Chapter 4 Shared Bed and Thoughts
DIVYA
By the time Aditya finishes carrying the second suitcase inside, the sun has already dipped low enough that the small living room glows in that soft orange light I’ve always loved.
The house suddenly feels different. Not bigger. Not smaller. Just… aware. Like the walls themselves know that someone new has stepped into the life we’ve been quietly living here for years.
Aditya sets the suitcase down beside the old wooden cabinet near the door and straightens slowly, glancing around the room with quiet curiosity.
“This is it,” I say, suddenly feeling strangely nervous.
Why am I nervous? This is my house. I’ve lived here my entire life. But for some reason in this moment when Aditya is looking around, I am hyper aware of every little imperfection.
The crack near the ceiling. The uneven paint on the wall Neel and I tried to fix ourselves last summer. The slightly crooked shelf where my father used to keep his books.
“It’s small,” I add quickly. “But it’s comfortable.”
Aditya turns toward me, his expression calm. “It’s nice.” The way he says it makes it sound like he actually means it.
Neel darts past us suddenly, nearly knocking into Aditya’s arm as he runs toward the small bedroom hallway. “Didi! I’m showing him the good room!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There is no good room, Neel.”
“There is,” he argues loudly from down the hallway. “Mine.”
Aditya chuckles softly beside me. The sound surprises me. It’s warm. Easy. “Lead the way,” he says to Neel.
I sigh dramatically and follow them both.
The hallway is narrow enough that all three of us almost bump into each other as Neel pushes open his bedroom door with unnecessary enthusiasm.
“This is my room,” he announces proudly. Aditya steps inside, immediately lowering his head slightly to avoid the ceiling fan chain hanging a little too low.
Neel’s room is… chaotic. Books stacked unevenly on the desk. Pencils scattered across the bed. Two comic posters taped crookedly onto the wall. Aditya surveys the entire room slowly. Then he nods. “Very impressive.”
Neel beams. “Thank you.”
“And what exactly makes this the good room?”
Neel points toward the window dramatically. “It has the best sunlight.”
Aditya glances at me over Neel’s head. I shrug. “He’s been saying that since he was four.”
“Well,” Aditya says thoughtfully, “he might be right.”
Neel looks very pleased with himself. “See, Didi?”
I roll my eyes. “Congratulations. You’ve recruited him.”
Aditya leans down slightly toward Neel. “Always good to build alliances early.” Neel nods solemnly like this is serious strategy.
I shake my head and gesture toward the next room. “The other room is mine.” Aditya steps inside more slowly this time. "Ours now," I whisper slightly as I meet his eyes.
My room is simpler. A wooden bed. A small bookshelf. A desk where I handle the shop accounts. The bed looks suddenly very small now that I’m seeing it with someone else standing here.
My brain chooses this exact moment to remind me of the obvious. We got married in court this morning. A completely practical, emotionless legal decision. But still—Married.
The word feels surreal in my head. Aditya places his bag down beside the wardrobe and glances around quietly. “You’ve kept this place well.” I shrug.
“We’ve managed.” There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. Then Neel announces loudly from the hallway,
“Didi, I’m hungry.” Of course he is. I glance toward the kitchen.
“I’ll make dinner.”
Aditya immediately straightens. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I interrupt quickly. “It’s already started.”
He looks curious. “What are we having?”
I hesitate.
“Khichdi.” His expression doesn’t change. But I suddenly feel very defensive.
“I only know basic cooking,” I say quickly as I walk toward the kitchen.
“And I have tiffin service for four days a week.” I sigh, "My father thought if he taught me how to cook, people will bind me in the kitchen because everyone thinks that's the whole purpose of a woman's life. " I look at him and he hums.
Aditya follows me inside. The kitchen is comically tiny for him. It's just enough space for two people to stand without bumping into each other.
Neel climbs onto the chair near the small table while I stir the pot on the stove. “I need to add one more tiffin subscription tomorrow,” I say aloud while thinking through my routine. “For you.”
Aditya leans casually against the counter. “Actually…” I glance at him. “You should cancel yours too.”
I blink. “What?”
“I cook.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “My mother believed I should help my wife,” he continues casually. “So she taught me how.”
I stare at him.
“Lucky me,” I chuckle. Heat creeps up my neck before I can stop it. I turn quickly back to the stove, pretending to be very focused on the khichdi. "You don't have to, I don't want to ask too much of-"
"Oh please, we are married now, Divya." I am hyper-aware of his presence right behind me because I can almost feel his breath on my neck.
I hear Neel whisper loudly from the dining table, “Didi is blushing.”
“I am not,” I shriek. Aditya laughs, looking amused.
Dinner ends up being simple. Three bowls of khichdi. Some pickle. And a surprisingly comfortable conversation.
Neel asks approximately twenty questions about books. Aditya answers all of them with surprising patience.
At one point Neel asks very seriously, “Do you read every book in your office?”
Aditya considers this carefully.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because some books are terrible.”
Neel gasps. “Books can be terrible?”
“Absolutely.” Neel looks personally offended.
I watch the two of them and realize something strange. They look… natural together. Like they’ve been having conversations like this for years. When dinner is finished, Neel disappears to brush his teeth.
And suddenly the house is quiet again. Aditya glances toward the bedroom. “There’s only one bed.”
I freeze.
Right. Of course. He clears his throat. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“No.”
The word leaves my mouth immediately. He looks surprised. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” I say quickly. “You just moved your entire life here.”
“I’ve slept on worse floors.”
“That doesn’t make this acceptable.”
He studies me for a moment. Then sighs lightly. “Alright.”
So we end up in the most awkward situation imaginable.
Two strangers. Legally married. Sharing a bed for the first time.
The lights are off. The room is quiet. We both lie stiffly on opposite edges of the mattress like there’s an invisible border between us.
My brain is doing an excellent job of reminding me of that every five seconds.
For several minutes neither of us speaks.
Then I sigh quietly. “I’m sorry.”
The streetlight outside slips through the thin curtain near the window, casting a pale stripe of light across the ceiling. I lie stiffly on my side of the bed, staring at that line of light like it might suddenly start offering life advice.
Beside me, Aditya shifts slightly. The mattress dips just enough for me to notice.
I clear my throat softly.
For a moment there’s only silence. Then his voice comes from somewhere behind me.
“For what?”
I stare at the wall.
“For making you leave your house,” I say quietly. “Your place must have been… nicer.”
There’s a small pause. Then I hear him chuckle.
The sound is soft, low enough that it almost disappears in the quiet room. “You know,” he says after a moment, “women do that every day and no one apologizes to them.”
I blink. “What?”
“Move into someone else’s house,” he explains. “Leave behind everything familiar. Learn new routines. Adjust to a new life.” His voice is thoughtful now. “And somehow it’s always treated like the most normal thing in the world.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I stay quiet.
After a moment he adds gently, “And Divya… your house is comfortable.”
I turn my head slightly on the pillow.
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.”
There’s a faint rustle of fabric as he shifts onto his side.
“I mean it.”
“How?” I ask. “It’s tiny.”
“That’s not what makes a place comfortable.”
I frown slightly. “Then what does?”
“History.” The word sits between us. “It feels lived in,” he continues. “There are photographs on the walls. Books stacked in corners. The kitchen smells like someone actually cooks there.”
I let out a small laugh.
“Khichdi doesn’t count as impressive cooking.”
“I disagree,” he says immediately. “It was good.”
“You’re just being polite.”
“I’m not.”
I glance back at him over my shoulder.
In the dim light I can barely see his face, but I can tell he’s smiling slightly.
“My mother used to say something similar,” he says after a moment.
“What?”
“That you can tell a lot about a house by how the kitchen feels.”
I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling now.
“And what does my kitchen say?”
“That someone is trying very hard." My chest tightens unexpectedly.
“You noticed that?”
“I notice things,” he chuckles, "remember?" Of course I do. It makes me feel so seen.
There’s a small pause.
Then he asks, “Did you always live here?”
“Yeah.”
I tuck my hands under the pillow.
“My father bought that house when I was six."
“What was he like?”
The question is gentle. Not intrusive. I smile faintly in the darkness.
“He was… loud.” Aditya laughs softly.
“That’s not the word I expected.”
“He talked a lot,” I explain. “To customers. To neighbors. To random strangers who walked into the shop.”
“The shop downstairs?”
“ Yes, we sell Perfume oils,” I say. “Attar.”
“I could fathom, it smells wonderful in here.” I nod before realizing he can’t see that.
“Yeah. It's a small place but people loved it.” I smile, grateful he can't see me now, "You saved it too, you know...from the debt."
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he changes the subject gently.
“And Neel?”
"He's my step brother." I sigh softly. “And I love him so much except that boy wakes up at five every morning.” I shake my head in disapproval.
“Five?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea,” I mutter. “Even on weekends.”
I hear him laugh again. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“He seems… very serious for a seven-year-old.”
“That’s because he thinks he’s forty.” Aditya chuckles. I turn my head slightly.
“He wasn’t always like that,” I say quietly.
“What changed?” I swallow.
“Life.” The word comes out softer than I intended. "He was four when we lost papa, he didn't understand everything yet he was so strong...much stronger than me." There’s a long pause after that.
Then he says quietly, “He’s protective of you.”
I smile faintly. “Very.”
“He threatened to kick me today too.”
“He means it.”
“That’s reassuring.”
I laugh softly. The sound feels strange in the quiet room. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “If he ever attacks you, I’ll try to stop him.”
“Try?”
“He’s surprisingly strong.”
“Great,” Aditya says dryly. “I married into a very dangerous family.” I cover my mouth to hide another laugh. For a moment the room goes quiet again.
But it’s a different kind of quiet now. Less tense. Less awkward. Just… calm. Then he says softly, “Divya?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad you messaged me.”
I turn my head slightly on the pillow. “Even if this turns into a disaster?”
“Even then.”
His voice is steady. Because suddenly I realize something.
This situation is strange.
Unexpected.
Maybe even a little reckless.
But lying here in the dim light, listening to his quiet voice from the other side of the bed—For the first time in months, I don’t feel completely alone.