I believed Ragini was my friend, I stood up for her. She pretended to be a friend while stabbing me at every opportunity. ‘But you’re a doormat,’ says Ragini’s image disdainfully.

I married Sid, believed in him, loved him. And he—he tried to—Sid’s image sneers at me grotesquely and asks, ‘Is this your baby?’ and he shows me his hands, blood and tissue dripping from it.

I open my eyes and take a deep breath. And I feel it roar in me, pulsating through my veins—anger and absolute, raw hatred.

I look outside at the Delhi roads as the autorickshaw takes me home. Home, if it can still be called that.

Everything is the same—bumper-to-bumper cars with only an inch separating them and motorcyclists who navigate those inches. Fat aunties with fat kids who sit on cycle-rickshaws that are pulled by stick-thin men. Overcrowded buses you can’t get into and over-priced autorickshaws (with faulty meters) you don’t want to get into. Beggars, vendors, cabs with call-centre people, dug-up roads, falling telephone lines—everything is the same and yet nothing is the same. My life has completely changed.

Bringing up a baby alone is not going to be easy. I will need an assured job and money. I will need a nanny to look after the baby while I work. Maybe Ma can come and look after it for a while? But I cannot rely on unmade promises. I have to ensure I have everything in place before the baby comes.

I need a permanent job, at Tabloid or wherever. But will any organization give me maternity leave with pay? What if no one wants to hire a pregnant journalist? How much do I have saved? I will sell my wedding jewellery and keep the cash in the bank. But will that be enough, especially if I don’t have a job?

So many questions and so much left to chance … I must not panic. I have to keep a calm head and get out of the house first.

I ask the autorickshaw driver to drop me off at the colony gate. I walk up to the house. Sid’s car is still parked outside. He hasn’t left for the clinic yet. I walk in and find Sid sitting in the drawing room and reading a newspaper. How casual, it’s just another day for him.

‘Why are you early?’ Sid asks shocked. ‘I mean—I could’ve picked you up. Is everything all right?’

‘All’s well, just as it should be. It was pretty quick, just some pills and I didn’t need to wait that long. I don’t like the odour in clinics so instead of waiting for you to drive all the way, I decided to take an auto instead,’ I lie.

‘Oh, okay then. Er, how’re you feeling?’ he asks. As if he cares—I can see the relief written clearly on his face.