Chapter 27
IRA
"You may come with us if you like," Prashant said, buttoning up his shirt. "They'll like you."
"Are you insisting on me or yourself?" I asked, biting back a smile. He looked unfairly handsome with his hair still wet, droplets of water trickling down the sharp edges of his face.
"How many months have you taken off?" I asked, letting my gaze linger on him a little longer than I should have.
"Two months and fifteen days," he said casually.
I blinked, stunned. "Does that mean we'll be joining duty on the same day?"
He nodded without hesitation.
"Why?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"Why what?" He raised his brows at me.
"Why did you take the same leave as mine?"
"I don't know," Prashant said with a shrug, running his fingers through his damp hair as he looked at himself in the mirror.
"Prashant..." I stepped up behind him. I could feel his body tense as he paused, the air between us suddenly dense.
Slowly, I slid my hand down his chest. His breath sharpened at my touch.
"I'm sorry for breaking your marriage," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his back.
God, he was so warm, so firm, so infuriatingly cozy.
"Sorry won't mend what's broken between us, Ira," he said, a trace of bitterness slipping through his otherwise calm voice.
"I only agreed to marry you because..." He turned slowly to look into my eyes, his expression unreadable.
"I couldn't stand the way people looked at you, like you were something dirty.
And I... I couldn't make myself abandon you like that. "
His words sat heavily in the space between us. Before I could speak anything else he asked, "Why did you break off your engagement with that doctor?"
"Because that doctor wasn't you," I replied without breaking eye contact.
He exhaled harshly. "Why do you always have to twist things? You should've said no to him on the very first day if you didn't want to marry him. Why give him and his family so much trouble?"
If I told Prashant the truth, that I had almost married an abusive Kabir, that I had been blind to his real face until the last moment, he wouldn't hesitate to call me a selfish bitch.
So I stayed silent. I wouldn't defend myself.
I wouldn't explain. I would just tell him what I always did: that I wanted to marry him.
"If you had agreed to marry me earlier, none of this would've happened," I said with a soft smile, trying to lighten the moment.
"You shouldn't have married me," he said, jaw tightening, and pushed me away gently.
"Why?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
"Pari will stay with you," he said abruptly, changing the subject. "We'll return in a week. Take care of yourself." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out. I wanted his answer but I knew I would not get this easily. I had to earn his trust and his love back.
I watched as Prashant, Priya, and my mother-in-law got into a cab and drove off. Pari and I remained behind, surrounded by cracked walls and the eerie stillness of a house that barely felt alive.
This place gave me chills sometimes. The creaking floors, the peeling paint, the way the wind whispered through broken windows like it remembered too many sad stories.
I sometimes worried the house might actually collapse on us.
But then a strange idea crossed my mind: what if I renovated it while they were away?
With Pari around, it wouldn't be too difficult. She barely spoke, always buried in her books like they were her only safe place. She was bitter-sweet, a curious mix of innocence and guardedness.
I borrowed her laptop for an hour and started searching for the best renovators in Srinagar.
Most of the options were far too expensive, but I finally found one I liked.
It was little expensive, but I didn't care.
I just wanted the work done before they returned.
I wanted Prashant and his family to walk into something beautiful. Maybe then he'd see me.
The house was a disaster. Cracked walls, broken bathrooms, furniture that looked like it had witnessed generations of sorrow.
The first to go was the furniture. I donated what I could: old chairs, rusted shelves, worn-out beds and a few more furniture.
Then came the walls. I watched the workers strip away the decaying plaster, exposing the raw skeleton of the house. It was flawed, and imperfect. I ran my fingers over the bare bricks, imagining what color they would wear, the warmth they could eventually hold.
The contractors moved in, and so did the noise: hammering, drilling, and shouting, the chaos of transformation. The bathroom tiles were replaced with earthy stone. Rusted taps and cracked sinks were swapped for sleek, modern fixtures. I kept only one rusted mirror as a quiet tribute to the past.
Every choice I made had purpose: warm oak flooring that felt like home beneath bare feet, sheer curtains that softened sunlight, and a kitchen tiled in deep blue.
I placed plants in every room, tiny symbols of life and healing. Time was cruel, yes, but it could also be kind. I wanted to believe that.
By the end of the week, the house no longer looked haunted. It looked chosen, like someone had loved it back to life.
I didn't just renovate a house, I rebuilt a home. Piece by piece, like I was reconstructing myself alongside it. It was no longer a place I had been forced to live in. It was a place I had made my own. And I wanted Prashant to feel that. I wanted him to be proud. Maybe even happy.
"I don't think Bhai and Maa will find it pretty," Pari said hesitantly as she looked around the transformed rooms. "I love it, Bhabhi. I really do. But I don't know why I'm scared they won't."
I looked at her, at her small face, full of hope and uncertainty and smiled.
"Then we'll love it enough for all of them," I said. "And maybe they'll come around."
Pari nodded slowly, and for a brief moment, I saw something in her eyes, a flicker of belief. Maybe this broken house wasn't the only thing that could be rebuilt.
"Are you afraid of your brother?" I asked quietly, watching Pari as she absentmindedly traced the seams of the cushion beside her.
She shot me a look, half incredulous, half curious.
"Are you not afraid of him?" she asked, a genuine surprise in her voice.
I laughed, not mockingly, just softly, like someone remembering a joke from a lifetime ago. "Are you serious? Why would I be scared of the only man who's ever made me feel safe? Who's ever made me happy?"
She didn't laugh. She just stared at me, her expression unreadable.
"Do you know what happened to him during those three months?
" she said finally, her voice was lower now, like it cost her something to speak.
"When that terrorist bound every inch of him with rusted chains, his wrists, his ankles, his mouth, his thoughts.
He came back... changed. And not the kind of change you outgrow.
It's permanent, quiet and heavy. He will never be the same. "
My breath caught, but I let her continue.
"To be honest," she said, looking away, "I felt relief when you broke his marriage with Mohini.
That girl was so...God, she was too innocent, too untouched by pain.
I might've acted like I hated you, Bhabhi, but I didn't. Not once.
I've seen you with my brother, seen how you both moved in sync back in Barmer.
I used to think you were the only one who could look into his eyes and understand what he's been through. "
Her words landed harder right in my chest.
"He loved you, Bhabhi," she said, her voice thickening. "Genuinely. Fiercely. With every fiber of himself. But you... you broke his heart."
I stared at my hands, my fingers tangled in my lap like threads knotted too tight.
"I didn't know Prashant told you that much about me," I said, my voice dry with disbelief.
Pari nodded. "He used to tell me everything.
Back when you both were in the same unit, before things unraveled.
He needed someone by his side when he tried to convince Maa to agree to the marriage.
He fought for you. But before he could reach you, before he could get you to believe it, you broke his heart. "
I looked at her then, at the soft anger and aching sadness in her eyes. "If I had a choice, Pari," I whispered, "I'd always choose your brother. Always. But..."
I trailed off, the words catching in my throat like glass.
"...sometimes love just isn't enough to keep things from falling apart."
Pari sat quietly beside me, her fingers brushing over the freshly upholstered armrest. Her posture softened.
"It's not love's fault," she murmured, not really looking at me. "It's people. People who don't know what to do with it once they have it."
I leaned back, the weight of her words pressing down. Silence settled between us again. Outside, the trees danced in the evening breeze, casting long, elegant shadows across the clean, newly painted walls.
I stared at them, thinking of Prashant's silence. The way he pulled away not because he hated me, but because he was wrapped so tightly in his pain. It was his armor. Like his uniform, rigid, clean lines, defined boundaries, locked emotions.
"You know," I said softly, "I thought if I fixed this house... maybe I could fix us too. That he'd walk in, see what I did, and something inside him would soften again."
Pari didn't respond right away. She just reached out and took my hand. Her touch was light, almost hesitant, but grounding. I was surprised at the warmth of it.
"I think I tried to mend the walls between us by literally mending the walls," I said with a faint, self-deprecating smile. "But love isn't like a renovation project. You can't just knock it down and rebuild it because you want to. It doesn't work like that."
Pari squeezed my hand gently. "Maybe not," she said. "But it's a good start."
I nodded, blinking against the sting in my eyes. "Do you think he'll like it?"
"I don't know," she said.
That night, after she had gone to bed, I wandered through the house slowly, like I was seeing it for the first time.
In the hallway, the soft pendant lights cast a warm glow. The shadows were no longer haunting, they were gentle, graceful. The scent of paint still clung faintly to the walls.
I ran my fingers along the wooden railing of the staircase, brushed my hand over the clean linen of the guest bed, and adjusted a frame on the wall just slightly.
In the kitchen, the blue tiles shimmered under soft overhead lights, like small, quiet waves frozen in time.
I ended up in the bedroom, our bedroom. Or maybe just mine now. I wasn't sure.
I touched the edge of the new bedframe, ran my hand over the crisp sheets I'd folded with my own hands, placed just right. On the nightstand was a frame. No photo inside. Just space.
Waiting.
I walked over to the window, slid it open, and let the cool breeze touch my face. It was quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Farther away, the low rumble of a car engine broke the silence for just a second.
And somewhere Prashant was thinking of nothing or maybe thinking of me. Tomorrow, he would return. I didn't know what would happen. But I would open the door.
And wait.
Wait until he realised his love.
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