21
SHIVANI
A harsh yank pulls me from sleep. My head hits the floor, and a sharp pain shoots up my back. My blurry vision stills as I wait for the realization to draw in; it doesn’t until I look up... and freeze. It’s her. My mother.
“Mother?” I whisper, my voice small and shaky, confused.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she walks up to me and slaps me—hard.
The sting brings tears to my eyes, and I instantly suck in a sharp breath.
Last I remember, we were talking, smiling, happy.
.. Was it a dream? It felt so real, every second of it.
But this—this feels more real. Slowly, I stand up with my shaky legs against the cold floor.
My father enters the room, his steps loud and firm, just like a thunder strike. There’s a smirk on his face. His eyes travel to my mother, and they share a look, and dread pools in my stomach. I try backing away, but I know it’s useless.
“You see, Shivani,” my father hisses, gripping my jaw with painful force, “you’re married to Rudraksh Malhotra now.”
My mother pulls his arm off me. “Don’t,” she snaps, her voice low and cold. They might not want to leave a mark. He glares at her, but lets me go. I rub my jaw, the ache blooming sharper with every second.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you anymore,” he sneers and shoves me toward the bed. I stumble, catching myself just before falling.
“You know what it feels like to be betrayed now?” my mother hisses. “We were pretending the whole day. Being happy with you? That’s not possible.”
She hits me on the back. I don’t turn to face her. I just let the tears fall silently.
“You will not utter a word. Not about this house, not about our business, not about us. Understand?” The warning lies clear in her words: if I even open my mouth for the word ‘complain,’ what’s going to greet me is much worse than this. I nod slowly. My head still spins from the blow.
A rough hand grabs my hair again—my father—and jerks my face up.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to see them.
I don’t want them to see me like this. Broken, at their mercy.
But I feel the twisted satisfaction in his eyes, anyway.
“You better remember that. It’s very easy for me to kill your husband. ”
My eyes fly open. “You can’t touch him,” I mumble, voice low but steady, summoning all the courage I have left.
His face turns red with rage, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath. “What did you say, you bitch?” he roars and punches me in the side. I fall, curling into myself, the pain too much to bear. I hear him laugh—low and evil.
“Did you hear her? Two days away from us, and now she’s grown a tongue. I guess Rudraksh doesn’t know how to control his wife.”
I look up, my side burning, but I still glare at him.
“If you want your precious husband to live, you better keep that mouth shut.” He threatens me in that same low and dangerous voice that he has used on me since childhood.
Fear grips me. I know Rudraksh is strong—he could take my father in a fight easily. But my father is not a good man. And he definitely doesn’t have good friends. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it.
And then my mother speaks, voice cold and cutting, “Have you had sex with him?”
I freeze. Embarrassed. Shocked. Disgusted. Why would she ask that? I don’t answer. I just shake my head.
She throws ointment at me like that would fix everything. As if it could heal the ache deep in my chest.
“Well, at least she’s not whoring around,” my father mutters, lighting a cigarette.
“Don’t have sex with him until it’s all healed. If we find out otherwise, you know what’ll happen,” my mother warns. “And don’t eat too much. Looking like that, who would even want to touch you?”
That’s the final blow.
I nod. That’s all I can do. I don’t have the strength to speak. There’s nothing left to say.
Before going out, he spits on me. I stay seated on the cold floor. Eventually, I crawl to the chair by the table and just cry. And cry. I don’t stop. I can’t. The memories of yesterday swirl in my mind—I was so happy. For once. Was that too much to ask?
It’s only been two days since I left this place. And I wonder how I even survived here for twenty-two years.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know, I’m waking up early. I take a cold shower, letting it numb the bruises. I stay in there for what feels like forever. I don’t want to see their faces. I just want these stupid tears to stop.
I used to never cry. At some point, I got used to the pain. But something’s changed. Maybe it was their fake smiles yesterday. It made me wonder how nice it could’ve been if it had been real.
I get dressed, barely caring how I look. I just want to get out. I can’t call Rudraksh—not when everyone thinks I’m here to spend time with my parents. I can’t call Madhav uncle, either. What would Maa and Rudraksh think if I came back this soon?
Madhav Uncle was right. I was so stupid to believe them. So na?ve. Why would they suddenly start liking me?
I apply the ointment and cover the bruises with makeup. I check twice, making sure nothing was visible.
My mother walks into the room as usual, without announcing her arrival with her usual fake, sweet smile.
“Your husband called; he is going to be here in two minutes,” she informs me, still smiling. “He offered to wait if you wanted breakfast, but I told him you’ve already eaten. We wouldn’t want you to gain weight now, would we?”
I want to scream. But instead, I just nod and pick up my bag.
As I walk toward the door, I spot my father in the living room. He walks up to me and leans in; Involuntarily, I step back, and he smirks, probably liking the effect he has on me. “You better behave, you bitch,” he hisses.
He motions toward the door. “He must be outside. Go.”
I give my mother one last glance and walk out of the house.
Out of this prison.
The first person I see is Madhav uncle. I run to him and hug him tight. He gently pats my head. The way a father should. It’s always been him, not that man inside, who has felt like my real parent.
I remember wishing during my wedding that he could have done the kanyadaan instead of my father. Because he deserves to. Because he’s the one who’s actually cared.
A car screeches to a halt behind me. The door slams, and I feel it before I see it.
Rudraksh.
I turn, and there he is—his eyes dark, his jaw clenched, anger radiating off him.
Tears prick my eyes. I don’t know what comes over me. I run to him and throw my arms around him.
He freezes at first. But then I feel it—his hands slowly moving and then resting on my back. He hugs me back.
It hurts. My side aches. My back stings. But I don’t care. The physical pain is nothing compared to the relief of being with him again. I wipe the lone tear that slips out. I don’t want him to see me cry.
Slowly, I step back a little, and he stares at me, eyes full of questions, his voice low and gravelly when he asks, “Are you okay?”
I nod, unable to speak. My throat tightens, and even a small breath feels like a thorn inside. If I speak, I’ll cry again.
“Hello, Mr. Malhotra,” Madhav Uncle says, stepping forward. “I’m Madhav Jha.”
Rudraksh’s head snaps up. He becomes the version of himself the world knows—calm, intimidating. He doesn’t shake Uncle’s extended hand, so I do it instead.
Rudraksh looks at me, annoyed for some reason I can’t figure out.
“I’ve been here since Shivani was ten,” Madhav uncle continues, a small smile tugging at his lips. “If you ever want to hear her embarrassing stories, I’m your guy.”
I gasp. “You can’t tattletale, Uncle! You’re on my side!”
He laughs softly. “Always, bacha.”
I smile. My heart warms at his words. Rudraksh raises an eyebrow at me.
“He’s my best friend,” I say, almost shyly.
It’s true. I’ve always gone to Uncle when I needed to vent.
He doesn’t know everything about what my parents do—because I wanted to protect him.
But once, when I had a handprint on my face, he saw it.
I was always careful with my injuries and wounds, but not that day.
He wanted to confront them after knowing about how I got it, but I stopped him.
If it weren’t for him, I don’t think I would’ve made it this far. “I’m Rathore sir’s driver,” Uncle adds.
Rudraksh nods in understanding and finally shakes Uncle’s hand.
“Take care of her,” Uncle says gently and opens the car door for Rudraksh. He nods at him and quietly gets in.
Uncle turns to me. “You’ve got a good husband. He won’t hurt you, Shivani. I can finally live in peace now.”
He walks me to the other side of the car, and I hug him tightly, not wanting to let go. “You take care of yourself, too, okay?” he says, patting my head again.
I nod, blinking back tears, and get in the car.
He places my bag in the back seat, and we drive off.
Away from that house. That so-called home.
Away from the prison.