Subtitle: A Story of Trust, Betrayal, and Dignity
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We began our life the way many young couples do—hopeful, blessed, and dreaming. Karthik and I were married in a traditional ceremony, surrounded by our smiling families, sacred chants, and an abundance of trust. I was Mini then, barely 22, stepping out of my father’s warm shelter into a world I believed would be safe because it was ours—Karthik’s and mine.
Ours was not a love marriage, but love came quietly, sweetly, in the crevices of everyday life. In shared filter coffee cups, in stolen glances while drying clothes on the terrace, and in our long evening walks through the dusty lanes of Mylapore. He was a quiet man, gentle in his ways, and thoughtful. I was the one with a laugh that echoed down corridors. Together, we built a little world in a rented house in Adyar, just enough for two. Later, it became enough for three when our son was born.
The early years were full of struggle, as any young marriage is. Salaries were modest. We couldn’t afford luxuries, but we had joy. I gave up my job to look after our home and son. My in-laws came to live with us when their health began to decline. I didn’t think twice. I bathed them, fed them, nursed their ailments, and smiled through my exhaustion.
And then came that night.
It was one of those unbearably sultry nights in Chennai. The power had gone out for hours, and the air was thick with heat and sweat. The ceiling fan, our only solace, had stopped. My son was restless, crying. I was fanning him with a newspaper while Karthik paced the room.
“This is impossible,” he muttered. “Let’s go to Lata’s place. She has power backup.”
I hesitated. Lata was my best friend—or so I thought. She had recently separated from her husband and lived alone. She was strong, bold, independent—everything I admired. I had never imagined that she could be anything but loyal. But Karthik was drenched in sweat and visibly uncomfortable. So I said the word that would change everything.
“Yes.”
We packed a few things, and I carried my son in my arms. Her flat was air-conditioned, comfortable. She welcomed us with open arms, fussed over Karthik, and gave us her spare bedroom. That night, Karthik slept deeply for the first time in days. I was grateful. Grateful to her.
But something shifted after that night.
She began calling often—on the landline, as we didn’t have mobiles then. She would chat with me briefly and then ask to speak to Karthik. “Just to check how his back pain is,” she’d say. I never saw the harm. I was busy with diapers, cooking, in-laws, and a home that needed constant attention. I handed him the cordless phone like it was the most natural thing.
They began talking more. Laughing together. Sharing jokes that didn’t include me. On weekends, she’d end up at our house with homemade biryani or prawn fry—Karthik’s favourites. “You work so hard, Mini,” she’d say. “Let me pamper you.” And I, in my innocence, believed her.
Soon I noticed how Karthik would light up when she entered. How he shaved before she arrived, something he never did otherwise on weekends. How he paid more attention to his clothes. And how he began withdrawing from me.
I confronted him once. “Is there something between you and Lata?”
He laughed. “Don’t be silly. She’s your friend.”
But I had begun to see the truth. The subtle touches, the lingering glances, the inside jokes I no longer understood.
Arguments became frequent. He’d blame me for being suspicious, for being too sensitive. I tried to explain how excluded I felt, how her presence in our home was becoming invasive. He refused to see it.
Every time I visited my parents in Trichy, she’d come over with food “to make sure he doesn’t eat out,” she’d say. And he welcomed her.
I felt like a stranger in my own marriage. My home became a stage where I was the extra, and the real show starred them.
When our son turned three, we agreed—without saying it aloud—to live separate emotional lives. The marriage remained, but only in name. I stayed because I wanted my son to have both parents under one roof. Divorce wasn’t a word we said out loud back then. Especially not in a conservative society where women were blamed, regardless of who erred.
Financially, I couldn’t survive on my own. I had given up my job, my identity, to become a mother and caregiver. I didn’t regret it. But it made me dependent, and that dependency felt like a cage.
So I stayed. For over two decades.
I raised my son. Taught him to walk, to read, to be independent. He was my light. My reason. Karthik was a shadow—there but not quite. He spent more and more time “working late,” often away on weekends. I stopped asking questions.
There were moments when I broke down behind closed bathroom doors. There were nights I stared at the ceiling fan and wondered what had become of me. The woman who once laughed so easily had become silent. Numb.
But I endured.
When my son left for college, I began to breathe differently. The house felt emptier, but I felt lighter. I rediscovered the joy of reading. I played old cassettes on our dusty tape recorder—MS Subbulakshmi, Yesudas, Kishore Kumar. Music became my companion.
And then one morning, I looked in the mirror and said: “You don’t have to live like this anymore.”
It was a quiet decision. There were no announcements, no grand confrontations. I told Karthik I was leaving. He looked at me, stunned. Maybe he thought I never would. Maybe he thought I didn’t have it in me. But I did.
I packed my books, my clothes, and the few things that were truly mine. I moved into a small rented flat not too far from my son, who was now working in the city. He understood. He hugged me and said, “Ma, I’m proud of you.”
That meant everything.
Today, I live life on my terms. I drink coffee on my balcony every morning and watch the sun rise. I walk to the library. I write. I smile at strangers in parks. I listen to music for hours. I cook for myself—not to impress anyone, not to please anyone—but for the sheer joy of it.
Sometimes people ask me, “Do you regret staying so long in that marriage?”
My answer is simple: No.
Because everything I did was for my son. I gave him a childhood with both parents. I gave him stability. And when the time was right, I gave myself freedom.
I think about that night sometimes—the one with the power cut, the unbearable heat, and my one word: “Yes.”
Would I change it?
Maybe. Maybe not. That one yes taught me everything I needed to know about love, betrayal, endurance, and forgiveness.
I don’t hate Lata. I don’t hate Karthik. What they did says more about them than about me. I have no bitterness. Only memories. And from those memories, I built a new life.
I often say—I learned to rock and roll on this roller coaster called life. And I did. I learned to dance through pain, to sing through silence, and to live—not merely exist.
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Moral Ending:
Forgiveness does not mean forgetting. It means letting go of a past that no longer serves your present.
Sometimes, walking away is not weakness—it is grace in motion.
And sometimes, a single “Yes” can derail your life—but it can also be the first step to discovering who you truly are.
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