. I don’t think I even raised my voice. I was done begging to be chosen.

He did send me messages though.
Maybe 30 of them. Apologising, justifying, explaining.

And then—on his way back from work the very next day—he went to meet her.

After everything.

And I realised, this man wasn’t sorry.
He was just caught.

Evil Eye

After everything you’ve read so far — especially the last part — you’d think it was time for something good, right?

It wasn’t.

As Jimmy and I landed back in my city and went our separate ways, I remember feeling... giddy. Light. We were texting nonstop, smiling at our phones like idiots. He hadn’t slept the entire flight, but he still stayed awake until I reached home safely. That kind of care shouldn’t feel rare — but it does.

And then, everything changed.

I can’t even explain how or why — but by that evening, it was as if all the peace, all the softness from those five days had been scrubbed away. Like something evil had cast its eye on the joy I wasn’t sure I deserved.

I started ignoring Jimmy.

I hate typing that.
But I did.

And deep down, I know why.

I was waiting for Landon’s message.

And when it came — late at night, with him parked outside my society, wanting to "talk" — I didn’t even hesitate. I don’t remember what I told Jimmy. I don’t remember what excuse I made. I only remember that once again, I let Landon walk back in.

And in doing so, I quietly shut the door on Jimmy.
I didn’t know then that it would be forever.

---

Landon and I — we called it “giving our relationship another try.”
But now, I can laugh at that.

Not the kind of laugh that comes from healing.
The kind that comes when you realize you were the motel all along.
He came when he was lost, inebriated, lonely.
And every time, he was met with the same hospitality:

• Food

• Comfort

• Even more alcohol, if I had any to offer

---

This check-in/check-out love lasted until March.

Then — surprise — he cheated again.
I cried. I collapsed. I swore I was done.

And then, after a break of two or three months — during which he happily went back to his ex — I let him back again.

At the time, I told myself it was me giving him another chance.

But if I’m honest, I think it was him who couldn’t handle the idea that I had found something better. Not in another man — but in myself.

In silence.
In Jimmy.
In soft mornings and strong chai and knowing that I didn’t have to beg for love.

He couldn’t stand that I had moved on — not to someone else, but toward peace.

And so he came back.
And like an addict missing the chaos, I let him.