28. ICECREAM AND HONESTY
DIYA
The little ice cream stall near the city is exactly the kind of place my parents would've driven past without a second glance.
Bright tube lights buzz overhead. A tiny freezer hums in the corner. A couple of plastic tables wobble on the uneven pavement, and the air smells faintly of vanilla, dust, and pre-winter nights.
Yet here I am. Sitting on a faded plastic stool with a cup of mango kulfi slowly melting in my hands.
A few feet away, Veeraj's motorcycle is parked beneath a streetlight, looking completely out of place beside old scooters and bicycles.
He sits next to me on another tiny stool that clearly wasn't designed for someone his size.
He's taken off his riding jacket and rolled the sleeves of his charcoal-grey shirt to his forearms. Three college boys at the next table keep sneaking glances at his bike, then at the expensive watch on his wrist, probably trying to figure out why someone like him is eating roadside kulfi after midnight.
I take another bite.
The cold sweetness settles on my tongue, easing the heaviness sitting inside my chest, even if only for a moment.
From the corner of my eye, I look at Veeraj.
He isn't really eating. He's absentmindedly holding a plain malai kulfi while watching the occasional cars pass on the road.
He hasn't asked me why I wanted to come here. He hasn't asked why I was so quiet. He didn't question the tears I'd hurriedly wipe away before removing my helmet. He didn't even mention the way my voice cracked while ordering.
Most people mistake silence for indifference. Tonight, his silence feels different.
It feels . . . respectful.
Like he's giving me space instead of demanding explanations.
"Your kulfi is going to drip all over your hand if you keep staring at the traffic like you're guarding the border," I say quietly.
He finally looks down.
Without any hurry, he takes one neat bite, catching the melting edge before it falls.
"I'm watching the bike," he says simply. "Those boys have looked at it at least twelve times."
I glance toward them before looking back at him.
"They're looking at you, Your Highness."
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
"They're probably wondering why someone who lives in a palace is eating twenty-rupee kulfi beside the highway."
"Twenty-five."
I blink. "What?"
"It's twenty-five now." He takes another bite. "The vendor increased the price."
I stare at him for a second before laughing. Actually laughing. The sound surprises me. It feels like the first real laugh I've had all day. "There you go again," I say, shaking my head. "You take everything literally."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
I point my spoon at him. "I make one dramatic statement and you correct the price."
"Because it was incorrect."
I laugh harder. "You are unbelievable."
His shoulders rise in the smallest shrug. "I've been told."
I watch him for another moment. "Do you ever relax?"
He turns toward me. "What does that mean?"
"It means . . . " I gesture vaguely between us. " . . . do you ever stop thinking about responsibilities? About work? About everything?"
He thinks for a moment before answering. "When you grow up in a family where everyone has responsibilities, you get used to it."
There's no self-pity in his voice.
Just a fact.
Something about that makes me curious.
"Did you always dream of working in the hospitality sector?" I ask. "Or did everyone just decide that's what the prince should do?"
He looks down at his hands. "No."
A faint smile—so small I almost miss it—touches his lips. "I wanted to become a mechanic."
I blink. "A mechanic?"
"When I was fourteen, I used to disappear into the palace garage.
" His voice grows quieter. "The head mechanic restored old motorcycles.
He used to let me help." His thumb brushes over the faded scar across his knuckles.
"I liked understanding how engines worked.
" He looks toward his bike."If something stopped working, you could usually fix it.
Replace the damaged part. Tighten a bolt.
Clean the carburetor." He inhales deeply, "Machines made more sense than people. "
I don't know why that sentence hurts. Maybe because I understand it. More than I'd like to admit.
"I wanted to dance," I hear myself say. His eyes return to mine.
"Kathak." I look down at my melting kulfi. "I loved it."
"My mother enrolled me when I was little."
"I loved the ghungroos . . . the stories . . . the music." A lump forms in my throat. "Then the vitiligo spread to my ankles."
I swallow. "My father saw it during one performance."
The memory still stings.
"He told my mother to stop my classes." I laugh softly, though there isn't anything funny about it. "He said people weren't watching the performance anymore." The breath settles heavy against my chest."They were looking at my skin."
I stare at the wooden stick in my hand. "He didn't think someone who looked like me should be on a stage."
Silence settles between us.
Not uncomfortable.
Just quiet.
I expect him to change the subject. Or tell me he's sorry. Or give me one of those polite responses people always do when they don't know what else to say.
Instead, the plastic chair beside me creaks.
He turns toward me. Before I can think, his hand gently wraps around my wrist. His grip is warm.
Steady.
He doesn't touch the white patches on my skin like he's afraid of them. He simply holds my wrist.
Grounding me. I slowly look up. His eyes are fixed on mine. His jaw is tight. I've never seen anger like this on his face before. Not directed at me. Directed for me.
"Your father was wrong." His voice is low. Calm. But every word lands with quiet force.
"I noticed your mehendi the day we got married." His thumb shifts ever so slightly against my wrist. "The patterns looked beautiful."
He holds my gaze. "So did the hands they were drawn on."
Everything inside me goes completely still.
He noticed.
Not because he pitied me.
Not because he was trying to make me feel better.
He simply . . . noticed.
My heartbeat stumbles so hard it almost hurts. "You're not meant to be hidden, Diya," he leans in a bit, "I know the world outside can stare and make you want to put up walls, but here, in this light . . . you are purely yourself." He pulls back, our eyes meeting, "and I like that."
For years I've been taught to hide the parts of me that looked different.
And this man . . . This impossible, frustrating, quiet man . . . Looks at the very same skin and doesn't see anything broken.
He sees me. I don't know what to do with that. I don't know what to do with him.
Maybe I've spent so long comparing every powerful man to my father that I forgot they're not all the same.
Maybe Veeraj was never the man I thought he was.
And somehow that realization feels far more dangerous than the one I started this marriage with.