41. ICE CREAM
VEERANSH:
Morning comes quietly. Not the usual kind, the one that drags me out of sleep with responsibility, calls, meetings, pressure.
This morning arrives slowly, like it knows it shouldn't disturb what exists beside me.
I wake before the sun fully rises. For a few seconds, I don't move. I don't even breathe properly.
Because she's there. Aarohi is sleeping beside me.
Not at the edge anymore. Sometime in the night, she must have shifted closer.
Her head rests near my shoulder, her hair spread messily across the pillow, a few strands touching my jaw.
One of her hands is curled into my shirt, gripping the fabric like it's the only thing keeping her grounded.
Her breathing is soft, uneven in the way of someone who finally feels safe enough to let go. I look down at her, and something tightens in my chest. She looks peaceful. There are no lines of fear on her face. No tension in her brows. No flinch in her sleep. Just calm. Pure, fragile calm.
I don't remember the last time I saw her like this. Carefully, very carefully, I shift my arm slightly. Not to pull away, but to settle better around her. My hand rests on her back, warm beneath the thin fabric of her nightwear. She stirs. My entire body freezes.
Her grip tightens for a second, her face pressing closer instinctively, like she senses movement even in sleep. A soft sound escapes her lips, not fear, not pain, just a small, unconscious hum. I don't move again. I stay exactly like this. Because the truth hits me then, sharp and undeniable.
She trusts me right now. The same woman who trembled at my footsteps. The same woman who begged on her knees because she wanted to meet her mother. The same woman I locked in darkness. The same woman I hurt in ways I never allowed myself to fully remember.
And yet here she is, sleeping in my arms. My throat tightens. Guilt creeps in, slow and poisonous. How easily she forgives. How easily she adapts. How easily she holds on to hope.
And how cruel I have been to someone like her.
My eyes trace her face, her lashes resting against her cheeks, the faint mark near her temple where she once bled because of me, the softness of her lips parted slightly in sleep.
A memory flashes uninvited. Her crying in the basement.
Her silent lips when she tried to call her mother.
Her knees on the floor, begging without a voice. The slap. The fear in her eyes. My jaw clenches. I close my eyes for a second. What kind of man does that to someone so small?
My hand flexes unconsciously on her back, fingers digging into the fabric as if I can anchor myself to the present, to this version of us.
She shifts again, her forehead brushing my collarbone.
I inhale sharply. There's something dangerously addictive about this closeness.
About being needed without being feared.
About being the place she runs to instead of away from. I never wanted this. At least, that's what I told myself. But standing here now, watching her sleep so soundly against me, I can't lie anymore. I want this.
I want her safe. I want her calm. I want her to sleep like this every night, without fear, without pain. And that realization terrifies me more than anything else. Because wanting means caring. And caring means vulnerability.
I brush a strand of hair away from her face, my touch barely there. She sighs softly and relaxes further, as if responding to the gesture. My chest aches. "I won't hurt you again," I whisper, though she can't hear it. "I swear."
The words feel heavy. Earnest. Binding. Promises don't come easily to me. But this one settles deep. The morning light grows brighter, filtering through the curtains, painting her skin gold. She looks unreal, too gentle for the life she's been thrown into.
Slowly, I ease my arm from beneath her head, replacing it with a pillow so she doesn't wake. She frowns slightly but doesn't open her eyes. Good. She needs rest. I sit up on the bed, watching her for a long moment.
This room, our room, feels different now. Warmer. Softer. Less like a battlefield and more like something that could become a home. I stand quietly, moving toward the window. Outside, the haveli is waking up. Birds. Distant footsteps. The smell of morning tea drifting faintly through the air.
A normal morning. Yet nothing inside me feels normal anymore. Because somewhere between guilt and care, obsession and responsibility, something dangerous has begun to grow. Something I don't know how to name yet. I glance back at her one last time before leaving the room.
She turns in her sleep, curling toward the warmth I left behind. And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like running from what I've become. I close the door softly. Not to shut her out. But to protect her sleep.
And maybe, to protect whatever fragile, unfamiliar thing is beginning to take shape inside my heart. By evening, the haveli feels heavier again. Not because of noise or people, but because reality settles back in. Kashmir softened things. Distance softened me.
Rajasthan brings back walls, rules, expectations. Power. Control. And yet, when I look at her that evening, standing near the window of my room, our room now, something inside me refuses to harden again. She's wearing a simple kurti. No heavy jewellery. No silk. No saree.
Just cotton fabric, light colors, her hair loosely tied. She looks real. Like a girl her age. Not a "Sarkar bahu." Not a responsibility. Not a consequence of my greed. Just Aarohi.
She looks unsure when I say, "Get ready. We're going out." Her eyes widen slightly. "Outside?" "Yes." She hesitates, fingers twisting together. "Tell mother, "
"We're not going far," I interrupt gently. "And we're not going to some five-star place." That surprises her more than anything. I don't tell her where we're going. I don't want expectations. I don't want pressure. I just want quiet.
The drive is silent, but not uncomfortable. She sits by the window, watching the city pass by. Her reflection flickers on the glass, streetlights brushing her face in gold and shadow. I steal glances when I think she won't notice. She looks calmer than before. Less guarded.
I park the car near a small roadside ice cream shop. No valet. No security hovering. No marble floors or chandeliers. Just a quiet road, dim lights, and a wooden bench near the stall.
She looks confused when we step out. "Here?" she asks softly. "Yes. Here." Her lips part slightly, then curve into the smallest smile. We sit on the bench, side by side.
There's a little distance between us, enough to feel respectful, close enough to feel intentional. The shopkeeper hands us two cones. She holds hers carefully, like it might disappear if she grips it too tight. Vanilla. Simple. Predictable. Just like her taste in everything.
I watch her take the first bite. Her eyes light up. Not dramatically. Not exaggerated. Just a quiet spark, like she's forgotten how good something so small can feel. "It's good," she murmurs. Something loosens in my chest.
We talk. Softly. About nothing important. About how cold evenings feel different here. About how the ice cream reminds her of childhood, rare, occasional, special. About how she never thought she'd sit on a roadside bench with me, eating ice cream like this.
"I didn't think you'd like places like this," she admits, almost shy. I exhale slowly. "Neither did I." She laughs. It's quiet. Unforced. Real. And for the first time, I realize.
I like the sound of her laughter more than the sound of my authority. A drop of ice cream melts faster than she expects. It slips. Right onto her lower lip. She freezes.
I don't think. My thumb lifts automatically, brushing the corner of her mouth, wiping the drop away. The moment my skin touches hers, everything stops. She goes completely still. I realize, too late, what I've done.
My thumb lingers for half a second longer than it should. Her lips are warm. Soft. Her breath catches. I pull my hand back immediately. "Ice cream," I clear my throat.
She nods quickly, eyes dropping, cheeks coloring. Neither of us speaks for a moment. The air shifts. Not awkward. Charged. The evening grows colder as the sun sinks lower.
A breeze passes, sharper now. She shivers, tries to hide it, but I notice. Without asking, I shrug off my coat and drape it over her shoulders. She looks up, startled. "You, "
"Don't argue," I say quietly. She wraps the coat around herself. It's too big for her. Swallows her frame. She smells like soap and something faintly floral. I pretend not to notice how right it feels to see her wearing something of mine.
After finishing her ice cream, she looks at the stall again. Then at me. "One more?" she asks, hesitant but hopeful. I frown instinctively. "You already have a cold tendency. Doctor said,"
"I want to eat," she says stubbornly. Not loud. Not demanding. Just firm. I stare at her. This, this is new. The Aarohi who never asked.
Never insisted. Never pushed. Something twists in my chest. I sigh. "You're impossible." But I go back and buy her another. She smiles like she's won something precious.
On the way back to the car, the road is uneven. She twists her ankle slightly. Before she can fall, I grab her. My arm wraps around her waist. My other hand grips her upper arm.
She crashes into me, breath knocking out of both of us. For a second. Just a second. We stay like that. Too close.
Her forehead nearly touches my chest. Her hands clutch my shirt. My grip tightens instinctively. I realize where my hand is. Where I've never touched her before. Her breath trembles.
So does mine. I step back immediately. "Careful," I mutter. She nods, flustered, adjusting herself. We sit in the car. Silence again, but different now.
Not empty. Full. As I start the engine, she speaks softly, almost like she's afraid the moment might disappear. "Thank you, for the ice cream." I glance at her.
She's smiling. Really smiling. Not forced. Not grateful. Just happy. "For smiling," I reply quietly. "I hope that smile never leaves your face." She looks at me then. Properly.
Like she's trying to understand something new. Something unfamiliar. Something growing between us. The drive back feels shorter. And as the haveli gates appear in front of us, one thought stays with me, heavy and undeniable.
I brought her out to make her feel better. But somewhere along the way. She made me feel human again.