17. A PIECE ON THE BOARD
DIYA
I don't remember the last time I cried.
Not properly. Not like this. Not with tears slipping down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away.
Not with my chest hurting so badly that breathing feels exhausting.
I sit on the edge of my bed staring at nothing.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes thoughts louder.
And unfortunately, my thoughts have decided to declare war on me.
My father wants me married.
No.
That's not right. My father wants me gone. The realization settles heavily inside my chest.
Because there is a difference. A huge difference. One comes from love. The other comes from convenience. And I know exactly which one this is. I let out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously like another sob.
How stupid.
How incredibly stupid.
You don't spend years being treated like an obligation without eventually understanding your place in someone's life.
Yet hearing him say it aloud still hurts.
Hearing him discuss my skin like it was humiliating .
. . in front of strangers. Hearing him discuss my marriage prospects.
Hearing him discuss me. As though I wasn't sitting right there. As though I were a business problem.
A liability.
The word echoes through my head.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. Hard. Trying to make it stop. Trying to make everything stop. The worst part isn't even what he said—it's that none of it surprised me.
That's the part that breaks my heart. Not the words. The familiarity of them.
The fact that I sat there listening because I've heard versions of those sentences my entire life.
Such a pretty girl. It's unfortunate. You would be perfect if not for . . . Who will marry her? We should be realistic.
Realistic.
I hate that word.
People always hide cruelty behind it. As though honesty gives them permission to be unkind. Another tear slips down my cheek.
I wipe it away angrily. Then another follows. And another. Until eventually I stop trying. Because clearly my dignity abandoned me hours ago. My gaze drifts toward the large mirror across the room. I can still remember being a teenager and standing in front of mirrors for hours.
Searching.
Examining.
Comparing.
Wondering which version of me people would have loved more. The one before. Or the one after. I don't do that anymore.
Not really.
I've learned to love myself. Or at least most of myself. Most days. But some wounds never completely disappear. Some days they simply hurt less. Today is not one of those days.
I close my eyes. Immediately regretting it. Because the meeting replays behind my eyelids. My father talking about my reputation. My mother sitting there unfazed. Silent. The room growing smaller. The embarrassment. The humiliation. The feeling of wanting to disappear. Then—Him.
My eyes open. I stare at the ceiling. Annoyed. Because somehow he keeps appearing in my thoughts.
I don't understand him. I genuinely don't. Nothing about him makes sense. The logical part of my brain keeps trying to solve him like some complicated equation. Every time I think I've figured him out, he does something ridiculous. Something unexpected. Something that doesn't fit. Like today.
I laugh weakly. Because honestly? What in the world was that?
I will marry her.
The sentence echoes in my head.
Calm.
Steady.
Certain.
As though proposing marriage to someone you've spent two weeks arguing with is perfectly normal behavior.
Who does that? What kind of person does that?
Veeraj Singh Shekhawat apparently.
I groan and drop backwards onto the mattress. The ceiling stares back at me. Helpless.
"What is wrong with you?" I whisper.
Unfortunately, I don't know if I'm talking about him or myself. Probably both. Because no matter how many times I replay that moment, I still can't understand it.
Why? That's the question. Why? Why would he do that? Pity? No. He doesn't seem like the pity type. Responsibility? Maybe. Duty? Possibly.
Protectiveness?
The thought appears before I can stop it.
And annoyingly . . . I remember the look on his face. The one right before he stood up.
Cold.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
Like my father had crossed a line. A shiver runs through me.
Because for a second there . . . I genuinely thought Papa looked scared.
And that almost never happens. I stare at the ceiling again.
Confused. Because if I didn't know better, I would think Veeraj was angry on my behalf. Which is ridiculous.
Obviously.
Why would he be? We've spent most of our interactions irritating each other. I annoy him. He annoys me. That's it. Yet every time I think about him, simple stops existing.
I think about the children instantly loving him despite his terrifying personality. About the way he listened when they spoke. About how he remembered things they told him. About how he never treated them like they were beneath him.
A small knot forms in my chest. Then immediately loosens. Because no. That's not proof of anything.
He was there for PR. The entire reason he came was because his board wanted him to look approachable. Of course he was nice. Of course he was patient. Of course he behaved well. That's literally why he was there. The logic makes sense. Perfect sense.
So why doesn't it feel convincing?
I frown.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself that . . . something refuses to settle.
The memory of him standing up today keeps returning. The way he looked at my father. The way he told him to let go of my wrist. The way he said future wife. My stomach does an unpleasant little flip.
I sit up immediately.
No.
Absolutely not.
We're not thinking about that.
I point a finger at myself. "Get a grip."
Unfortunately, my body and mind refuse to cooperate. Because another thought follows. One that's somehow worse.
What if he regrets it?
The room grows colder.
Because let's be honest. He should. Marriage isn't a small thing. And whatever possessed him today is eventually going to wear off.
Then what?
My chest tightens.
Because for all his faults . . . I don't think Veeraj does things halfway. And somehow that scares me more.
A knock sounds against my door.
I quickly wipe my face.
Too late.
The door opens. My mother walks in. Without waiting for permission. Without greeting me. Without asking if I'm okay. She doesn't even glance at my face properly or even if she does she doesn't really care. She never did.
Something inside me wilts. Just a little. "Tomorrow the jeweler will come."
I stare. She continues, "The wedding outfits need final approval."
Silence.
I wait.
Maybe she'll notice. Maybe she'll finally look at me and ask about the tears. About anything. One question. One.
She doesn't.
"We'll need a HMUA and a mehandi artist."
I swallow. Hard. My throat hurts.
"Okay." She nods absentmindedly, she opens her phone scrolling something on it, "The guest list is being finalized too."
Another pause. Then finally she looks up.
Hope flickers briefly inside me. Only to die immediately.
"Try not to cry too much." She sighs. "Your eyes will look swollen in photographs."
And just like that . . . The last little piece of hope disappears.
Gone.
Completely gone.
Not because the comment is particularly cruel. It's not. Not compared to other things. Not compared to years of indifference. It's what the comment means.
What it confirms. She sees the tears. She knows I'm crying. She simply doesn't care why. She doesn't even care enough to show fake sympathy, not that I need any. The realization hurts far more than I expect.
Because all these years later . . . Some stupid part of me was still waiting.
Waiting for my mother to act like a mother. Waiting for my father to act like a father. Waiting for a family that never really existed.
My mother stands. Straightening her dupatta. She walks out the room, the door closes behind her.
And the room becomes silent again.
For a long time I just sit there. Staring at the door. Thinking. Remembering. Understanding. Then slowly, I curl my legs toward my chest. Resting my forehead against my knees.
The tears return. Softer this time. Quieter.
Not because of the wedding. Not because of Veeraj. Not even because of the photograph. But because tonight, perhaps for the first time in my life, I finally stop waiting for my parents to become the people I needed them to be.
And somehow . . . That loss hurts more than anything else.