30. GUILTY
AAROHI:
The bathroom feels warmer than the room did. Steam fogs the mirror as water slides over my shoulders, washing away the night, its silence, its strange closeness, its confusion. I close my eyes under the shower, letting the water run longer than usual.
As if it might also wash away the tight knot that has settled in my chest. I slept. I still can't believe that. Not properly, not deeply, but enough to wake without fear clawing at my throat.
Enough to feel human. I turn the tap off and wrap the towel around myself, standing still for a moment, listening. No voices. No footsteps. Just the faint hum of the heater and the distant sound of morning outside.
I change into a simple kurti and leggings, soft fabric, warm enough for the cold. I comb my hair slowly, carefully, tying it back. My movements are automatic. Practiced. I look at myself in the mirror. My face looks calmer than it has in days. Then my eyes drop. My maang. Empty. My breath catches.
I forgot. The realization hits like cold water. Sindoor. I didn't fill it. My mind races instantly. Will he get angry. Will he shout. Will he hurt me. My fingers tremble as I reach for the dressing table. The sindoor dibbi is there. Closed. I stare at it. Why didn't I remember.
Yesterday, it felt so heavy, so important, like a rule carved into my skin. And this morning, it slipped my mind as easily as a forgotten step. My chest tightens.
Maybe it's because last night didn't feel like before.
Maybe because he didn't shout. Didn't threaten.
Didn't punish. That thought scares me more than anger ever did.
I pick up the dibbi, open it, and then stop.
My hand freezes mid air. What if he notices I hesitated. What if this itself becomes a mistake.
I close it again. I don't know what to do. I take a step back, staring at my reflection. Without sindoor, I look like myself again. Like the girl who used to wake up early to help her mother. Like the girl who worked in a café and counted coins before buying anything. Not like his wife.
A knock sounds suddenly. Soft. I flinch so hard the dibbi nearly slips from my hand. "Aarohi?" his voice comes from outside. "Are you ready?" My heart pounds violently. "I." My voice shakes. "Yes. Just coming." I place the sindoor back on the table. I don't fill it.
I don't know why. Maybe fear. Maybe rebellion. Maybe exhaustion. I sling my purse over my shoulder, checking it twice, tissues, medicine strip empty, handkerchief. I take a deep breath. Be calm. Be normal. Don't provoke him. I open the bathroom door slowly and step out.
He's standing near the window, jacket already on, phone in his hand. He looks put together. Controlled. As always. His eyes lift to me.
They scan me automatically, head to toe. And then they stop. On my forehead. I see it instantly. The shift. It's subtle, but I've learned to read him. My stomach drops. He doesn't say anything at first. The silence stretches. My fingers curl around the strap of my purse so tightly they hurt.
"I forgot," I blurt out, panic spilling into my voice. "I was going to." He walks toward me. Each step feels loud. Too loud. I brace myself. Shouting. Anger. Something worse. He stops in front of me. Close. Too close. I lower my eyes instinctively.
His fingers lift my chin gently, but firmly. "Look at me," he says. I do. My heart feels like it's trying to escape my chest. "You forgot," he repeats. "Yes," I whisper. "I'm sorry." He studies my face for a long moment. Not angry. Not calm. Something unreadable.
Then he sighs. Not sharp. Not irritated. Just tired. "Why are you apologizing?" he asks. The question confuses me so much I almost forget to breathe. "Because I didn't." "You didn't break a law," he interrupts. "It's sindoor, not a weapon." I swallow hard.
"But you said." "I said it's mandatory," he replies evenly. "Not that I'd punish you for forgetting." Forgetting. The word echoes in my head. I nod slowly, unsure how to respond. He reaches past me toward the dressing table, picks up the sindoor dibbi, opens it. My body tenses automatically.
He dips his finger in. For a split second, I think he's going to do it himself.
My breath catches. But he doesn't. He holds it out to me.
"Do it," he says quietly. "If you want." If I want.
I stare at his hand. At the red powder. At the choice.
My fingers shake as I take the dibbi and fill my maang carefully.
The familiar weight settles back into place. I look up at him again.
He's watching me, not with possession, not with control, but with something cautious. As if he's measuring his own reactions. "Ready?" he asks. "Yes," I say softly. We walk toward the door together. My heart is still racing, but something inside me feels steadier. I don't know what changed.
I only know this. For the first time, I didn't get punished for being human.
I don't know where we are going. I don't ask.
The car moves smoothly over the road, the tires whispering against snow damp asphalt, and I sit quietly in the passenger seat with my hands folded in my lap. My shawl is wrapped tightly around me.
My purse rests against my side like an anchor.
Silence fills the space between us. Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that presses against your ears and makes every breath feel loud.
I keep my gaze fixed on the window, watching Kashmir unfold slowly.
White dusted trees. Distant slopes. Small shops with tin roofs.
Smoke curling lazily into the pale morning sky.
It feels unreal, like I'm watching a painting move. I don't speak because my mind won't stop circling one thought. I made a mistake. I forgot my sindoor. Even though he didn't shout. Even though he didn't punish me. Even though he spoke calmly. What if the calm is worse.
What if he's angry in a way I don't understand yet. I don't know how to read this version of him. The phone rings. I flinch slightly before realizing it's his.
"Maa," he says, answering the call. His voice changes immediately, not softer exactly, but different. Less sharp. Less guarded. "Yes, we reached early. No, the weather is fine. Yes, she's with me."
She. I wonder if he means me. I watch his reflection in the window glass as he speaks, nodding once or twice, his free hand resting on the steering wheel. He looks normal. Like a man on a trip, not like the person who controls every corner of my life. I feel invisible. And maybe that's safer.
The road curves upward, climbing higher, and suddenly the landscape opens.
Mountains. So many mountains. They rise like giants wrapped in white, sunlight spilling over their peaks.
Turning snow into silver. My breath catches despite myself.
I've never seen anything like this, not in pictures, not on TV.
It looks like heaven fell and forgot to go back.
The car slows. We stop. Only then do I notice the sign. GULMARG GONDOLA. My heart stutters. Cable car. I've heard about it. Seen pictures. Never imagined I'd be here. He parks the car and gets out. I follow silently, my boots crunching against the snow.
The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sharper. It fills my lungs in a way that makes me feel awake and small at the same time. People are everywhere. Families. Couples. Laughter. Cameras clicking. Children throwing snow at each other. I feel out of place. I keep close to him without thinking.
My steps careful. We stand in line. He handles the tickets.
I don't say a word. Not because I don't want to.
Because I'm afraid that if I speak, I'll remind him of my mistake.
The gondola cabin arrives, glass walls, small and enclosed.
He steps in first, then turns to me. "Careful," he says, holding the door. I nod and step inside.
The door closes. And then. We rise. The ground moves away beneath us, slowly at first, then steadily.
My fingers curl into the strap of my purse.
The cabin glides upward, suspended by nothing but a cable.
I look down once and immediately regret it.
Everything looks tiny. People look like dots. The trees look like toys.
My heart races, but then I look forward. And forget how to breathe. The mountains stretch endlessly, layered in white and blue and shadow. Sunlight hits the snow at an angle that makes it sparkle, like someone scattered diamonds carelessly across the slopes. The sky is impossibly clear.
I press my hand against the glass without realizing it. This view. It's the kind of beauty that hurts. The kind you want to capture. To keep forever. My first instinct is to reach for my phone. Then I remember. I don't have one. A dull ache settles in my chest. No photos. No memories saved.
Just this moment. Fragile and fleeting. I glance at him instinctively, wondering if he's watching the view too. He is. But then his eyes shift to me. I look away immediately, heat flooding my face. I don't say anything. I haven't spoken all morning. The gondola hums softly as it carries us higher.
My breath fogs the glass. The cold seeps in despite my sweater, creeping into my fingers and toes. I wrap my arms around myself, clutching the fabric tighter. He notices. "Cold?" he asks. His voice is calm. Not angry. Not soft. Just normal. I shake my head slightly. A lie.
He watches me for a second longer, then turns his gaze back to the mountains. I relax a fraction. The ride feels long and short at the same time. I want it to end because my legs feel unsteady. I want it to last because I don't know when I'll ever see something like this again.
When we finally step out, the cold hits harder. Wind brushes against my face, carrying the scent of snow and pine. He walks a little ahead. I follow. People are taking photos, laughing, pointing at the peaks. I stand there quietly, letting the scene wash over me. I wish my mother were here.
She would have smiled so wide. She would have held my hand and said something about how god creates beauty slowly, with patience.
I wonder if she's okay. The thought tightens my chest. We don't stay very long.
He walks around, takes a call, speaks to someone in low tones. I stand nearby, watching the mountains.
My body grows colder with each passing minute.
I don't complain. I don't ask to leave. I don't ask to stay.
When we return to the gondola and head back down, my body feels heavy.
Exhaustion settles deep into my bones. The ride back is quieter.
If that's even possible. My head dips slightly, but I force myself to stay awake.
I don't know why. Maybe because sleeping near him in public feels wrong.
Maybe because I don't want to appear careless.
The car ride back to the hotel stretches long.
The sun dips lower, painting the mountains in gold and orange.
My eyes burn with tiredness. I clutch my sweater tighter. He glances at me briefly.
"Are you feeling cold?" he asks again. This time, I don't shake my head. I don't nod either. I just lower my gaze further, my chin nearly touching my chest. My silence is my answer. He doesn't push. We drive the rest of the way without speaking. By the time we reach the hotel, my limbs feel numb.
My thoughts slow. The lobby is warm, golden light reflecting off polished floors.
I feel suddenly aware of how tired I am.
We take the elevator up. The room door closes behind us with a soft click.
The quiet inside the room feels different from the quiet outside.
He removes his jacket, places his phone on the table.
I stand near the door for a moment, unsure what to do. I don't want to bother him. I don't want to waste his time. I don't even know why he brought me out today. I think of tomorrow. I won't go out. The decision forms slowly but firmly in my mind. Tomorrow, I'll stay in the room.
He doesn't need to drag me along. He probably doesn't want to either.
I walk toward the balcony instead, wrapping my shawl tighter around my shoulders.
The glass door slides open quietly, and cold air rushes in to greet me.
The mountains look different now. Darker.
Calmer. The sky has softened into dusky blue.
I sit down on the chair outside, my body sinking into it gratefully. The exhaustion finally wins. I lean my head back against the wall, watching the sky.
Just for a minute, I tell myself. My eyes close. The cold air brushes against my cheeks. The mountains stand silent and eternal before me. And somewhere between one breath and the next, I drift. The last thing I feel is the strange mix of guilt and peace tangled tightly in my chest.
It's around five, because the clock tower rings five bells in the evening when sleep takes me. Quiet. Unannounced. And deeper than I expect.