34. IN PAIN
AAROHI:
Pain has a way of teaching you how to lie.
Not with words, but with your face, your posture, your silence.
I learn that again this morning. The cramp starts low, dull at first, like a warning tap.
I inhale slowly, hold it, exhale, just like I've always done.
I tell myself it will pass. It always does.
I don't say anything. When Veeransh asks, "Are you okay?" while adjusting his jacket, I nod. "Yes," I say. The lie slips out easily. We leave for Sonmarg soon after breakfast. The drive is quiet. Snow lines the roads, trees standing still like they're holding their breath.
The view is beautiful, almost unreal, but my focus keeps slipping inward, to the tight pull in my lower abdomen that comes in waves. I press my hands together in my lap, fingers lacing tightly. Don't show it. Don't slow him down. Don't become a problem.
The resort is bigger than the hotel in Gulmarg. Much bigger. Wide open spaces. Wooden architecture. High ceilings. Silence everywhere, deep, echoing silence. It feels like the kind of place people come to forget the world. But it's empty. Too empty. It's just us.
The cold hits me harder when we step out of the car. My legs feel weak, as if they might give in if I stop moving. I walk carefully, keeping my steps small and measured. Veeransh doesn't rush me. He walks beside me, not touching, not pushing. Still, every step feels like an effort.
"This place is quiet," he says. I nod again. Quiet is good. Quiet means no one sees. He shows me the room upstairs, large and warm, with a big bed, soft lights, heavy curtains. There's a window that looks out over snow covered slopes, untouched and endless.
"You can rest here," he says. "I'll be downstairs." I nod. "Okay." The door closes behind him. And the moment I'm alone, my body gives up the act. The cramp hits sharp this time, stealing the air from my lungs. I gasp softly and bend forward instinctively, clutching my stomach.
My knees buckle slightly, and I have to grab the edge of the bed to stay upright. I breathe. In. Out. It doesn't help. I check my purse, hopeless, even though I know what I'll find. No painkillers. No heat pad. Nothing.
I sit on the edge of the bed, then lie back, then sit again. No position feels right. The pain rolls through me in waves, tightening, releasing, then tightening again harder. I press my palm against my stomach. "Please," I whisper, not sure who I'm talking to.
I think of Mumma. How she used to heat salt in a cloth and press it gently against my back. How she'd say, "Thoda sa dard hai, beta. Seh lo." Just a little pain. Bear it. I swallow hard. I decide on a warm bath. Maybe it will help.
The bathroom is large and clean, marble everywhere. There's a bathtub. I turn the water on, waiting for it to warm, leaning against the wall because standing straight hurts too much. When the tub fills, I step in slowly, sinking into the warmth with a quiet sigh.
For a few minutes, it helps. The heat loosens something inside me. My muscles relax just enough for me to breathe without gasping. I close my eyes, resting my head against the edge of the tub. I don't know how long I stay there. Ten minutes. Twenty.
The pain doesn't go away, but it dulls. When I step out, my legs feel shaky. I dry myself slowly, every movement careful and deliberate. I change into a saree, because that's what I wore this morning, and that's what feels right.
The mangalsutra goes around my neck. The heavy bangles slide onto my wrists, clinking softly. I fill my maang with sindoor. Not because I want to. Because it's a rule. Rules don't care if you're in pain.
By the time I step back into the room, the cramp has returned, worse than before. My body feels hollowed out, like something is twisting me from the inside. I walk to the bed slowly and lie down on my side, pulling my knees toward my chest. It's the only position that eases the pain even a little.
I hug myself. Another wave hits. Sharp. Relentless. My breath breaks, and a sound escapes my throat before I can stop it, a small, broken sob. "Mumma," I whisper. I bite down on my lip hard, trying not to cry out loud. Crying doesn't help. It never has.
But the pain doesn't listen. Tears spill anyway, hot and silent, soaking into the pillow. I curl tighter, rocking slightly, trying to make myself smaller, quieter, as if that might make the pain forget me.
Another knock sounds at the door. I flinch. "Aarohi?" Veeransh's voice comes from outside. It sounds tense. "What happened? Open the door." I can't answer. I can't move. My body refuses.
Another wave crashes through me, and I whimper despite myself, my fingers clutching the bedsheet. "Aarohi," he says again, sharper now. "Open the door." I try. I really do. But my legs won't straighten. My hands feel weak. The room spins slightly.
The door opens. He steps inside. And the moment he sees me, curled up on the bed, crying, knees pulled to my chest, everything stops. I see it on his face. The shock. The realization. The way his posture stiffens instantly.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then he takes a step toward me. For a moment, I forget how to breathe. He is standing there, inside the room, the door still slightly open behind him, cold air slipping in. His eyes are fixed on me, and I know what he sees.
Not his wife. Not the rules. Not the sindoor. Just pain. Raw. Undeniable. I try to move. To sit up. To wipe my face. To look normal. My body refuses.
Another cramp tears through me, sharp enough that a cry slips out before I can stop it. My fingers clutch the bedsheet, knuckles white, my knees pulling tighter to my chest. "Aarohi," he says my name again, but this time it's different. Not commanding. Not irritated. Uncertain. Concerned.
He comes closer, fast now, his long steps crossing the room in seconds. He stops at the edge of the bed, unsure, like he doesn't know where to touch, or if he's allowed to. "What's wrong?" he asks, his voice lower. "Talk to me."
I shake my head weakly. "I'm fine," I whisper automatically. The lie sounds ridiculous even to my own ears. He doesn't believe it. His jaw tightens as his eyes scan me, my curled posture, the way I'm shaking, the tears I can't stop.
"You're not fine," he says flatly. Another wave hits. I cry out this time, unable to hold it back. My body bends forward instinctively, hands pressing against my stomach like I can physically push the pain away.
"Cramps," I manage to say through broken breaths. "Bad." Something shifts in his expression. Not confusion. Understanding. "Since when?" he asks. I hesitate. Then softly, "Since morning."
His eyes flicker with something sharp. "Why didn't you say anything?" I laugh weakly, a breathless, broken sound. "Because I thought..." "That I'd be angry?" he finishes quietly. I don't answer. I don't have to.
He exhales slowly, runs a hand through his hair, then does something that surprises me. He sits down. Right beside me on the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, grounding me in the reality that he's really here.
I tense automatically, instinct screaming at me to pull away, to sit properly, to fix myself. But the pain doesn't let me. "I need to help you," he says. "You don't have to," I whisper quickly, panic creeping in. "It's okay. I can manage."
"You can't," he replies calmly. "You're not managing. You're surviving." Before I can protest again, he gently moves closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he's afraid of hurting me.
"Tell me if I do anything wrong," he says. "I'll stop immediately." His hand hovers for a second over my stomach. I freeze. No one, no one except Mumma, has ever touched me like this. Not in comfort. Not in care.
My body trembles, not from fear this time, but from uncertainty. He waits. I nod faintly. His palm settles over my belly, warm even through the layers of fabric. The touch is hesitant at first, unsure, like he's learning by instinct rather than experience.
Then he starts to move his hand. Slow circles. Gentle pressure. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing forceful. Just steady warmth. The effect is immediate. Not magical, but enough.
The edge of the pain dulls slightly, just enough that I can breathe without gasping. My sobs quiet into broken breaths. I hadn't realized how cold I was until his hand warmed me. "It helps?" he asks quietly.
I nod again, tears slipping down my temples into my hair. "Yes," I whisper. He adjusts his position slightly, supporting me so I don't have to hold myself up. His other hand grips the bedsheet, controlled and restrained, like he's grounding himself.
I focus on his breathing. Slow. Even. I try to match it. Another cramp comes, but this time, it's softer. Manageable. I whimper anyway, the sound small and helpless.
"It's okay," he says immediately. "I'm here." Those words. Something inside me cracks open. I cry properly then, not loud, not dramatic, but deep, quiet sobs that shake my shoulders.
I turn my face toward the pillow, embarrassed, but he doesn't move his hand away. He doesn't tell me to stop. He doesn't tell me to be quiet. He just keeps massaging, steady and patient, like time has slowed to the rhythm of his palm.
I don't know how long we stay like that. Minutes blur. The pain slowly retreats from unbearable to heavy, from heavy to dull. My breathing evens out. My tears dry. I'm exhausted.
My body feels weak, drained, but no longer on fire. I loosen my grip on my knees slightly, my muscles unclenching one by one. His hand stills. "Better?" he asks softly.
"Yes," I whisper. "Thank you." He nods once, then gently withdraws his hand like he's afraid sudden movement might bring the pain back. He stands up, goes to the window, pulls the curtains slightly to dim the light.
When he turns back, he takes a blanket and drapes it over me carefully, tucking it around my shoulders. "You should rest," he says. "Sleep if you can." I nod.
He hesitates at the edge of the bed. "If it comes back," he adds, "call me. Immediately." I look at him. "You won't be angry?" Something unreadable crosses his face.
"No," he says firmly. "I won't." He walks toward the door, then stops. "Aarohi," he says without turning around. "Yes?" "You're allowed to be unwell," he says quietly. "You don't have to earn space by suffering."
The door closes softly behind him. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, my body heavy but calmer. The pain hasn't vanished completely, but it's bearable now.
What lingers more is the warmth. Not on my skin. Inside my chest. And that scares me more than the pain ever did. Because warmth makes you hope. And hope makes you forget how to protect yourself.