The Un-Instagrammed Husband
“Some men don’t show up in your feed — they show up in your life.”
Ravi had a quiet presence, like ceiling fans and old Hindi film songs — always there, never noticed. In most of the photos on Anvika’s Instagram, there were brunches, saree poses, latte art, but never Ravi.
At best, he was the shadow behind the frame. At worst, not even that.
“Ravi, click one more,” she said one Sunday at Café D’Lush — the one with the white swing and pink floral wall.
Ravi adjusted the angle, wiped the lens, and tried again. Anvika looked once, frowned. “My eyes look sleepy! You really don’t get angles, do you?”
He smiled weakly and sipped his masala chai — which, by the way, was horrible. Overpriced milk with cinnamon. But he never complained.
The truth was, Ravi loved food. Real food. The kind that lived in foggy corners of old towns — kachoris from Thatte Wale, mango kulfi behind Dadar station, biryani that came in steel tiffins wrapped in newspapers.
But for Anvika, food was now a backdrop. If it didn’t look aesthetic, it didn’t matter.
At home, the reel never stopped.
Lights on. Saree set. Neck tilted. Caption: “Self love is the best love. 💖✨”
And Ravi? He massaged her neck when it ached from too much scrolling. He brought warm water when she coughed from AC chills. He took the dog out when she was busy editing filters.
She never noticed that the fridge was always stocked. That the water can was changed on time. That the car’s servicing was never missed.
Ravi noticed everything.
One evening, at a dinner with her influencer friends, someone asked,
“Is that your husband?” looking at Ravi like they were trying to identify a waiter.
Anvika smiled nervously. “Yeah… he’s more of an offline person.”
Ravi heard it. He smiled. But something inside crumbled a little.
The turning point came one monsoon afternoon.
They were stuck near CST, rain flooding the roads. Her battery was dead. No Uber, no Auto. She was in heels and panic.
Ravi pulled her into a narrow gully. “Trust me,” he said.
He led her to a tiny Irani café, dimly lit, filled with the scent of buttered pav and chai.
“What is this place?”
“It’s where I come when I miss joy,” he said quietly.
They sat. He ordered her bun-maska and chai. For the first time in months, she kept the phone aside. The taste — simple, warm, full of memories — softened something in her.
“You come here alone?”
“I like to disappear sometimes,” he said, “It’s easier when no one’s looking for you.”
That night, Anvika didn’t sleep much.
The next morning, Ravi opened Instagram and stared at his phone.
His heart skipped.
It was a photo of him — eyes crinkled, holding a steel glass of chai, smiling.
Caption:
“This man doesn’t know his angles. But he knows mine. He knows when my neck hurts, when I’m too tired, when I need silence, when I need love.
Married to the most un-Instagrammed, most extraordinary man. 💛”
It got barely 70 likes.
But for Ravi, it was the first time he felt seen. Not in a frame. But in her eyes.
Tears. Let's do these. Tiny stories.