Chapter 33
IRA
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of rustling, not of panic or nightmares, but of clothes being folded, utensils clinking softly, and the hum of my mother-in-law reciting her morning prayers.
It was still early, but the sun had already begun its shy entrance through the mist-covered windows, casting soft light that painted golden streaks across the walls.
I turned in bed, expecting an empty side, but Prashant was there.
He sat cross-legged at the edge of the bed, wearing a worn-out grey t-shirt with tiny thread pulls near the sleeves.
A thermos sat beside him with two steel cups.
The moment our eyes met, he poured tea silently and handed me a cup, as if we did this every day. It was his sweetest gesture.
"You're up early," I whispered, smiling.
"You talk in your sleep," he replied, giving me the smallest of smiles.
I raised an eyebrow, a blush creeping to my cheeks. "Oh God!"
"You said something about wanting a 'house with four mango trees and a dog named Bullet.'" He laughed, his dimples appearing on either side of his perfect cheeks.
I flushed hard, looking away. "I was ten when I wrote that in a slam book."
He sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving mine. "Well, we've got a house, an actual bullet, and no mango trees, but we've got three poplars and one very dramatic goat."
I broke into a laugh, nearly spilling my tea on him. Prashant stared at me intently, his lips stretching into a light smile. He leaned forward and kissed my lips, taking me by surprise.
"Come with me today," he said suddenly.
"Where?" I frowned, putting the cup on the table.
"Outside," he shrugged. "To the village. I want to show you where I grew up."
I blinked. "What?"
"Yes."
"What if people talk? I mean, the drama I created on your wedding day is still fresh in their minds."
"You think I give a damn about people?" he asked in a dead-serious tone. "If I did, I never would have married you." He stood, brushing dust off his knees, and offered his hand. "Now, let's go."
I didn't say anything. I just nodded, slipped on a long shawl, tied my hair into a loose braid, and followed my husband.
Outside, the world smelled of damp earth and wildflowers. Prashant's home was perched at the end of a narrow stone path, nestled between walnut trees and clusters of marigolds that had started growing wild. Behind the house, hills rolled into each other like green, full waves.
He led me to a bicycle leaning against the outer wall. Its handle was slightly bent, the seat a little torn. A jute string held the bell in place. It was beautiful.
This was entirely new to me, as I had never ridden a bicycle. My father had taught me to drive a four-wheeler straight away; it was a family tradition.
"You want me to ride that?" I asked, folding my arms and holding back a smile.
"No," he said, guiding me gently. "I want you to sit here." He pointed at the bar between the seat and the handlebars. "Like you used to in Dehradun, remember?"
"I weighed seven kilos less back then," I pouted.
"You still fit," he grinned.
I narrowed my eyes on him. "Careful, that could be interpreted as an insult or a compliment."
He shrugged with a smirk and patted the seat.
I sighed dramatically and climbed on. I felt a bit of excitement as Prashant climbed next to me, his chest almost rubbing against my back.
I'd seen this in movies but never thought Prashant would take me on a tour of his village.
It meant he was starting to feel something for me.
We rode, and the wind slapped my face as we rolled downhill, the bicycle wobbling slightly on the gravel. I squealed, grabbing onto the handle as tightly as I could. Prashant laughed behind me, a full, unrestrained laugh that rumbled through his chest and echoed into my spine.
"Slow down!" I shouted, laughing.
"Trust the ride," he said bossily.
"I don't trust the wheels!"
"But do you trust the rider?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I leaned back slightly until my head touched his shoulder. It was my way of telling him I would always trust him.
He pedaled us through winding lanes lined with mustard fields and knee-high fences woven with ropes and dried twigs.
Small mud houses stood like stories left untold-quiet and humming with life.
We passed a woman sweeping her front yard, her dupatta tied tightly around her head.
A boy ran with a tire and a stick, giggling as if the world were made of marbles and monsoons.
"This is where I learned to fight," Prashant said suddenly.
I looked at him as he pointed toward a broken school gate.
"That ground. Right there. I was fifteen when a kid called my father a coward and I broke his nose."
I blinked.
"I was suspended for two weeks," he grinned. "Father made me plant two walnut trees as punishment."
We passed those trees, which now stood taller than both of us, wide and unbothered.
"Is that where your love for fists began?"
"No," he said thoughtfully. "That came later, when I realized words don't always survive bullets."
He didn't say anything more for a while. He just pedaled, guiding us over a narrow wooden bridge that creaked beneath us. A stream trickled below, dotted with pebbles and reflected clouds. Everything around us was breathing, even the silence.
We reached an open field, tucked behind two rows of cypress trees. He stopped the bicycle, parked it gently on a stone, and helped me off.
"This was my father's favorite place," he said. "He used to take me and my sisters here every evening."
I knelt down, running my hand over the grass. There were dried petals here, maybe from some old offerings or from a memory.
"He died when I was sixteen from cancer. He wrote me a letter before he passed."
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. The edges were soft with age.
"If ever you fall in love, Prashant, make sure she knows your silences as well as your songs."
I swallowed hard, glancing at my husband.
"You think he'd like me?" I asked quietly.
"I think he'd have loved you more than he loved me," he winked. I smiled, blinking back the mist in my eyes.
"Ira, after what I did to you that night, do you still think you can live with a man like me?" he asked, his voice low.
I looked up at him. His face was sunburnt and unshaven, his eyes still swimming with ghosts, yet he looked more beautiful than he ever had.
Why couldn't I find any man as attractive as him?
Prashant had this kind of pulling power that sometimes made me forget what I had just done.
Sometimes I was unable to see the world because my world revolved around him.
"I can live with the man you are," I said softly, "as long as you keep bicycling me through your past."
He laughed. We sat there for a while, beneath the sky, between a muddy home and a muddy path, with the wind curling around us.
Children passed by, pointing at us and whispering something in Kashmiri. One of them giggled and shouted something.
"What did he say?" I asked.
"He said, 'That soldier is in love again.'"
I laughed and leaned into him.
"He's not wrong," Prashant whispered, and my heart skipped a beat.
This wasn't a place we came to escape our scars. This was the place we came to plant them. And maybe let them bloom.
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