28 ~ Growing Bonds
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands.
They were wrapped in soft white bandages, the burns from the kitchen accident still stinging beneath the layers of gauze. It had been a stupid mistake, a moment of carelessness.
I had been sitting here for ten minutes, trying to figure out how to change out of my saree.
I couldn't. I couldn't even reach the hooks.
I let out a frustrated sigh and then I heard footsteps.
I looked up.
Kartik stood in the doorway, his eyes immediately going to my bandaged hands.
I bit my lower lip feeling nervous already.
I hesitated but I had no option. I can't sleep in this so I asked him to help.
His eyes widened as if he didn't expected me to say that.
Even I was shocked.
He agreed but I can see he was feeling awkward.
I followed him with my eyes as he pulled out a comfortable white nightdress and placed it beside me.
He reached for my pallu and I froze.
"Lights off kar doon?" he asked.
(Should I turn off the lights?)
I blinked.
He had noticed.
The awkwardness I was desperately trying to hide.
I nodded silently.
The room fell into darkness, leaving only the faint glow of the city filtering through the curtains.
But I was glad I'm not visible in the dark and somehow, that made it easier to breathe.
He came closer.
His hands found my shoulders first, his fingers brushing against the fabric of my saree pallu. His touch was light, hesitant, like he was afraid of touching me.
I swallowed hard.
His fingers found the edge of the fabric.
He pulled it gently, sliding it off my shoulder. The fabric slipped across my skin, and I shivered at the sensation.
His touch was feather-light.
"Turn..." He said and I turned.
He shifted my hair aside and pulled the strings of my blouse.
I can feel his breath on my neck.
His fingers found the small hook of my blouse.
I felt his knuckles brush against my bare skin as he worked. My breath caught. My heart pounded.
Every touch, every brush of his fingers, every careful movement.
He was being so gentle. So careful. So deliberate.
I felt the hooks come undone, one by one and then the blouse loosened but I tried to keep it intact.
He removed the saree and I couldn't gather the courage to turn.
I felt the blouse slide down my shoulders and he reached for the nightgown on the bed.
I turned slowly holding the blouse against my chest with the back of my hand.
His eyes were fixed on my face.
He slide the nightdress over my head and I let go of the blouse.
He slid the sleeve of the nightgown over my arm. His fingers brushed against my skin, and I shivered.
"Kartik..."
"Shh." He adjusted the nightgown, his fingers moving carefully. "Ho gaya."
(It's done.)
He pulled it lower and it stopped above my knees.
He reached for the robe and help me wore it.
He pushed my hair back and I couldn't help but look at him.
His hair was slightly messy. His chest was rising and falling with uneven breaths.
He's trying so hard to calm himself down.
He was so different from the monster I thought he was.
I felt my heart ache with something warm and dangerous.
He held my wrist, his fingers paused near my bandaged hand.
"Dard ho raha hai?"
(Is it hurting?)
"Thoda sa."
(A little.)
This was the same man I had spent days calling arrogant, heartless and impossible.
Yet here he was, standing in the dark because he understood that I was uncomfortable.
A strange warmth settled somewhere inside my chest.
I smiled faintly.
Maybe... he wasn't as heartless as I had convinced myself he was.
We lay beside each other in silence.
The room was quiet, the lights already switched off. I turned my head slightly and looked at Kartik.
He was lying on his back, his face unusually calm as he stared toward the ceiling before finally letting his eyelids fall shut.
I don't know why I kept looking at him.
Perhaps because tonight felt different.
"Kartik..."
His eyes opened immediately, and he turned his face toward me.
"Kya hua? Neend nahi aa rahi?"
(What happened? Can't you sleep?)
I shook my head.
Without really thinking, I shifted a little closer.
His eyebrows lifted faintly.
"So jao, Chahat."
(Go to sleep, Chahat.)
His voice was quiet rather than commanding.
I hesitated before reaching for his hand. My fingers slipped cautiously into his palm.
For a moment, I wondered if he would pull away.
He didn't. Instead, his fingers slowly curled around mine, interwining them.
My breath caught.
I looked down at our joined hands.
His palm was considerably larger than mine, completely enveloping it. Our fingers fit together so naturally that something warm fluttered inside my chest.
I bit my lower lip to hide my smile.
Why did this feel so... right?
I glanced at him.
He was already looking at me. Neither of us said anything.
His thumb moved once over the back of my hand. A tiny gesture. But somehow, it made my heart beat a little faster.
I lowered my gaze again, staring at our intertwined fingers.
For the first time since this marriage had begun, I didn't feel like I was lying beside a stranger.
And that realization scared me more than I wanted to admit.
.
.
.
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual.
For a few seconds, I didn't understand why I felt so warm then I realised I was practically curled up against him
My cheek rested near his chest, his arm loosely around me, and my hand had somehow ended up again on his manhood that made my face heat instantly.
I pulled it away at once.
Oh God.
I had absolutely no idea how this had become a habit.
I carefully shifted away, hoping I hadn't disturbed him but it was too late.
He stirred, stretched his arms, and slowly opened his eyes.
His sleepy gaze fell on me.
"Good morning," I murmured.
His lips curved faintly. "Good morning."
I immediately got out of bed before my embarrassment could become worse.
Dadi came in my room and was already fussing over my injured hand.
"Seema ne mujhe bataya ki tumhara haath jal gaya hai. kaisa hai ab?" she asked worriedly, carefully looking at my palm.
(Seema told me that you burned your hand. How is it now?)
"Pehle se behtar hai, Dadi."
(It's better than before, Grandmother.)
She immediately turned toward Kartik. "Kartik, jab tak iska haath theek nahi ho jaata, tum iski har cheez mein help karna. Samjhe?"
(Kartik, until her hand gets better, you have to help her with everything. Understood?)
He simply nodded and somehow, that became the arrangement.
Kartik helped me brush my teeth and wash my face.
I skipped my bath that morning, while one of the female staff helped me change into a simple T-shirt and jeans.
"Ab bas aaram karo," Dadi instructed.
(Now just rest.)
I nodded obediently.
Chachi, however, looked increasingly irritated by the attention I was receiving.
At breakfast, things became even more awkward.
I stared at the food in front of me, unsure how I was supposed to manage.
Kartik noticed.
Without saying anything, he picked up the spoon and forwarded it towards my lips.
I looked at him in surprise.
"Khao," he said simply.
(Eat.)
Dadi smiled approvingly. "Khao, Chahat."
(Eat, Chahat.)
I hesitated before opening my mouth.
He continued feeding me patiently, his eyes occasionally lingering on my face with an expression I couldn't quite understand.
I lowered my gaze, suddenly conscious of everyone around us.
After a few bites, I glanced at him.
"Aapko office nahi jaana? Late ho raha hoga na?"
(Don't you have to go to the office? You must be running late, right?)
Before he could answer, Seema Chachi spoke. "Haan, Kartik ko office bhi toh..."
(Yes, Kartik also has to go to the office...)
Dadi immediately cut her off.
"Ye kya keh rahi ho, Seema? Chahat ka haath jala hai. Tum chahti ho woh ise akela chhodkar office chala jaaye?"
(What are you saying, Seema? Chahat's hand is burned. Do you want him to leave her alone and go to the office?)
Her smile stiffened. "Haan... aap sahi keh rahi hain."
(Yes... you're right.)
The next three days passed in a way I hadn't expected.
Kartik took care of me.
Not once or twice. Constantly.
For the first day, he barely left me alone whenever he was home. If I needed something, he got it himself. If I struggled with my clothes because of my injured hand, he helped me without making a big deal out of it. Even the smallest things somehow became his responsibility.
And I couldn't understand it.
This was the same man I had labelled a monster.
Yet whenever he looked at my injured palm, that cold expression disappeared.
On the second day, he had an important meeting at the office, so he finally left. I thought perhaps the moment he was away, everything would return to normal.
But the moment he came home that evening, his first question wasn't about dinner or work.
"Haath dikhao."
(Show me your hand.)
I stared at him.
"I'm fine."
"Chahat." The firmness in his voice made me extend my hand.
He carefully removed the bandage and examined my palm.
The redness had reduced considerably. The blisters were beginning to heal, and the skin no longer looked as angry as it had two days ago.
"Better hai," he murmured.
(Better.)
He reached for the ointment and applied it carefully, his fingers surprisingly gentle against my skin.
I watched him silently.
He didn't rush.
He made sure every irritated patch was covered before wrapping my palm again with a fresh bandage.
"Abhi bhi zyada kaam mat karna," he instructed.
(Don't do too much work yet.)
I almost smiled. "Main bachchi nahi hoon."
(I'm not a child.)
"I know."
That was it. No explanation.
Just that quiet concern.
By the third day, the difference was even more obvious.
The blisters had dried considerably, the swelling was almost gone, and I could finally move my fingers without much discomfort.
He still checked my hand. He Still asked whether it hurt and made sure I wasn't doing anything that would reopen the wound.