Chapter 25 Being Whole
BEING WHOLE
NAVYA
“You met the grandfather?” Latika screeches when I tell her over the phone.
“Ouch, woman, I think you broke my eardrum.” I wince melodramatically. “He was my patient, so it’s not like it’s a big deal.”
But it is.
A man who would be hiding me wouldn’t have told his grandfather—the man he loves the most, the one who raised him—about me.
Not only that, said grandfather showed up and gave me his stamp of approval.
How the hell am I supposed to feel about all of this?
“You know,” she says, recovering fast, “for a guy who hid you away, Dr. Very Bad is Dr. Very Vocal these days about how much he wants you.”
On my television, Juhi Chawla is crying over Jackie Shroff because he’s in love with her sister.
Aaina* is playing on mute—an old movie my mother loved—while I update Latika on my latest drama. She’s been at a conference in Atlanta and has missed a lot.
“Look, I don’t want to make another mistake.”
“Babe”—she laughs dryly—“we’re human. We’re going to make mistakes. Speaking of mistakes…I talked to Rohan last night. For a long time.”
I sit up. “And?”
“And he admitted he’s being a dick about at least fifteen things. But then”—she exhales—“he told me all the ways I was being a dick. Things I didn’t even know I was doing.”
“Don’t you think he was just making excuses for being a jerk?”
“No. And I realized something—we weren’t talking, Navya. I never told him that his comments about what I eat mess with my body image. And he never told me that my complaining about not getting the Google job makes him feel like he’s failing.”
“Well…the good news is that you’re talking now.”
“I hope so.”
“You’re married,” I remind her. “Evan and I…we’re nothing.”
“I don’t think that’s true. And you know that.”
I neither confirm nor deny her statement.
See, I don’t want to be the stupid heroine who goes along with a man’s bullshit only to realize—too late—that he’s the villain, not the hero. I want to be Jane Eyre. The one who leaves when the truth comes out, even when it hurts.
Of course, Jane Eyre goes back to Rochester. Marries his half-blind, humbled ass. Lives happily ever after. Or at least that’s the rumor.
The emotional rollercoaster I’m on is exhausting and exhilarating. It’s better than when I thought we were done—and somehow, more terrifying than that, too.
Thankfully, the hospital doesn’t care about my feelings.
Patients still code.
Residents still forget orders.
Nurses still hold the place together with caffeine and dark humor.
Evan continues his assault on all my senses.
Flowers.
Notes.
Coffee.
Smoothies.
Cupcakes.
The occasional samosa.
I’m being courted like Sridevi was by Rishi Kapoor in Chandni*, a romantic Bollywood blockbuster from the late eighties. Like good old Rishi, Evan is playing the role of the reformed hero.
Very poetic.
Very dramatic.
Any minute now, we’ll be dancing around trees.
A week after Nonno’s admission, I’m reconciling medications at the nurses’ station—double-checking MARs against renal labs—when I flag a dosage error.
The resident mutters, loud enough to be heard, “She’s just a fucking nurse.”
Before I can respond, Evan—who’s looking through something on the EMR on a station near me—looks up and snaps, “Mitchell, the nurse caught your mistake. Be grateful.”
The resident swallows.
Evan has a reputation for ripping you apart if you cross him—and this guy just crossed me. And everyone knows Evan and I are…something. Or going to be something. Or—
I honestly have no idea what we are.
Everyone else, apparently, does.
The resident mumbles an apology and disappears.
Evan doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say a word. Just goes back to work.
It feels good—having someone in my corner.
It’s also deeply disorienting.
Evan keeps up his open courtship.
He stops by while Carmen is talking to me.
“Carmen,” he interrupts evenly, “there’s no rule against a doctor asking out a nurse, right?”
Carmen doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m Switzerland. Keep me out of it. Doctor-nurse drama should be illegal.”
Later, she pulls me aside. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I answer automatically.
She studies me. “You don’t have to manage his feelings.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t owe him anything.”
“I know that, too.”
She nods appreciatively. “Good. Just because he’s trying doesn’t obligate you to anything.”
I give her a thumbs-up. “I’m good.”
“Well, then”—she gives me a quick salute—“keep calm and carry on.”
Yeah, right.
There’s a tug-of-war inside me. No one has ever apologized this thoroughly. But no one has ever hurt me like this either.
That night, as I lay in bed, I call Arjun and tell him everything.
“What?” he exclaims, miffed. “All this drama and you tell me now? Latika got the premium content, and I got nothing?”
“Arjun, focus.”
“Okay, okay,” he mutters. “Here’s the thing you need to know. Men…and I mean all men are dumb as doorknobs.”
I let out a groan. “No, Arjun, they’re not—they choose to be.”
“Same difference,” he assures me airily. “Didi*, I have a question.”
“What?”
“What would he have to do—barring time travel—to earn your forgiveness?”
I stare at the ceiling, phone pressed to my ear, drained in a way sleep won’t fix.
“That’s a stupid question,” I mutter. “And I don’t have the energy for hypotheticals.”
“Humor me,” Arjun replies.
I close my eyes and think about it.
“He’d have to….” I trail off, frustrated with myself. “I don’t know. Convince me that he’ll stay, that he won’t run because his family doesn’t like me or something.”
“Okay,” Arjun says. “Good start. And….”
“And…he needs to stop acting like loving me is some grand sacrifice,” I continue, the words coming faster now. “Like he’s being noble by choosing me. I don’t want to be chosen like a charity project.”
“Fair.”
“Also,” I add quietly, “he’d have to understand that he doesn’t get access to me just because he feels bad.”
There’s silence on the line.
Then Arjun says, softer, “Does he understand that?”
“How am I supposed to know what he understands?”
“Didi, maybe you should tell him?”
“Why? I don’t want to forgive him. He wants my forgiveness, I just want….”
Silence.
“What do you want?” Arjun asks the question I don’t want to answer.
Him. I want Evan. I want that castle in the air that I built when we were together. I want the fairytale. I want him to be Mr. Darcy. I want him to be Anil Kapoor from Tezaab. I want him…to be mine.
I turn onto my side, staring at the faint glow of the streetlight through my curtains.
“It doesn’t matter what I want. I can’t un-hear what he said about me. I can’t…unbreak my own heart now, can I?”
“A broken heart doesn’t have to be a permanent condition,” Arjun quips dryly. “Look, what he did wasn’t okay. Will never be okay, and he’s not saying, hey forgive me, he’s saying that was unforgivable, but look, I’m trying to be a better man. That’s about all anyone can do.”
Ugh! Now he’s making sense. I hate that he’s making sense.
“He made me feel like I should be grateful he wanted me and—”
“How does he make you feel now?” he demands, cutting my rambling off.
Like he adores me.
Like he’s grateful that I haven’t told him to take his flowers, his coffee, his notes, and stuff them.
Like he wants to start his morning looking at me, because that makes his day better. He told me that two days ago.
“I’m afraid.”
“Yes,” he says, as if he’s known that from the start of our conversation.
“I don’t want to be brave anymore,” I whisper. “I’m tired of being the strong one.”
“You don’t have to be,” he croons with such affection that I want to cry. “Not with me. And not with anyone who actually deserves you.”
I swallow hard.
“So,” he continues after a beat, his voice lighter now, “if he never gets forgiveness, that’s okay. And if one day you decide he does—that’s okay, too. Just make sure it’s because you want him. Not because he wants absolution.”
I let out a slow breath.
“Hai Bhagvan.” I turn to lie on my back again. “When did you get so wise?”
He snorts. “I share a Netflix account with a psych student. It’s rubbing off.”
That earns a weak laugh from me.
“Whatever happens,” Arjun adds, serious again, “remember this: you were whole before him. You’ll be whole after him. If he gets to be part of your life again, it’s because he earned it—not because you needed him.”
“Okay,” I say quietly.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Now I need to go write a paper on neuroplasticity before my attending decides I’m a lost cause.”
I snort. “UCLA is such a pretentious school. Just throw in some buzzwords, and you’ll be fine.”
“Excuse you,” he says. “This is very serious science. Something about cortical remapping after traumatic injury. I stopped understanding it three hours ago.”
“Very reassuring,” I deadpan.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Call me if he does something stupid. Or if you do.”
“I always do,” I admit.
“That’s my Didi.” He pauses. “You’re allowed to take your time. Don’t let anyone rush you—especially not a man who’s finally learning how consequences work.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
“Good,” he repeats. “Now let me go pretend I know what I’m doing.”
We end the call, and I stare at the ceiling.
Whole before him.
Whole after him.
If Evan wants back into my life, it won’t be because I need saving.
It’ll be because he learned how to show up.
I think about the man Evan was versus the man he is working hard to be.
And I think about the woman I became when I loved him secretly—afraid that one wrong move from me and I’d lose him.
I don’t want to go back to that.
But I also don’t want to pretend the love vanished just because it hurt.
Maybe forgiveness isn’t a door you fling open.
Maybe it’s something you approach slowly—testing the ground beneath your feet, making sure it will hold this time.
I turn onto my side, hugging a pillow.
I am not ready.
But, in my gut, I know I will be—given time and Evan’s patience.
And that, terrifying as it is, feels like what I want.
* Mirror (Hindi)
* Moonlight (Hindi)
* Older sister (Hindi)