She was calm as always, her demeanor unchanged. But what she did next caught me completely off guard. As she walked by, Meera paused, gave me a faint smile, and leaned in close, whispering softly in my ear:
“Are you sure she’s pregnant?”
The words hit me like a cold wave. For a moment, I stood frozen, surprised and confused. Was she being sarcastic? I wondered. But then, a series of small, unsettling moments from the past few weeks flooded my mind—Ananya’s constant fatigue, her unannounced visit to the gynecologist, the way she’d dismissed it as a routine check-up. I turned to Ananya, and as soon as she saw the change in my expression, a flicker of confusion crossed her face.
I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I needed to know the truth. Without wasting any time, I took Ananya to a private maternity clinic in Bandra that very day. She hesitated, but I was firm. As the ultrasound results came in, the doctor paused, glanced at us both, and then said the words that shattered my world:
“You’re not pregnant. And… you can’t get pregnant naturally.”
The shock was unbearable. Ananya had been telling everyone, including my family, that she was “three weeks pregnant.” My mother had been overjoyed, making plans for the baby, and I had believed I was finally getting a second chance at happiness after my failed marriage.
On the drive back from the clinic, I finally asked Ananya why she had lied. She sat in silence for a long while before breaking down in tears. Between sobs, she admitted she was terrified I might leave her—that perhaps I still had feelings for Meera. So, in her fear, she had created the pregnancy story to hold on to me.
The weight of her words hit me hard. It wasn’t just the lies—it was the pressure of wanting something so desperately that it twisted the truth. Meera’s quiet warning, her simple whisper, had been a warning I hadn’t wanted to hear. It wasn’t meant to hurt me; it was a reminder to open my eyes.
That night, as we walked quietly along Marine Drive, I took out my phone and sent Meera a brief message: “Thank you.” She replied almost instantly: “Don’t let the idea of having children be what defines how much you love someone.”
When we got home, Ananya was waiting for me, her hands folded on the sofa. I sat down, took a deep breath, and said, “From now on, we’re going to be honest with each other. No more lies.”
She nodded silently, her eyes swollen. And then, with a look of guilt, she confessed that a month ago, the doctor had told her the chances of her getting pregnant naturally were slim. She had been terrified. Seeing my mother so excited about the baby, discussing names and plans, only made her more afraid that I would leave her one day, comparing her to Meera. So, she had fabricated the pregnancy.
I took a step back, realizing that I had inadvertently turned her fears into a pressure to perform. The damage wasn’t just from the lies—it was from the expectations that had weighed on both of us.
“Starting tomorrow,” I said firmly, “we’ll see a marriage counselor. And if you want, we can talk to a fertility specialist about our options. But no matter what happens, I won’t judge our marriage by that.”
The next morning, we went to the marriage counselor in Lower Parel. “Broken trust doesn’t heal on its own,” the counselor said bluntly. Ananya took responsibility for the lies, and I admitted that I had been too quick to “fix” things with pregnancy tests, rather than letting things unfold. We agreed on three things: transparency in medical matters, boundaries with family (I’d talk to my mom), and an eight-week counseling commitment.
That afternoon, I sat down with my mother. She listened in silence, and then after a long pause, she spoke. “The worst part is that she lied out of fear. Bring her here for dinner.”
That night, my mother placed a bowl of hot rasam in front of Ananya. “Eat, my dear, and then we’ll figure out what to do next.” Her simple words eased the tension in the room.
I had one more thing to do. I arranged to meet Meera at a small café near Kala Ghoda. When I thanked her, she smiled faintly.
“We broke up because we turned childbearing into a test of love,” she said. “Don’t make the same mistake.”
I asked her how she had known Ananya wasn’t pregnant. Meera smiled, a touch of sadness in her eyes. “No one is that tired after ‘three weeks’ of pregnancy, and avoids all the questions. I’ve been there.”
Before leaving, she added: “If you and Ananya need to talk about options—treatment, adoption—don’t let your egos get in the way. Marriage is about two people facing the same problem, not fighting against each other.”
On the way home, I thought of her words: “Grappling with the same problem.”
A few weeks later, Ananya and I went back to the doctor, and we sat down to discuss a clear treatment plan, with and without medical intervention. We also began exploring adoption, not to make a decision right away, but to open our minds to other possibilities.
That evening, Ananya was the first to take my hand. “I won’t make big promises,” she said softly. “But I promise no more lies. If you choose to walk with me, I’ll walk with you slowly, honestly.”
I nodded, and that night, we planted a small pot of basil on the terrace. My mother helped press the roots gently into the soil. I realized then that the future didn’t need to be rushed. It would grow at its own pace, not according to my timetable.
One day, while walking past the mall in Mumbai where it all started, I remembered Meera’s whisper. It had once stung like a sharp prick, but now, it felt more like a bell—quiet, but enough to make me stop and check if my heart was beating too fast.
Later, Ananya and I brought home an empty wooden frame. When my mother asked what it was for, I simply replied: “To remind us that the family photo doesn’t have to be filled right now. We’ll fill it with real moments, whether it’s three of us, or two, or more in the future.”
Our marriage wasn’t as perfect as it once seemed, but it had become more real. We learned to cook together in the evenings, take walks on Carter Road, argue and apologize. I learned patience. Ananya found courage. My mother learned to ask, “Are you okay?” instead of “Any news?”
A few months later, Meera sent me a picture of herself at the beach, smiling with a man wearing glasses. “Everyone chooses how to love,” she wrote beneath the picture. I replied, “I wish you peace.”
The past was where it should be—behind us, but not erased.
In the end, the three of us—Meera, Ananya, and I—had learned to speak the truth. In the chaos of Mumbai, amidst the blaring horns and neon lights, sometimes all it takes is a whisper to change the course of life.
And this time, we chose the right path.
