33. GUILT
VEERANSH:
Guilt is not a feeling I'm familiar with.
I know responsibility. I know consequence.
I know calculation. Guilt is different. It sits wrong in the chest, heavy and restless, without logic.
I realize it while she's still inside the bathroom.
The room is quiet again, but the silence doesn't feel neutral anymore. It feels accusing.
Every corner of the suite seems to hold a memory of how she flinched, how her eyes turned red, how quickly she assumed she had done something unforgivable.
Forgetting sanitary pads. That was all. And yet she cried like she had committed a crime.
I move to the armchair and sit down slowly, elbows resting on my knees, hands clasped together. My jaw tightens.
This is not how things were supposed to be. When I married her, forced her, I told myself it was transactional. Cold. Clean. A legal necessity. I never told myself I would become gentle. I never planned to care. But this morning wasn't about care. It was about damage.
I replay the moment again and again in my head. The knock on the door. My voice. Her face when she came out. I had been sharp. Impatient. And she had folded inward instantly, like a reflex. That reflex wasn't built in a day. It was built over weeks, months, years. Some of it was mine.
That realization lands heavily. I lean back, staring at the ceiling. I remember the first day, the rules. No phone. No disobedience. No questions. Punishment for mistakes. At the time, it felt necessary. Control always does. Control keeps things clean.
But control, when applied without pause and without awareness, becomes something else. Fear. I didn't intend to turn her into someone who apologizes for basic needs. I didn't intend to make her afraid of knocking on a door. But intention doesn't erase impact.
The bathroom door opens softly. I straighten immediately. She steps out, moving slowly and carefully. She's changed, her face washed, eyes still faintly red but calmer. She avoids my gaze instinctively, walking toward the sofa. She sits. Small. Contained. Like she's afraid of taking up space.
The guilt sharpens. "Breakfast can wait," I say, keeping my tone steady.
"You should rest a little." She nods again.
Always nodding. Always agreeing. I hate that suddenly.
I stand and walk to the window, pretending to check something on my phone, giving her distance, but also because I don't trust my expression right now.
My mother's voice echoes faintly in my head. "Power without compassion rots from inside." I used to dismiss that as emotional nonsense. Now I'm not so sure. Behind me, I hear her shift slightly on the sofa. I turn. She's clutching the edge of her kurti, fingers twisting the fabric nervously.
"Aarohi," I say, quieter. She looks up instantly. "Yes?" That single word. So alert. So ready. I pause. How do I say this? I don't apologize easily. I never have. Apologies imply error, weakness, loss of authority. But right now, authority feels irrelevant.
"I didn't know," I say finally. "About this morning." She blinks, confused. "You didn't do anything wrong," I continue, choosing each word carefully. "And you don't need to panic over things like this." Her lips part slightly. "I'm sorry," she says reflexively.
The guilt twists deeper. "I didn't ask you to be sorry," I say firmly. "And you don't need to say it every time." She nods again. I exhale slowly, rubbing my temple. "This trip isn't a test," I say, shifting the subject slightly. "You're not here to prove anything."
She listens silently. "You don't have to disappear to make me comfortable," I add. "And you don't have to keep punishing yourself." Her eyes glisten faintly. "I don't punish myself," she says softly. I almost laugh at the irony. "You do," I reply. "Constantly."
She doesn't argue. That's answer enough. I glance at the clock. "We'll go for breakfast when you're ready," I say. "No rush." She looks surprised again. I'm getting used to that look, and I don't like that she's surprised by basic consideration.
I move to the table, pick up my jacket, then stop. "There's one more thing," I say, without turning around. "Yes?" she responds quietly. "You don't need permission to tell me when something is wrong," I say. "Especially about your health."
Silence follows. Then hesitantly, "Okay." I turn to face her. "Say it properly," I insist. "Not because I ordered you. Because you understand." She takes a breath. "Okay," she repeats, this time steadier. Good. Not perfect. But real.
I leave the room briefly to coordinate breakfast timing, my mind still tangled. This guilt isn't dramatic. It doesn't make me soft overnight. But it does something dangerous. It makes me question. And questioning control is the first crack in its armor.
When I return, she's sitting in the same place, but her posture has changed slightly, less rigid. She's wrapped the shawl around herself, staring at the window. "After breakfast," I say, "we'll leave for Sonmarg. If you feel unwell at any point, we turn back. No discussion."
She looks at me carefully. "You won't be angry?" The question hits harder than any accusation. "No," I say immediately. "I won't." She studies my face like she's trying to memorize the answer, storing it somewhere safe.
I look away first. Because something inside me, quiet, unwelcome, persistent, tightens at the thought that she's never really known what safety feels like. And worse, that I might have been the one taking it from her.