26 ~ Fresh Start #2
Everyone went still.
I turned.
Dhanraj Singhaniya stood a few feet away.
His expression was hard. His eyes were fixed on Dadi.
His voice wasn't loud but there was something in it that made the entire room fall silent.
I stared at him, confused.
Dadi sighed.
"Dhanraj..."
"I said no." His jaw tightened.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke then his gaze moved away.
He turned and walked toward the other side of the room.
I looked at Dadi. "Why does he get so angry about it?"
Her expression became sad. "Because it was one of the most heartbreaking moment for our family."
She gently closed the album halfway. Her eyes drifted toward the photograph of Siya.
"Us waqt tumhare Dadaji aur Dhanraj dono toot gaye the. Especially Dhanraj. He used to love Siya so much. He still does."
(At that time, both your grandfather and Dhanraj were completely broken. Especially Dhanraj. He loved Siya very much. He still does.)
There was affection in her voice.
"Unki shaadi ke kuch saal baad jab Kartik hua, Siya ki health dheere-dheere kharab hone lagi."
(After a few years of their marriage, when Kartik was born, Siya's health started deteriorating gradually.)
My fingers tightened around the edge of the album.
"Doctors ne treatment kiya. Bahut koshish hui." Her voice trembled. "Lekin woh bach nahi paayi."
(The doctors treated her. Everyone tried their best. But she couldn't survive.)
She smiled sadly.
"Siya ke baad unhone kabhi kisi aur ko apni zindagi mein jagah nahi di."
(After Siya, he never gave anyone else a place in his life.)
I glanced toward the direction where he had disappeared.
Suddenly, the cold, disciplined man I had always feared seemed a little different.
Not softer or kinder. Just... human.
And somewhere upstairs was a little boy who had lost his mother before he was old enough to understand what losing her meant.
I looked down at the photograph of young Kartik again.
That innocent smile stared back at me.
For some reason, my chest hurt.
Maybe because I suddenly understood that the monster everyone feared hadn't been born that way.
Life had simply taught him how to become one.
Too young to understand why the woman who used to hold him, kiss his forehead, and tuck him into bed would suddenly never come back.
I hated my parents.
I hated them for taking away my choice, for forcing me into a marriage I had never wanted.
But even then...
I couldn't imagine losing them.
No matter how angry I was with them, the thought of never seeing my mother again still made something inside me ache.
I immediately shook my head and went to my room.
My thoughts immediately returned to the way he had walked out when Samaira called.
The way he'd barely hesitated.
The way he'd simply said...I need to go.
The bathroom door opened.
I turned instinctively.
Kartik stepped out, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. His shirt was still in his hand, and droplets of water traced down his chest.
I immediately looked away.
Why am I looking?
I busied myself with the things on the dressing table.
But when I glanced back, my eyes caught something.
A scar.
It ran across the upper part of his chest, partially hidden beneath the faint shadow of his collarbone.
I stared for a second longer than I should have.
I had never noticed it before.
Kartik followed my gaze. Our eyes met.
I immediately looked away.
He didn't say anything. Instead, he walked toward the bedside table.
His eyes fell on the photograph of his mother.
The frame was slightly tilted. Without saying a word, he picked it up and carefully straightened it.
His fingers lingered on the edge of the frame for a moment.
Something about the gesture was strangely gentle.
It didn't match the man I knew.
I scoffed softly. He looked at me.
I folded my arms. "Tumhare papa ne tumhari maa ke jaane ke baad kisi se shaadi kyun nahi ki?"
(Why did your father never marry anyone after your mother passed away?)
His expression changed instantly.
The softness disappeared.
His eyes became guarded. "Meri maa ke topic se door raho."
(Stay away from the topic of my mother.)
His voice wasn't loud that somehow made it worse.
I looked at him. There was something beneath those words.
"Cheat karna kisne sikhaya tumhe?"
(Who taught you to cheat?)
His jaw tightened.
I gave a bitter smile. "I'm sure tumhare papa ne toh nahi sikhaya hoga."
(I'm sure your father didn't teach you that.)
I glanced deliberately toward the photograph.
"Kyunki woh toh abhi tak aapki maa ke liye loyal hain."
(Because he's still loyal to your mother.)
He stared at me.
For a moment, I thought he would explode but he didn't.
His eyes moved toward his mother's photograph then back to me.
He didn't said anything and left.
I realised how he's not used to share his emotions.
And for the first time, the photograph on the bedside table didn't look like just a photograph anymore.
It looked like a part of Kartik that I had never been allowed to see.
.
.
.
The next morning, I woke up craving pasta.
It was such a random craving that I didn't even bother calling anyone from the kitchen. I simply walked downstairs, tied my hair into a messy bun, and decided to make it myself.
The kitchen was unusually quiet.
I gathered everything I needed and started preparing the pasta, chopping vegetables and stirring the sauce while the aroma slowly filled the room.
I was halfway through when I heard footsteps behind me.
"Kya baat hai? Tumhe khana banana bhi aata hai?" Seema Chachi's voice echoed.
(What? You also know how to cook?)
I ignored her
She came closer.
"Hamare toh bhaag hi khul gaye. Shaadi ke baad pehli baar tumhe kitchen mein dekh rahe hain."
(We've been lucky. We're seeing you in the kitchen for the first time after your marriage.)
I clenched my jaw and continued stirring.
"Aaj isi baat pe mandir mein diya jala dena." I said blankly.
(Light a lamp at the temple for this occasion.)
She clenched her teeth in anger, "Haan. Waise bhi Singhaniya ghar ki bahu agar kitchen mein na dikhe toh log kya kahenge?"
(Yes. Anyway, if the daughter-in-law of the Singhaniya family isn't seen in the kitchen, what will people say?)
I was about to reply when another voice came from behind us.
"Good morning."
I froze.
Kartik.
He walked into the kitchen, dressed casually, his gaze briefly falling on me before shifting toward Seema Chachi.
She immediately changed her tone.
"Kartik, beta, tum breakfast mein kya loge?"
(Kartik, dear, what would you like for breakfast?)
I glanced at him.
He was looking at me.
For some inexplicable reason, my eyes shifted back to the pan. But my attention was still on their conversation.
I reached for the handle without thinking.
The metal was hot. Pain shot through my palm.
"Ah!"
I immediately dropped it back on the stove.