We ran into each other again at a mall in Mumbai. I was browsing through kurtas and sarees, hand in hand with my new wife, Ananya, when I spotted my ex-wife, Meera.
We had spent six years together before a major argument about having children led to our divorce.
As always, she appeared composed and thoughtful. But to my surprise, Meera gave a faint smile, leaned in close, and softly whispered in my ear:
“Are you sure she’s pregnant?”
I was taken aback. At first, I felt irritated, thinking Meera was being sarcastic. But then, a series of recent oddities flashed through my mind—Ananya’s constant fatigue, her sudden request for a break from work, and that unannounced visit to a gynecologist last month, which she had casually dismissed as a routine check-up. I turned to look at Ananya—when she noticed the shift in my expression from surprise to suspicion, a hint of confusion crossed her face.
Without wasting any time, I brought Ananya to a private maternity hospital in Bandra for a check-up that very day. She tried to protest, but I was resolute. When the ultrasound and other test results came in, the doctor studied them for a moment, looked at us both, and then said quietly:
“You’re not pregnant. And… You can’t get pregnant naturally. ”
I was in sh:ock. For the past three months, Ananya had been telling my entire family that she was “three weeks pregnant” and that her morning sickness was unbearable. My mother was overjoyed, and I had truly believed I was finally fortunate in love after the heartbreak of my first marriage.
On the drive back from the Worli Sea Link, I finally asked Ananya why she had lied. She stayed silent for a long while before breaking down in tears. Through sobs, she confessed that she was terrified I might leave her—that perhaps I still had feelings for Meera. So she had fabricated everything in a desperate attempt to hold on to me.
As for me, I was left with a bitter mix of guilt and realization: Meera’s gentle whisper hadn’t been meant to hurt me—it had been a quiet warning. In the chaos of Mumbai—the blaring horns, the neon glow of mall signs—her single sentence echoed louder than all of it.
That evening, when we quietly walked back from the Sea Link, the rain lightly tapping on the car windows, I paused at Marine Drive. I pulled out my phone and sent Meera one short message: “Thank you.” She replied almost instantly: “Don’t let the idea of having kids determine how much you love someone.”
Back home, Ananya sat on the sofa, hands folded, waiting. I took a deep breath and said:
“From now on, we will be honest with each other. No more lies. ”
She nodded, her eyes red. Then Ananya told me: A month ago, when she went for a private check-up in Parel, the doctor had said the chances of her happening were very low. She was terrified. Seeing my mother eagerly waiting for the news of the baby, talking about the name of the baby, about raising me… He was afraid that one day I would wake up, compare myself to Meera and leave her. So she concocted the “three-week pregnancy” story.
I stepped back, realizing that the injury came not just from lies, but also from a desire to become a father that I had unwittingly turned into pressure.
“Starting tomorrow,” I said, “we’ll see a marriage expert.” Then, if you wish, we will meet with a fertility specialist to discuss the options. But whatever the outcome, I don’t judge marriage by any criterion. ”
The next morning, we went to a consultation room in Lower Parel. “Broken trust does not heal itself,” the expert said bluntly. Ananya took the responsibility. I also played my part: I was quick to “fix” the past with a pregnancy test, rather than letting me fix it with my appearance. We agreed on three things: medical transparency (all results will be read together), boundaries with family (I’ll talk to my mom), and a commitment to try an eight-week counseling course.
In the afternoon, I talked to my mother. She was silent for a long time, then said: “The worst thing is that the girl said the wrong thing out of fear. Bring him here to eat. That night, the mother placed a bowl of hot rasam in front of Ananya: “Eat, my baby girl, then we will decide what to do next.” This simple sentence eased the tension.
I had to do one more thing. I arranged to meet Meera at a small café near Kala Ghoda. When I said thank you, Mira nodded:
“We broke up earlier because we had made childbearing a test of love. I don’t want you to do that again.
I asked her how she came to know that Ananya is not pregnant. Mira smiled a little sadly:
“No one is so tired after ‘three weeks’ and then avoids all the questions. I have done this before. Before getting up, he said, “If you and Ananya have to talk to the doctor about options—treatment, adoption—don’t let your ego get in the way. Marriage is about two people facing the same problem, not each other. ”
On the way home, I thought of the idiom “grappling with the same problem.”
A couple of weeks later, we came back to the hospital. The doctor explained it clearly and gave a plan of treatment with/without intervention. We also signed up for an introduction to the adoption process—not to make a decision right away, but to open a window to other avenues.
This time, Ananya was the first to hold my hand: “I won’t make any big promises, but I promise I won’t lie anymore.” If you choose to walk with me, I will walk slowly and honestly. ”
I nodded. That evening, on the terrace, we planted a small pot of basil. Mother brought a little humus and carefully pressed the roots. I realized that I no longer needed immediate answers about the future. The tree will grow at its own pace—not according to my schedule.
One day, as I was walking past the mall in Mumbai where it all began, I suddenly remembered Meera’s whisper. It was a prick that pricked me. Now, it was a little bell that forced me to stop and see if my heart was beating too fast.
Another day, Ananya and I brought home an empty wooden frame. I hung it in the living room. Mom asked me what it was for.
I said, “To remind you that the family photo doesn’t have to be complete today. We’ll fill it with real moments, whether it’s three of us, or two of us, or more tomorrow. ”
Our wedding wasn’t as bright as it used to be, but it was more real. We would teach each other new recipes in the evenings, take a morning walk on Carter Road, quarrel and learn to apologize. I learned patience.
Ananya learned courage. Mom learned to ask, “Are you okay?” instead of “Any news?”
Meera sent me a picture of herself standing on the beach in Alibaug on a sunny afternoon, in which she was seen smiling next to a man wearing glasses. Underneath the picture she wrote: “Everyone gets to choose how to love. I replied: “I wish you peace. We left the past where it should have been—left it behind, but not erased.
The result was neither cheering on the red line of the exam, nor condemnation.
As a result, the three adults – me, Ananya and Mira – learnt to speak the truth and guide love.
In noisy Mumbai, amidst countless sirens, sometimes just a whisper is enough to take life on a different path. And this time, we took the right turn.
