35. CARE
VEERANSH:
I don't go inside immediately. The door to the room stays closed, and for once, I don't feel the urge to control what's happening on the other side of it.
She's been sleeping since afternoon. That, in itself, tells me enough.
Sleep like that doesn't come easy to her.
When it does, it means her body demanded it, claimed it without asking permission.
I stand in the corridor for a moment, checking the time on my watch. Evening has already settled in, the light outside fading into blue and silver. The resort is quiet. Too quiet. She should be awake by now, I think. I knock lightly. No response.
A faint unease crawls up my spine. I open the door. The sight stops me cold. She's on the bed, but not resting. Her eyes are open, red and swollen, lashes clumped together from tears that haven't stopped for a long time.
Her face is pale, her lips trembling. She's curled in on herself again, clutching the saree pallu tightly around her lower belly as if holding herself together is the only thing keeping her from breaking apart. Her body is shaking. Not from cold. From pain.
I cross the room in seconds. "Aarohi," I say sharply, kneeling beside the bed. "Hey, what happened?" Her lips part, but no words come out. She sobs. Soundlessly at first, then harder, broken, breathless cries that tear straight through my chest.
"Is it hurting badly?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "Do you want water? Medicine?" She shakes her head weakly, then nods, then shakes it again. Her hands clutch the fabric tighter. "I want to go washroom," she finally manages.
I nod immediately. "Okay. Okay." She starts crying harder. "What happened?" I ask, panic edging into my voice despite myself. "Please tell me. Don't cry like this." She turns her face away, humiliated, and whispers, "I stained the bed sheet."
For a moment, my mind goes blank. Then that's it? That's what she's been crying over? The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I don't speak immediately. She takes my silence the wrong way.
Her sobs break loose completely now, her shoulders shaking violently as she curls tighter, like she's expecting disgust. Anger. Something ugly. "I'm sorry," she cries. "I didn't mean to." "Hey," I cut in quickly, my voice low but firm. "Stop."
She flinches. I soften instantly. "Shh," I say gently this time. "It's okay. There's nothing to worry about." She looks at me through tear filled eyes, disbelief written all over her face. "Nothing," I repeat. "Do you hear me? This is nothing."
Her crying doesn't stop, but it changes. The fear loosens slightly, replaced by exhaustion. "Come," I say, sliding one arm behind her back, the other under her knees. "Let's go to the washroom." She stiffens reflexively, then goes limp, too tired to resist.
I lift her carefully. She's lighter than she should be. That thought irritates me more than it should. I carry her into the bathroom and sit her down gently on the edge. "I'll bring everything," I say. "You stay here."
I move fast. Extra pads. Fresh night clothes. Towels. I place everything within her reach. "Take your time," I tell her, turning away slightly to give her privacy. "I'm right here." She nods, eyes still wet.
I step out of the bathroom and close the door halfway. Then I go back to the bed. The sheets are stained. And instead of feeling discomfort or irritation, all I feel is anger, hot and sharp, but not at her.
At the fact that she thought this would make her unworthy of care. I strip the bed myself, movements brisk and controlled. Fresh sheets go on. Clean pillowcases. Everything neat. When I'm done, I stand there for a moment, staring at the bed.
This is what marriage looks like. Not contracts. Not control. This. The bathroom door opens quietly. She steps out, changed, her hair loose around her shoulders, her face drawn and tired.
Her eyes flicker nervously toward the bed, as if she's afraid to look. "It's done," I say calmly. "Come." She hesitates. I walk over and guide her gently back to the bed, helping her lie down.
I hand her a painkiller and a glass of water. "Drink," I say. She does, obediently, though her hands are shaking. She lies back, still clutching her stomach, soft sobs slipping out despite her efforts to stop them.
I pull the blanket over her carefully, tucking it around her shoulders. "Shh," I murmur, sitting down beside her. "You're okay." She doesn't believe it. I can tell. So I do the only thing that helped earlier.
I slide my hand gently under the edge of her shirt, resting my palm against her stomach. She tenses for a second. Then relaxes. I start massaging slowly, carefully, steady pressure, small circles, the way instinct tells me to.
"It will ease," I say quietly. "You're fine now. Sleep." Her breathing stutters, then evens out gradually. Her grip on her stomach loosens, her fingers uncurling little by little. I keep my hand there, constant, warm, grounding.
Minutes pass. Her sobs fade into soft breaths. Her body slackens into sleep. Peaceful. Trusting. I don't move. I don't want to risk waking her.
As I sit there, watching her finally rest, something heavy settles deep in my chest. This guilt. It's not loud. It doesn't demand punishment. It demands change.
I realize something in that quiet moment. Power never made me strong. Control never made me right. But sitting here, easing her pain, staying when she's most vulnerable, this scares me more than any loss of control ever has.
Because I don't know how to turn this off. And worse, I don't think I want to. Morning arrives quietly. No alarms. No calls. No urgency. Just pale light slipping through the curtains, resting softly on the bed.
I wake slowly, awareness returning in fragments, and then I realize I can't move. Her arms are around me. Not loosely. Not by accident. She's hugging me tight, her face pressed against my chest, fingers gripping my shirt like if she lets go, I'll disappear.
Her legs are drawn close, her body curved inward, seeking warmth, safety, me. Like a child. As if sometime during the night, instinct overruled fear. My breath stills. I don't dare move.
Her face looks peaceful in sleep, no crease of pain on her brow, no tightness around her mouth. Her breathing is slow and even. For the first time since I've known her, she looks unafraid. I stay still.
Minutes pass. I watch her eyelashes flutter slightly, the faint rise and fall of her chest. Her hair is messy, strands falling across her forehead and cheek. Without thinking, I lift my hand and gently tuck them back.
My fingers barely graze her skin. Warm. I pause. I place two fingers against her temple. She feels slightly hot. Not burning, but warmer than normal. Concern prickles immediately.
As if sensing my touch, she stirs. Her grip tightens for a second. Then her eyes flutter open. Confused. Sleep heavy. She blinks slowly, realizing where she is, who she's holding.
Her hand loosens instantly. "Sorry," she murmurs, trying to pull away. I stop her, not forcefully, just enough. "Are you feeling any pain?" I ask quietly. She shakes her head, still half asleep. "No."
Her hand slips fully from my shirt now, retreating like she's embarrassed by the closeness. "You're a little hot," I say. "Do you feel sick?" She blinks again, processing the words. "No," she answers softly. "I'm okay."
She tries to sit up, movements sluggish and uncoordinated like someone dragged out of deep sleep. I place a hand behind her back automatically, supporting her. She doesn't protest. "I'm going washroom," she says.
"Careful," I murmur. She stands slowly, steadies herself, and walks toward the bathroom. The door closes softly behind her. Only then does my phone ring. I glance at the screen. Mom.
I answer immediately. "Yes." Her voice comes through worried and familiar. "Beta, where did you go yesterday? What all did you visit? How many more days are you staying?" "Sonmarg," I reply. "We moved resorts. We'll stay two more days, three at most."
"And Aarohi?" she asks quickly. "Is she okay?" I hesitate. Then I tell the truth. "She wasn't well last night. Bad cramps. Feverish. She's better now, sleeping."
There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Veeransh," my mother says, her voice tightening, "please come back. I'm very worried about that little soul." I close my eyes briefly.
"Mom," I say calmly, "she's resting. We'll come back after three days." "You're sure?" she presses. "Please take care of her. She's fragile, beta." "I know," I answer.
There's a pause. Then she adds softly, "And please don't shout at her. She's scared of you sometimes." The words hit harder than she probably intends. Scared of you.
I swallow. "I won't," I say quietly. "I promise." She exhales, relieved but still anxious. "Take care of her. And call me if anything happens." "I will," I say.
The call ends. I lower the phone slowly. The bathroom door opens. She steps out, hair tied loosely, face freshly washed. She looks smaller somehow, tired, but calmer.
Her eyes flick toward me, uncertain, as if gauging my mood before speaking. I watch her. Not as a husband. Not as an owner. But as someone who stayed awake through the night just to make sure her breathing stayed steady.
Something shifts again inside me. And this time, I don't push it away.