𝐑𝐔𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐀

Ch9Tears Unspoken, Guilt Unseen

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All my life, I have shown respect to every woman I have crossed paths with. Rivanya... she may have come into my life only by name and circumstance, but still she is my wife. That alone deserves dignity.

Men don't realize this truth: respect for a woman is not optional, it is the bare minimum. The ones who belittle women to feel bigger are not men at all they are hollow, weak, and pitiful. Lowering a woman does not make a man rise; it only strips him of his own worth.

Society believes a wife must obey her husband, that she must place him above herself.

But I do not. Every woman deserves the reverence we so easily offer to Lakshmi, Saraswati, and Durga.

We worship them in temples, yet in life we forget their worth.

A woman is both gentleness and strength, silence and resilience, pain and endurance.

She asks for nothing, yet carries everything.

The least the world can give her is honor.

As my Shiv himself said Nari bin Nar adhura. Without the woman, the man is incomplete.

Without Parvati, Shiva is not Mahadev, only Shav.

Last night, Dadi Maa had asked me to bring something for her, something of comfort.

I had noticed her old payal cutting into her skin.

That small wound bothered me more than it should have.

So now, quietly, I slipped the silver anklet from my pocket.

I lifted her foot, steady but gentle, and placed it on my lap.

The new payal slid perfectly over her ankle, glimmering against her fair skin.

When I looked up, her eyes were already on me shy, surprised, uncertain. The intensity of her gaze made my heartbeat stumble in ways I despise. I lowered her foot carefully and lifted the other. With the same patience, I replaced the second anklet.

Her feet were soft as lotus petals, delicate as cotton.

The silver shimmered against them like it had found its rightful place.

For a fleeting moment, she looked ethereal untouched, divine.

But I pulled myself back. She may be my wife, but I will not cross the lines I have drawn for myself.

Some wounds run too deep, and I cannot allow anyone least of all her to see the shadows within me.

Even surrounded by a family that laughs and breathes around me, I choose solitude in Mumbai. Better loneliness than letting someone too close, too deep.

I rose, face expressionless, and turned to leave.

But then, a soft voice reached me.

"Aji... Suniye..."

I froze. My reply came low, curt, yet controlled.

"Haanji... Sunayiye."

She hesitated, then spoke.

"Today is my pehli rasoi. What would you like me to cook for you?"

Her words caught me off guard. For a moment, I wasn't here I was back with Maa, remembering the warmth of her hands, the way she would ask the same question every morning. After she left this world, food lost all meaning for me. Taste, color, joy gone.

I forced my voice into indifference.

"I have no favorite dishes. Make whatever you like. I do not care for food."

Her brows furrowed in disbelief.

"No favorite dish? I have never heard of someone who doesn't enjoy eating."

A faint smirk tugged at my lips, the first in what felt like years.

"Then you are seeing such a man for the first time... Miss Tamatar."

Her eyes flashed.

"My mother gave me a beautiful name Rivanya. You will call me by it. And what is this 'Miss Tamatar,' haan?"

I let a rare smile escape but masked it again with my usual severity.

"What can I do? Your face reddens like a tomato when you cry, when you blush, and now when you're angry."

Her lips parted in outrage.

"If I am a tomato, then you are an aloo! Always stiff, always expressionless, always carrying the weight of dirt on your face!"

With that, she spun on her heel and stormed out, the tinkling of her anklets echoing in the silence she left behind.

For the first time in a long time... I almost laughed.

After my fiery little tamatar wife stormed out, I pulled out my phone and dialed Vyom. It rang a few times before the idiot finally picked up.

"Hello?" he answered, sounding half-asleep.

I snapped, my voice sharp with anger. "Where the hell have you been since yesterday, you scoundrel? Don't forget you're still my secretary."

Vyom chuckled, careless as ever. "Arrey, boss, I thought you'd grant me leave since you were taking time off too. Isn't that fair?"

I clenched my jaw. "Taking leave? For whose wedding yours? Or my uncle's?"

He snorted. "Not my uncle's. Yours. Word is, the bride changed at the last moment..."

My blood boiled, but I forced myself to keep my voice low and cutting. "Where are you, you rogue?"

"Bro, I'm in the Maldives," he said lazily, as if he were telling me the weather. "Just chilling."

I ground my teeth. "If you're not standing in front of me by tomorrow evening, I'll make sure two months' salary vanish like smoke."

And before he could whine or laugh again, I cut the call.

Slipping my phone into my pocket, I walked out into the hall.

The household was alive with chatter. Devaditya was cracking some foolish joke, and Viswraaj silent, unreadable merely stared back at him.

That silence... it was the most dangerous thing about Viswraaj.

Words you can fight, but his silence? That was heavier than any blade.

I watched them for a beat, then turned away, heading straight for the kitchen.

And there she was.

Rivanya.

Her pallu tucked neatly at her waist, bangles chiming softly as she moved from one corner of the kitchen to another, completely absorbed in her work.

I stopped at the doorway, leaned casually against the nearest pillar, arms folded across my chest, and let my eyes linger on her.

Every movement of hers was unpolished, hesitant but damn, there was something disarming about it. Something that made the air in that kitchen shift.

And without realizing it, a slow smirk curved on my lips.

I leaned back against the nearest pillar, arms crossed, and simply watched her.

There was something about that girl something I couldn't name. My eyes refused to leave her face. For the first time, my gaze traveled lower, tracing the graceful line of her figure, and I realized she was flawless... almost untouchably divine.

I swallowed hard when the pallu of her saree shifted, revealing a sliver of pale skin at her waist.

Yaar, eski kitni chikni kamar hai...

(Damn... her waist is so delicate.)

The thought was cheap, unworthy of me, but still my eyes refused to leave that slim curve. She didn't even notice, busy with her work, bangles chiming like tiny bells.

A murmur behind me snapped the moment. I turned slightly and saw two distant relatives of Dadi Maa, whispering.

"I heard this isn't the real bride," one of them said. "The real bride ran away. This one is her step-sister."

"Yes," the other replied. "And in such a marriage, how will there be love? Rudraksh doesn't even glance at that girl."

Their words were meant to be soft, but they landed like stones. My anger rose, but I swallowed it down. No scene. Not now. Instead, an idea flickered, sharp and deliberate. A slow smirk curved my lips.

I pushed away from the pillar and crossed the room to where Rivanya stood.

"Hello, Sugarplump," I said softly, deliberately. "What are you doing?"

At the sound of that word, Sugarplump, she froze. Her whole face changed. She turned to look at me, startled, eyes wide as if I had broken some invisible rule.

"Aap...?" she whispered. "Do you need something?"

I slid my hand to the small of her back and drew her closer until her body fit against my chest. My voice dropped to a low growl.

"Yes. I do. You... my wife."

Her face went utterly still. The color drained from her cheeks, her eyes widening as if the world had shifted beneath her feet.

She tried to wriggle free, fingers fumbling at the fabric of my kurta, taking a small, sharp step back.

Her breath came faster; her hands trembled slightly.

She was a portrait of alarm and something softer beneath it confusion, a flutter of emotion she didn't yet know how to name.

I tightened my hold not to hurt, but to anchor her and drew her closer again. My tone softened, a quiet coaxing edge.

"Sugarplump, what's wrong? Why are you moving away from me? Last night you were shouting that I should stay beside you."

For a moment she froze again, caught between fear and the strange pull of whatever this new life was making her feel. In my chest something unexpected stirred a sharp protective instinct, fierce and clean, nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with shielding something fragile.

Leaning so close my breath brushed her ear, I spoke slowly and deliberately:

"Don't be afraid. Just act. Just behave like what we are a happily married couple. Let them watch. Let them whisper. If anyone tries to insult you, I will not stand for it. So stop acting scared. Stand with me."

My words were meant to steady her, to turn the scene outward so the gossiping relatives would find nothing to feed on.

I could feel her pulse against my palm, quick and uncertain.

She didn't pull away this time; her fingers flattened briefly against my chest, testing my steadiness.

Her eyes met mine wide, luminous, searching for a signal.

There was something almost childlike in that search, and in that instant I made another choice: not to force her, but to claim responsibility. Not to break her will, but to give her shelter.

"Stand with me," I repeated, more gently this time. "Nothing here will touch your honor. Not while I am here."

She swallowed, small and raw, and almost imperceptibly her shoulders relaxed. The defiance she had shown minutes ago softened into something like trust. Her hand found the edge of the counter, gripping it as if to steady herself, but she didn't move away.