Disha hadn't walked out of the house in anger, she never did. She waited until some time had passed, wrapped her sari around herself neatly, pulled her hair into the accustomed knot (though tighter than usual), checked her purse and mumbled something about going to see her tailor. Her husband didn't bother looking up from the television.
'It's over,' Disha said aloud, 'Shesh.' The juddering movement of the rickshaw made her voice shake on that last word, as if there was still some uncertainty left. Ten years of marriage, ten, a nice rounded number, ten without any children. Who knew why. Beyond gossip, complaints and allegations, the childlessness was unexplored.
As she descended from the rickshaw at a random street corner, she recalled this morning's taunt. It was a new one. Disha knew all his usual jibes: her fleshy belly and sagging breasts, her barrenness (hers? really?), her dark skin, her unkempt domesticity, her lack of property. What was she good for?
And now this one: All he had to say was talaaq, three times, and Disha would be divorced, out of the house.