Chapter 28
IRA
I had imagined this moment so many times that it had started to feel like a dream before it even happened.
I'd pictured the cab pulling into the driveway, the doors swinging open, Prashant stepping out with that soft furrow in his brow.
He would be surprised, not angry. His eyes would scan the walls, the doorway, the new warmth that now filled the old bones of this house.
I thought maybe he'd walk inside slowly, quietly.
That his silence would mean something like acceptance or even pride.
Everything I had imagined was wrong. I knew Prashant was no longer the same person.
He used to be an inspiration, even in pain.
He taught others how to smile no matter how unfair life could be.
But now, he had changed, completely, entirely, and, I feared, permanently.
Still, I wanted him in my life. And I was ready to pay the price.
The cab hadn't even stopped before I saw the tension in his jaw. Priya was the first to step out, her eyes narrowing the moment she caught sight of the freshly painted gate. Pari stood beside me on the steps, shrinking slightly. Her nervousness mirrored mine.
Then his mother emerged from the car. The moment her eyes landed on the verandah, where the old carved swing once sat, now replaced by a wooden bench nestled between potted plants, she froze.
She didn't even make it to the threshold.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips as her knees buckled. Prashant caught her just in time.
"Maa?" he said sharply, holding her upright. "Maa, are you okay?"
She clutched the end of her dupatta like it could anchor her to something real.
"Where... where is it?" she whispered, scanning the porch like something sacred had been stolen. She turned her head in every direction, searching for the swing but it was gone.
"Oh God!" she cried, clutching her chest like she was suffering a heart attack.
Old dramatic woman, I thought, rolling my eyes. If she ever applied for a villain role, she'd get it without a second thought.
"What the hell!" Priya snapped, turning toward me, her teeth grinding. "Where is Baba's chair, Bhabhi? The rosewood one? And what the hell did you do to this house?"
"I donated it. It was falling apart. Termite-ridden. The carpenter said..."
"You donated our grandfather's chair?" Priya's voice trembled with something beyond anger, her eyes wide in disbelief. "It's not just a chair, it was him. Do you even understand what you've done? And please don't tell me you did the same thing with the rest of the furniture in this house?"
"They were old, Priya..." Pari stepped forward, trying to support me. I sighed in relief.
"Old?" my mother-in-law screeched, turning her fury on her daughter. "How dare you call our ancestral furniture old? That furniture has been used by generations! And now this woman..." She pointed at me, her finger trembling with rage. "...sold everything without even asking us once?"
"Maa..." I began, but she raised her hand sharply and silenced me.
"I know women like you," she spat. Then she turned to her son.
"You married this woman against my wishes, Prashant.
You chose her over your own mother, over your family's legacy.
And now look at what she's done! She's destroyed everything.
..our memories, our history. She's sold it all for her modern tastes! "
Her voice cracked, rising into a dramatic wail.
Prashant stood frozen, still holding his mother.
His gaze shifted from her trembling form, to me, then to the unfamiliar verandah.
The easy surprise I had imagined was replaced by something else entirely: a hardening in his eyes, a familiar tension tightening around his mouth.
It was the look he wore when faced with an impossible choice, one he couldn't resolve without someone getting hurt.
"Maa, please, calm down," he said, his voice strained. "Let's go inside. We can talk about this."
"Talk?" Priya scoffed, stepping closer. "There's nothing to talk about, Bhaiyya! She's clearly lost her mind! Our entire house...our inheritance...just... gone!" She gestured wildly around the property, as if the new paint and potted plants were an affront to their very existence.
Pari, usually timid, found a sudden burst of courage. "It was falling apart! The wood was rotten, the paint was peeling. It needed repairs, a lot of them. Bhabhi just made it beautiful again!"
"Beautiful?" my mother-in-law shrieked, pulling away from Prashant.
Her finger shot toward Pari, trembling with accusation.
"You dare defend her, child? You think this.
.. this newness... is better than what generations built?
This house, every piece of furniture in it, told a story. Our story! And she erased it!"
Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, locked onto mine. And for the first time, behind all the melodrama and bitterness, I saw something else: grief. Genuine grief.
"This is what happens when you bring an outsider into a family, Prashant. They don't understand. They don't respect. They just destroy."
Prashant didn't say a word.
He looked around again. His eyes traveled across the fresh paint, the polished woodwork, the new kitchen tiles. The blue backsplash that I had chosen, thinking it would make the room brighter suddenly looked garish under the weight of his silence.
And then, he looked at me. I'd waited for that look for days. I thought it would hold a flicker of softness, something warm. Something resembling love. But this look cut through me like a blade.
"Come inside," I said quietly, unsure where the hope in my chest was still coming from. "Please. At least see it properly."
He walked in stiffly. Each step echoed through the hallway like a judgment.
I followed, my voice gentle, tentative. "This used to be the guest room," I said. "I turned it into a reading nook for Maa. With natural light. I thought she'd like that. And the kitchen I kept the layout almost the same, just made it safer, more accessible..."
He stopped abruptly and turned. I nearly bumped into him. His eyes burned.
"What gave you the right?" he asked, his voice low and trembling with fury. "Who told you this was yours to change?"
I inhaled slowly. "I live here. I thought..."
"This house was here before you. It was built by people who poured their lives into it. You walked in and stripped it like it was just another shell to decorate."
"I was trying to help," I said. "To heal for all of us."
He laughed bitterly and ran a hand through his hair. "No, Ira. You were trying to impress. To feel important. You wanted to buy love with money that isn't even..." He stopped himself, but the implication was clear.
I felt something crack inside me.
"That money is mine, Prashant, not my dad's..." I said firmly, my voice steady. "I didn't ask for yours. I didn't ask for anything. I just wanted to give us a place we didn't have to flinch from."
He stepped closer, his voice colder. "And in doing that, you erased what made it ours."
I didn't speak because I couldn't. His words were striking faster than I could shield myself.
"You thought I would like it?" he spat. "Redecorating pain? Throwing out memories like they're garbage? Then standing there with your soft voice and pretty words, expecting gratitude?"
I flinched. Not just at the words, but at the venom in his tone.
"You're selfish," he said, and for a second, his voice cracked not with anger, but something deeper. "You only do what makes you feel good. You don't ask. You don't listen. You decide. You always have."
I felt heat rise behind my eyes. I blinked fast.
"You don't know what it was like to come back here," he continued, his voice quieter now, but not calmer.
"This house was the only safe place I had.
Even after Baba died, it felt like he was still here.
And now, even he is gone. It reminded me of my father but you.
.." His voice broke. He breathed sharply and walked out of room.
And then I heard the crash.
I rushed to the living room. Prashant stood there, chest heaving, an axe in his hand.
"Prashant?" My voice trembled.
His eyes were bloodshot, and wild. He didn't answer, he just swung.
The dining table split like a dry log, splinters flying across the room. The sofa groaned and tore as the blade crashed through it. The bookshelf cracked in half, books spilling out.
"Are you out of your mind?!" I shouted, rushing toward him. "What the hell are you doing?!"
"I'm correcting your mistakes!" he roared, his voice raw.
"Prashant, stop! Please!"
I stepped toward him, grabbed his shoulder but he shoved me. Hard. Too hard. Too rough.
I fell forward, face-first, the cold floor rushing to meet me. My mouth hit the ground, the sharp taste of blood blooming instantly.
The room fell still.
For one terrifying second, the air between us froze. I could hear only my breath, it was ragged, and shallow. My heart pounded against my ribs like it wanted to escape. Everything flashed at once-Kabir's slaps, Patel's threats, my father's angry face. Panic tightened around my lungs like a noose.
I pressed my chest into the floor, trying to vanish.
"Ira..." His voice cracked.
I flinched away as he reached for me.
"Ira..." Prashant dropped to his knees, his face pale, his eyes wide with horror. "I... I didn't mean to..."
Swallowing hard, I nodded slowly. I couldn't speak.
He stared at me like he didn't recognize himself.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, but the words came out hoarse, fragile, and far too late.
"I know," I whispered, pushing myself up. "You're hurting."
He looked away.
"And I hurt you," he said, quieter this time.
I reached out, touching the jagged edge of the ruined table. Something to ground myself.
"I didn't fix the house for praise, Prashant. I did it because I thought... if I could give this place warmth again, maybe you'd feel a little of it. Maybe it would bring you back."
He didn't reply. His gaze stayed locked on the floor. But his face... his face had cracked open.
"Maa will get her chair back," I said. "I'll find the man I gave it to. I'll bring it back, piece by piece if I have to."
Still, he said nothing. I could feel him slipping further into that dark place.
"I'm sorry..." he said again. His thumb gently wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. "God..." His voice caught. "You should not have come into my life."
I smiled sadly, though my lips still ached. "It's okay. I'm fine."
"No. You're not." His voice was a whisper of guilt. "You don't deserve this. I'm a total mess, Ira."
I touched his hand, trembling but certain. "Hurt me all you want, Prashant, but this time, I'm listening to my heart. I won't leave you again."
He looked into my eyes shining, broken wide open.
And for the first time after years, I saw the man he used to be, the one who wanted to love without fear.
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