Ch9Tears Unspoken, Guilt Unseen #2
Behind us, the relatives' whispers faltered, their words scattering like dry leaves. In the quiet of that kitchen, amidst the clatter of utensils and the scent of spice, a different kind of intimacy unfolded two people learning reluctantly, dangerously the boundaries of each other's worlds.
Seeing the two of us standing close, those women left the place. After they walked away I stepped back from Rivanya and said, "I'm sorry I never meant to touch you like that. Those women were saying rubbish about you; I only wanted to shut them up."
Rivanya stood there silent, her head bowed, a swirl of shame and unease written over her. I watched her for a long moment. Leaving her alone felt like the right thing to do even if only for a little while so without another word I walked away.
I went straight to my office room. My mood had soured completely; anger simmered under my skin. How could I have let my hand touch her? How uncomfortable I must have made her feel. I've never behaved that despicably before so why today?
Whatever this was, I told myself, I could not let it consume me.
This wasn't me. In all these years of my life I had never so much as looked at a woman in a way that crossed a line and now, with Rivanya, I had done something I couldn't reconcile.
I believed, and still believed, that just because Rivanya was my wife it did not give me the right to treat her any differently.
Her choice, her body I had violated that.
I needed distance. If I stayed close, mistakes would keep happening.
I sat down in my chair and replayed the whole scene in my head.
Even though I had acted to silence those women, it was still wrong of me to touch Rivanya without her permission.
I should have told those women off in a way that humiliated them enough that they never came near us again but that didn't excuse what I had done.
The more I thought about it, the hotter my anger rose, until it felt like a flame was burning behind my eyes.
I slammed my hand down on the table. There was a glass there; my palm hit it hard and the rim cut me in one clean motion. Blood welled immediately, staining my hand red. Oddly, I felt no real pain. Maybe this was penance a small punishment for touching Rivanya.
I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and tried to calm myself.
Someone knocked on the office door. Without opening my eyes I called out, "Come in."
Footsteps approached. I opened my eyes and froze. Pratap Raj Vardhan my father stood in the doorway. Seeing him sent my anger spiking into the stratosphere.
Every time I looked at him I saw the man who had taken my mother from me.
I remembered, raw and unhealed, how she had given her life to save mine and how the man who stood before me had been responsible, directly or indirectly, for that loss.
No matter what else happened in life, the hatred I felt for Pratap Raj Vardhan would never fade.
I rose to my feet and barked, "What do you want? Make it quick I don't have time for nonsense."
My tone stiffened his expression. He frowned and replied, "Rudra, what kind of tone is that to use with your father? I am your father; show me some respect."
Anger twisted me. If I could, I wanted to shut him up for good.
My jaw tightened; my hands curled into fists.
Between clenched teeth I spat, "Father? How can you call yourself that? The man who allowed my mother to die who stood by while she was taken from me how can I respect him? How did you let Rana Pratap Raj Vardhan become my mother's killer?"
Hearing that, his own anger flared. He raised his voice. "If I don't say anything, you go on and on in your mouth, Rudraksh. Don't forget your mother was my wife, my whole world, my life..."
I shot back, filled with the same fury. "If she meant so much to you, then why did you let her die before your eyes? Why didn't you save her? How did you allow the man who killed her to go free? Tell me how did you let my mother be taken?"
Before I could finish, he strode forward and slapped me hard across the face.
That blow felt like the end of my last restraint.
I touched my cheek where his hand had landed, fingers coming away wet with my own blood from the glass cut.
He looked at my wounded hand, at the shards of glass on the desk, and his expression changed.
"Rudra," he said, gripping my arm. "What happened to your hand? Look at the glass...."
I wrenched free, pulling myself together. "Before you try to accuse the blood of the Vardhan palace on my head," I said, voice cold, "leave. There is no need for your false concern. Be gone."
For a long moment he looked like he wanted to say more, but when he saw the blaze in my eyes he turned and left without another word.
I remained standing, chest heaving, blood on my hand, fury and shame twisting together inside me. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. Outside, Rivanya was still there somewhere - and the knowledge that I had hurt her, even unintentionally, burned me more than the cut on my palm.
Two hours later, I was still sitting there with my bloodied hand, the floor beneath me a dark, spreading stain.
The office door opened again and Rivanya came in with a tray of food. When she saw me, she froze, fear and concern written all over her face. I tried to control myself to rein in the anger but my eyes betrayed me; they were burning red with rage.
Rivanya's voice trembled. "W-what happened? Look at this... your hand it's bleeding so much."
Her worry was plain to see, but I didn't want my anger to spill over onto her, so I forced myself to say, "You should go. Leave."
She set the tray on the table, stepped closer, and gently took my hand in both of hers. "What happened to you? How much are you bleeding? Let me dress the wound and then you can eat."