CHAPTER 4
Few Hours Later
Chanda Mausi had come to call Kashish down for dinner, but she had no intention of joining the family tonight.
“I’m not hungry,” Kashish snapped, her frustration clear as she turned back to her sketch.
Chanda sighed, trying to keep her patience. “Kashish, you know Savitriji’s rules. If you don’t come down, she won’t be pleased.”
Of course, Kashish knew the rules of this house—rules that felt like chains. Lunch was an exception, but dinners had to be together, with the family. A family she didn’t belong to.
“I’m not part of this family, Chanda Mausi. You know that.”
She kept her eyes on the design she was drawing, trying to drown out the world around her.
Chanda knew better than to argue. Though she had cared for Kashish like her own, there were moments when this girl was as immovable as a rock. Once her mind was set, there was no convincing her otherwise.
“Fine,” Chanda relented. “I’ll send your food up here.”
“Don’t bother,” Kashish said, her voice clipped. “I won’t eat. Don’t waste the food, Mausi. And shut the door on your way out.”
Chanda stood there for a moment with heart heavy, but she knew there was no point in pushing further. In the past, Chanda had always thought it was her, Shekhar, and Roxy—the Raheja family’s beloved pug—who had been Kashish's constant supporters, always trying to bring a smile to her face and keep her spirits up. Roxy, who had passed away last year after living a full 12 years, had been Kashish’s closest companion. Now, with Roxy gone and Chanda soon leaving for her hometown for a few months to tend to a family emergency, only Shekhar would be left to shoulder the responsibility of watching over Kashish and ensuring her well-being.
She closed the door and hurried back downstairs.
While Anjali and Savitri busied themselves with setting the table, Shekhar decided to go fetch Rudra, just like in the old days. He had always been the concerned elder brother, doting on Rudra from the time they were kids. Packing his school bag, making sure his favorite meals were packed for lunch, helping him with homework—Shekhar had done it all. But the past 11 years had changed things between them, and Shekhar knew that. He was determined to use the next four months to bridge the gap that had grown between them, to restore the bond they had once shared.
He knocked on Rudra’s door and stepped inside, but the room was empty. Rudra’s suitcase lay half-unpacked on the bed, and something else caught Shekhar’s eye—a diary, its pages flipping gently in the breeze from the French doors. Curious, Shekhar leaned closer and caught a glimpse of Rudra’s handwriting on one of the pages:
“Dard mein bhi the hum zinda, bas unki yaadon ka sahaara kaafi tha.”
(Even in pain, I remained alive, for the comfort of her memories was enough.)
Shekhar’s heart tightened. Since when does Rudra keep a diary? he wondered, flipping through the pages. Whose memories was he talking about? Before he could turn to the next page, Rudra walked back into the room, his expression dark as he snatched the diary from Shekhar’s hands.
“It’s bad manners to read someone’s personal diary,” Rudra said coldly, his voice hard as steel.
Shekhar looked up, startled by the harshness in Rudra’s tone. Without another word, Rudra shoved the diary into his bag and zipped it shut. He had to be more careful—he couldn’t let anyone peek into his life, especially not into the pages of that diary. It was the only place where his pain bled freely, the only place where he allowed himself to feel.
Shekhar tried to lighten the mood, smiling softly.
“So, my little brother writes poetry now?” he teased.
Rudra didn’t respond. He simply turned to the mirror, gelling his hair with precise movements, his silence like a wall Shekhar couldn’t break through. This was not the brother he remembered. The Rudra he knew used to share every little detail of his life, used to be an open book. Now, he was a stranger, a closed chapter Shekhar couldn’t access.
“The dinner is ready. Should we go?” Shekhar asked, trying to sound casual.
Rudra’s shoulders tensed. A strange restlessness clouded his eyes.
“I’ll eat in my room.”
Shekhar frowned. “Not allowed. You know Daadi’s rules.”
“They don’t apply to me anymore, Bhai,” Rudra muttered, his voice edged with frustration. “I make my own rules now.”
Shekhar’s heart ached at the coldness in Rudra’s voice. Something was deeply wrong, and he could feel it.
“Rudra, what’s going on?”
No response.
Shekhar moved closer, turning Rudra to face him, his hands gripping his brother’s shoulders tightly.
“I know something’s bothering you. Ever since you’ve come home, there’s this... coldness, this distance. Look at me. We’ve all missed you like hell these past years. We’re finally together under one roof again, even if it’s just for a few months. Let’s make the most of it. If not for me, at least for Daadi. Please.”
Shekhar searched Rudra’s face, hoping for a sign that his brother would let him in, even just a little. But all he saw was the same icy wall, the same unresolved pain that had been there for years.
Rudra had never been one to bow to others’ opinions or judgments. Yet, for once, he acquiesced to his brother’s request, not for himself, but for Daadi—the woman who had sacrificed everything for their happiness. As he and Shekhar descended the stairs, Daadi and Anjali who were already seated at the dining table, forced smiles barely masking the elephant in the room—the glaring absence of the fifth person.
But Rudra noticed and his jaw clenched, his eyes darting around the room, searching for any sign of her. He fought to maintain his composure, but his mind raced, demanding answers. It was Chanda Mausi’s actions that finally broke the suffocating silence, providing the answer Rudra both dreaded and craved.
Chanda began serving an additional plate, the soft clink of cutlery echoing in the tense quiet.
Savitri’s voice cut through the air, sharp and brittle. “Chanda... Whose plate is that?”
“Kashish’s,” Chanda replied, her tone heavy with unspoken meaning.
That name. That single word was enough to send a jolt through Rudra’s body, his muscles coiling with a mixture of guilt and restlessness.
Shekhar’s brow furrowed. “Why? She won’t come down?”
Chanda’s eyes fell. “She said she’s not hungry. I thought... at least I could serve her in her room.”
Shekhar made to rise, ready to summon Kashish, but Savitri’s hand shot out, her fingers gripping his arm with surprising strength. Her eyes, hard as flint, bore into him.
“It’s her choice, Shekhar. Let’s not force anyone.”
Anjali’s face was a mask of helplessness, mirroring her husband’s frustration. Chanda left with the plate for Kashish’s room and Savitri, ever the matriarch, attempted to salvage the moment.
“Rudra... You haven’t started yet. Why don’t you begin with the Gobi paratha and pudina chutney? It’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
The scrape of Rudra’s chair against the floor was deafening as he abruptly stood.
“I’m not hungry, Daadi. Thanks.” His voice was cold, detached, a stranger’s voice in a familiar body.
He turned on his heel, deaf to the pleas of his grandmother and brother calling him back. He couldn’t do this—couldn’t pretend that everything was normal, that his very presence wasn’t tearing open old wounds. Her absence was a silent accusation and the guilt clawed at him. How could he possibly live in this house, breathe this air, knowing that every moment was a torment for her?
To the world, Rudra Raheja was a titan of industry—a man of few words but unparalleled ambition. His ruthless business acumen had made him the darling of the media, the object of desire for society’s elite. But here, in the suffocating embrace of his childhood home, he was nothing more than a man haunted by his past, drowning in a sea of regret and unspoken apologies.
******************
Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Rudra restlessly paced in his room. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. Unable to focus on the contract he was reviewing, he finally decided to head downstairs to the kitchen.
It was nearly midnight, and the house was quiet. As he entered the kitchen, he noticed a shadowy figure at the counter. The room was dark, but there was enough light for him to see the outline of a woman, her back to him, chopping something with a knife.
Assuming it was Chanda, Rudra spoke sharply. “Kuch milega? (Will I get something to eat?) I’m hungry.”
The woman froze, her grip on the knife tightening. That voice—it was a voice she hadn’t heard in 11 years but she knew who it belonged to. Rudra Raheja. The air thickened around her, suffocating her with memories she had tried to bury. Kashish hadn’t expected to run into him—not like this. She had come to the kitchen, assuming everyone had gone to bed, trying to quiet her own hunger after skipping dinner. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Rudra frowned when the woman didn’t respond or turn around. Something was off. He reached for the light switch, and as the room flooded with light, his breath caught in his throat.
It was her .
Kashish .
She stood there, her back still to him, her body rigid with tension. Her long hair hung loose, falling down to her waist. He saw her toes curl in anger, her knuckles white as she gripped the knife like a weapon, as if daring him to come closer. His heart pounded in his chest. It had been 11 years, but the weight of that time fell away in an instant.
Kashish took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of strength she had, and turned to face him. Their eyes met, and the kitchen seemed to ignite with unspoken fury. For a brief moment, the world stood still. Rudra felt the heat of her hatred, the searing intensity of her gaze—it was the same as that day outside the courthouse when she had thrown the stone at him, leaving him with the scar he still carried.
The memories of their first encounter 11 years ago came crashing back, and with them, the same helplessness. He could see it in her eyes—she still wanted to destroy him. She had wanted to then, and she still did now. Kashish’s grip on the knife tightened, and for a split second, he thought she might actually strike him. But she didn’t.
Rudra stood frozen unable to decide if he should leave? Or should he stay? His instincts pulled him in both directions, but nothing felt right. Should he say something to her, or wait for her to speak first? She was the one woman who had the power to dismantle his life, yet the only one who could heal him. Only her forgiveness could set him free, and here she was, mere feet away. The day he had feared most—facing Kashish Bedi—had finally come, and now, standing before her, he didn’t have the courage to even apologize.
She was a storm he couldn’t weather, and he could see it in her gaze that she wasn’t about to make it easy for him. Every apology he had rehearsed in his mind over the years dissolved in his throat. But then something unusual happened. His gaze unintentionally dropped to her lips. His pupils dilated, his pulse quickening at the sight of her. He had tried to imagine her face many times over the years, but nothing had prepared him for this. She was beyond anything his mind could have conjured—breathtakingly beautiful in a way that unsettled him. The way her hair fell loosely, the grace in her movements, the strength simmering beneath the surface—she wasn’t just beautiful; she was intoxicating. She had the kind of beauty that could rival the high-society women he’d seen in Paris, but hers was raw, real, and impossible to ignore.
His gaze slowly travelled back to her eyes, but the connection was broken. Kashish had caught him admiring her. She simply dropped the knife onto the counter and walked past him, brushing him aside as if he were nothing.
For a moment, Rudra felt like time itself had restarted, ticking forward again after that brief, suffocating pause. This was Kashish Bedi—the woman who haunted his dreams, the woman whose anger had scarred him in ways no one could see. She was strong, stronger than he remembered, and as she walked away, he realized one thing with painful clarity: she was going to make these next four months a living hell. He would have to leave sooner than he thought. But in that brief, fiery exchange, Rudra realized something else too—he wasn’t just afraid of her hatred, he was drawn to it. Drawn to her.
******************
Back in her room, Kashish slammed the door and threw her pillows to the floor in frustration.
“He was so close, and I did nothing!” she seethed, kicking the edge of the bed, her rage spilling over.
How could she have been so weak? She had spent years imagining what she would do if she ever saw him again—how she would hurt him the way he had hurt her, how she would make him pay for taking her father’s life. She had fantasized about stabbing him, or running him down with a car, doing anything to make him suffer. But now, faced with the man who had destroyed her life, all she had done was walk away.
She collapsed onto the bed, her chest heaving with anger. What was wrong with her? Why did his presence in this house make her feel so vulnerable, so powerless? No. She couldn’t afford to let him affect her like this. But she wasn’t a child anymore, and she wasn’t going to waste her energy on revenge.
Ignorance—that was the best weapon she had. He didn’t deserve her attention, her anger, or her hatred. For the next four months, she would act as if he didn’t exist. That was the only way she could survive this. Shekhar had been right—if she let her rage consume her, she would be the one to suffer. She had fought too hard to put her life back together, and she wasn’t going to let Rudra Raheja tear it apart again.
******************
The dawn broke, but the tensions in Raheja Mansion only intensified. Kashish, determined to avoid any encounter with him , had risen early, and planned to avoid having breakfast with the family. Yet, even her iron will couldn’t exempt her from the morning puja—a ritual as immovable as Daadi’s expectations.
As Kashish entered the temple room taking off her slippers, the air thick with incense and unspoken resentment, Daadi’s eyes flashed with disapproval. Kashish met her gaze unflinchingly, her own heart hardened by years of barely concealed hostility. She knew her place in Daadi’s world—a constant reminder of the pain inflicted on her precious grandson. Kashish’s absence at dinner had been a relief to the matriarch, who clearly expected—no, demanded—that she maintain this distance.
“Where are Rudra and Shekhar, Anjali?” Savitri’s voice cut through the silence.
“Shekhar’s gone to fetch Rudra,” Anjali replied.
Kashish’s breath caught in her throat as a silent prayer forming on her lips. No. He can’t come here. Not now. As if in answer to her desperate wish, Shekhar entered alone, his face a mask of resignation.
“He won’t make it,” Shekhar announced, his tone carefully neutral. “He was in the shower.”
Savitri’s eyes narrowed. “We can wait.”
“No use, Daadi,” Shekhar countered, a hint of steel in his voice. “You know he can take time. Let’s proceed.”
Daadi didn’t argue as she was particular about the Puja timings daily. The puja began.
Fifteen minutes later, Rudra descended the stairs, the sound of bells drawing him inexorably toward the temple room. His eyes fell on the four pairs of shoes outside—a silent confirmation of her presence within. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to escape this powder keg of emotions. But as he turned to leave, fate intervened.
“Rudra?” Savitri’s voice rang out, sharp and expectant. “Take the blessings.”
Trapped by duty and his grandmother’s expectations, Rudra obliged. Anjali approached with the puja thali and Rudra mechanically accepted the blessing. And then, like a vision from his darkest dreams and most fervent hopes, Kashish emerged.
Time seemed to stand still again for him. Kashish had worn a white kurta and red dupatta. Her fingers tightened around the prasad thali to control her fury as she registered his presence. But Rudra who had full plans to flee, couldn’t move an inch after seeing her. The sight of her—so close, yet impossibly distant—stole the very breath from his lungs.
Kashish methodically distributed the prasad—to Daadi, to Anjali, to Shekhar. But when she reached Rudra, she turned away, her rejection as cutting as any physical blow.
“Kashish?” Savitri’s voice was sharp enough to draw blood. “You forgot to give prasad to Rudra.”
Kashish’s entire body went rigid, her struggle for control evident in every line of her being. Shekhar, ever the peacemaker, whispered urgently, “It’s prasad, Kashish. Everyone has a right to it.”
But Kashish had reached her limit. Without a word, she set the plate down and walked away, leaving a wake of stunned silence behind her.
Rudra’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging crescents into his palms. The pain was a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest. He had known it would be difficult, had steeled himself for her hatred. But nothing could have prepared him for the raw agony of her rejection, for the realization that this—this coldness, this unbridgeable chasm—was to be his penance for the rest of his days.