39. THOUGHTS
VEERANSH:
I wake up before the light fully enters the room.
Not because of habit. Not because of work.
Because I feel her. Her fingers are curled around my arm, clutching it in sleep like an anchor.
Her face is turned toward me, forehead resting just below my shoulder.
At some point in the night, without realizing it, my arm has slipped around her waist, holding her close.
Too close. I don't move immediately. I just register it. The warmth. The weight of her against me. The quiet rise and fall of her breath. This isn't an accident. That realization hits slowly, and then all at once. I want this. The closeness, the softness, the way she fits here like she belongs.
I've never woken up like this with anyone. Never allowed it. Never wanted it. Touch has always been about control for me, measured, deliberate, distant. But this feels natural. Too natural. My jaw tightens slightly as another thought creeps in, unwelcome and sharp. What if I lose control again?
The memory of my own hands flashes before me, locking doors, grabbing wrists, striking skin.
The thought that I could hurt her again twists something ugly in my chest. She's healing.
Slowly. Delicately. Like someone who has never been given the chance to heal properly before.
I don't want to be the reason she breaks again.
My grip loosens instinctively, but she reacts even in sleep. Her hand tightens around my arm, her body shifting closer like she senses the distance. I freeze. Her lips part slightly as she exhales. Her brows smooth. She looks peaceful. Safe. Something settles in me then.
A decision, quiet but firm. I will not hurt her again. Not with words. Not with anger. Not with silence. If she is here, if she is my wife, then I will treat her like one. Not like a pawn. Not like a responsibility. Not like a fragile thing I control with fear.
Like a wife. With care. With protection. With the patience she was never given. And this part surprises me most, with love, if I can learn how to give it. She stirs faintly, shifting her head against my shoulder. I smile despite myself. "Aarohi," I murmur softly. "Wake up."
She hums in response, burying her face further into my arm. "Five minutes," she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. I huff a breath through my nose. "No," I say gently. "Get up." "Ummm... five minutes," she repeats stubbornly, and promptly falls asleep again.
I wait a moment. Then another. Then I try again.
"Aarohi." "Five minutes," she says again, more annoyed this time, without opening her eyes.
Something light, something almost playful, stirs in me.
"If you ask for another five minutes," I say casually, "I'll leave you here in Kashmir and go home alone. "
Her eyes fly open instantly. "What?!" she gasps, sitting up so fast she almost headbutts me. I laugh. Actually laugh. The sound surprises both of us. Her expression shifts from shock to realization to pure offense. "That's not funny," she says, glaring at me.
I raise an eyebrow. "It worked." She huffs and storms off toward the washroom, muttering under her breath.
I watch her go, still smiling. Breakfast arrives while she's inside.
The table fills with warm food, steam curling into the air.
She comes out dressed neatly, hair still damp, face slightly pink from sleep and annoyance.
She sits down without looking at me. "We leave tonight," I tell her while pouring tea. She looks up. "Tonight?" "Yes." She nods immediately. "Okay. I'll check the bags, if anything is left behind." "No need," I say. "But do it if you want."
She finishes breakfast quietly, then goes to check the room.
"We'll go for lunch outside," I add. "There's a famous restaurant nearby.
" She smiles faintly. "Okay." She gets ready carefully, green saree, mangalsutra resting against her collarbone, sindoor filled neatly.
She looks right, like she belongs beside me.
At the restaurant, we sit across from each other. The place is warm, crowded, alive. People talking, laughing, eating. For once, no one is staring at us. No cameras. No expectations. Just us. We eat slowly while she talks about Suhana and how she must be missing her.
She asks about my work hesitantly, like she's not sure she's allowed to. I answer. We talk about home. Normal things. Like a normal couple would. And through it all, one thought keeps repeating in my mind, steady and undeniable. I want her near me.
Not because I own her. Not because I control her. But because somewhere between guilt and care, fear and softness, something has begun to grow. I don't know if this is love. I only know this. I like her. And for the first time in my life, that feels like enough to start with.
The drive to the airport is quiet. Not awkward. Not tense. Just calm. She sits beside me, hands folded in her lap, eyes drifting between the road and the window. Every now and then, she glances at me, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how to begin. I don't push her.
For once, silence feels right. At the airport, everything moves fast, security, boarding, announcements echoing through wide halls. She follows close behind me, careful not to get lost in the crowd. I notice it without meaning to. How she subconsciously stays within reach.
On the plane, she sleeps. Her head tilts slightly toward my shoulder, not touching, but close enough that I can feel her warmth. I don't move away. I don't pull closer either. I just let it be. Somewhere between clouds and time zones, I realize something unsettling.
I'm thinking about her comfort before my own. When the plane lands in Rajasthan, the sky is pale with early morning light. The air is warmer, familiar, carrying the scent of earth and dust and home. It's around seven when the car pulls into the haveli. The gates open slowly.
And there she is. My mother. Standing in the garden, watering plants, her dupatta loosely draped over her shoulder.
She looks up the moment she hears the car and her face brightens.
"You're back, beta," she says warmly, walking toward us.
Her eyes go straight to Aarohi. "How are you? Everything was fine, right?"
Aarohi nods politely. "Yes, maa." Before my mother can say anything else, a blur comes running out of the haveli. Suhana. She practically flies toward Aarohi and hugs her tightly. "Welcome back from your lovely honeymoon!" she declares dramatically. Aarohi laughs softly, a little shy. "Thank you."
"I'm going to college," Suhana says immediately, pulling back. "But you tell me everything later. Every detail. In the morning." "Crazy girl," my mother scolds her lightly. "Go to college now. You can talk in the evening." Suhana grins, waves, and rushes off. My mother turns back to us.
"Come inside. I'll make ginger tea. You must be tired." She heads inside, already calling instructions to the staff. I remain where I am. Aarohi hesitates, then turns toward the stairs leading to the room she was given after the marriage, the one she's been staying in.
"I'll go freshen up," she says softly. I nod. She walks away, her footsteps quiet against the stone floor. Once she's out of sight, my mother looks at me, really looks at me. "How was the trip, beta?" she asks gently. "It was good," I say.
She studies my face, her eyes sharp despite the softness in her voice. "You look different," she says slowly. "Not like before." I don't respond immediately. "You're calmer," she continues. "Quieter. Like something has settled." She pauses, then asks the question she already knows the answer to.
"Is this because of her?" I exhale. I don't deny it. I don't confirm it either. Silence answers for me. My mother smiles, not triumphant, not teasing, just relieved. "Take care of her," she says quietly. "She's delicate, Veeransh. Not weak. Delicate."
I nod once. She pats my arm and turns toward the kitchen. I take a step toward the hallway, then stop. "Ma," I say. She turns back. "Tell the servants," I add, my voice steady and decisive, "to shift her things from her room to mine."
Her eyebrows lift slightly. Then she smiles. "Alright," she says simply. I walk to my room and close the door behind me. The room feels different now. Not empty. Not just mine. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the opposite wall but seeing her instead.
The way she slept clutching my arm. The way she laughed in Gulmarg. The way she panicked when she woke up alone. The way she says maa like the word itself is sacred. I think of the fear I once saw in her eyes and the trust I see there now.
I don't know what tomorrow will look like. I don't know how to undo the damage I've already done. But I know this. She doesn't belong in a separate room. She belongs here. With me. And this time, I won't let myself forget what that means.