THE DEVIL I CALLED HUSBAND

[1] MARRIAGE

The tiny brick house glowed under flickering oil lamps, thunder rumbling outside like distant drums. Rain hissed on the tin roof, but inside, the wedding chaos pressed on.

Two sisters sat on a bed.

Amisha-eight, drowning in crimson ghagra-twirled the heavy dupatta like a festival flag, cheeks round with excitement.thinking that it is some kind of festival.

Nisha-ten, eyes swollen-clutched her lehenga, tears slipping onto gold zari.

Their mother, Lakshmi, knelt between them, fingers trembling as she adjusted veils.

She lifted Amisha's first. The little girl beamed; Lakshmi pressed a red bindi to her forehead, then a black teeka behind the ear.

Turning to Nisha, she did the same-bindi, teeka-while the child hiccupped sobs.

"Bas, Nisha," Lakshmi whispered, cupping her face. "Yeh har ladki ke zindagi me hota hai. Aaj teri shaadi hai, ro mat nisha."

Nisha's voice cracked. "Mujhe nahi karni shaadi maa..."

Lakshmi swallowed hard, then faced Amisha.she couldn't ans to nisha.she couldn't do anything.

"Dekho, beta. Wahan jaake dhyan se rehna. Unki or chhote thakur ki saari baatein maanna-jo bhi kahein, woh karna. Dahej mein kuch nahi liya unhone, isliye unki har baat maanni padegi, theek hai?"

Amisha bobbed her head, ghagra rustling. "Ji, Amma... Chhote Thakur kaun?"

Lakshmi's smile wavered. "Abhiraj. Tumhare honewale pati. Unko naam se bula na mat, theek hai?"

In response amisha nodded like obedient child.

She glanced at both daughters.

"Koi takleef ho to adjust kar lena. Main kuch nahi kar paungi.Nisha, tum jyada dhyanrakhna.

Aur Amisha-tumhara sasural achha hai, saaf dil wale log hai. Bas Chhote Thakur ko sataana mat... thoda gussa karte hain woh."

Ramesh stepped inside, the storm's roar muffled behind him.

His gaze fell on his daughters-crimson-clad, ready to leave forever.

Eyes glistened; he blinked hard.

"Dono ki baraat aa gayi hai. Le aao inko,"

he said, voice steady.

Lakshmi nodded, throat tight.

She draped veils over both small faces, then her own, and led them out into the rain-soaked courtyard.

The mandap flickered under petromax lamps.

Amisha climbed up, ghagra pooling like spilled blood.

Beside her sat Abhiraj Singh Shekhawat-fifteen, sherwani stiff, staring into the holy fire as if it owed him answers.

Through her veil, Amisha peeked.

The flames danced in his hazel eyes; she gulped, shrinking smaller.

Panditji chanted. She copied every move-seven circles, mangalsutra, sindoor-tiny hands trembling but obedient.

Next mandap over, Nisha's wedding ended in stifled sobs.

Vidai.

Nisha clung to Lakshmi, tears soaking both veils.

Amisha, clueless, hugged Ramesh with a muffled giggle under her ghunghat.

Cars waited, engines humming.

Amisha slid into the back seat-first time ever-marveling at the leather smell.

"Bitiya, ghunghat hatao, garmi hai kafi." came a gentle voice.

Minakshi Thakurain, her new saas, lifted the veil with a warm smile.

Amisha blinked up, shy.

Minakshi moved to another car.

Now only three: driver, Abhiraj, Amisha.

She stole a glance.

He stared out the window, jaw clenched so tight it twitched.

Fifteen, yet fury burned older than his years.

Dadi's orders. Can't fight the throne.

The car rolled into the night, taking childhood with it.

Amisha's fingers worried the zari border of her ghagra; the heavy silk scratched softly against her knees. She breathed in the faint scent of sandalwood from his sherwani, mixed with something sharper-anger, maybe.

He turned.

The sudden heat of his gaze burned through the dimness; her pulse skittered like a trapped moth.

She tried a smile, small and trembling.

"Hello..."

He echoed it, voice rough as gravel under tyres. "Hello."

Emboldened by the quiet, she scooted closer. The seat creaked; her tiny anklets chimed.

He bent-slow, reluctant-until the warm puff of her breath tickled his ear.

"Maine suna hai..." she whispered, voice feather-light, "aap bohot gussa karte ho... aur bohot daantte bhi ho. Sach hai kya?"

A grin ghosted across his mouth, gone before it fully formed.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear; his words were warm smoke.

"Haan, sach hai. Main bohot gussa karta hoon. Aur daantta bhi hu.

Toh mujhe tang karne ki sochna bhi mat."

The threat hummed against her skin.

Her eyes widened-grey pools catching the dashboard's green glow.

She nodded, the motion jerking her heavy jhumkas; they clinked like tiny bells of surrender.

He eased back, the smirk softening into something almost gentle.

"Good girl,"

he murmured, the words tasting like rain on iron.

The car rolled to a stop on the floodlit drive, tyres crunching wet gravel.

Minakshi Thakurain was already at the door, warm hands reaching.

"Come, bitiya." She gathered the heavy ghagra in soft folds, guiding Amisha down.

Amisha's feet touched cold marble; the veil slipped back.

She looked up-and froze.

The haveli rose like a golden palace under the dying storm-sky, every arch and jharokha glowing amber.

She had seen it from the way of school, a distant dream; up close, it swallowed the night.

Minakshi smiled, nudging her forward.

Inside, the family waited in a half-circle of silk and expectation.

Lakshmi Thakurain-serene, silver-streaked.

Rajveer Singh, Thakur Sahab, eyes gentle.

Badi Thakurain, dadi, sharp as winter steel.

Abhiraj-arms folded, jaw still tight.

Three smaller shadows hovered:

Megha, nanad, eight like her, eyes wide with shared wonder.

Mihir and Satish, devar twins, ten and, already taller, already smirking.

Minakshi set a brass kalash at the threshold.

"Kick it lightly, beta."

Amisha's tiny foot nudged; the pot toppled with a soft clang, rice scattering like stars.

Dadi's aarti thali spun-flames licking camphor, smoke curling into marigold scent.

Lakshmi placed a steel plate of crimson water.

"Put your feet in."

Amisha obeyed; cold dye kissed her soles.

Rajveer laid a white cotton cloth on the floor.

"Step here."

She did-once, twice.

Small red prints bloomed like lotuses.

He lifted the cloth, pressed it to his chest.

"Hamare ghar ki Lakshmi,"

he murmured, voice thick.

Behind her, Abhiraj's gaze burned into her back-silent, unreadable, already claiming.

Abhiraj stood rooted, the marble cold beneath his mojaris, yet every pulse in his body burned.

She's eight.

The thought struck like a slap.

Eight.

Her footprints (crimson, child-sized) bled into the cloth Rajveer now cradled like a newborn.

Each print screamed what no one dared say aloud: too soon.

His jaw clenched until it ached.

He could still taste the sindoor on his fingers (bitter, metallic, wrong).

The pandit had pressed the pinch into his palm; he'd let it fall onto her parting like ash on snow.

Ash.

That's what this was.

A funeral for two childhoods.

Dadi's aarti flame danced in his peripheral vision, mocking.

Tradition, she'd said.

Alliance.

Legacy.

But all he saw was Amisha's tiny shoulders shaking under the weight of the ghagra, the way her anklets had chimed like shackles when she kicked the kalash.

She'd smiled (confused, trusting).

And something inside him cracked.

She called me "hello."

Like he was a classmate, not a husband.

Like this was a game.

His fists curled.

He wanted to punch the pillar, shatter the jali work, roar until the haveli crumbled.

But the storm stayed locked behind his teeth.

Because if he let it out, he'd have to admit:

He was the villain here.

Fifteen, and already a thief (stealing her dolls, her schoolyard, her right to cry for a scraped knee instead of a lifetime).

Megha's hand slipped into Amisha's.

Two little girls, fingers entwined, both trembling.

Abhiraj's gaze snagged on the sight.

His chest caved.

I should've refused.

But Dadi's eyes had been steel.

"Shekhawat honor," she'd hissed.

"Your duty."

Duty tasted like rust.

He dragged air through his nose, sharp, burning.

The diyas hissed.

The peacock screamed again.

And in the silence between heartbeats, he made a vow (silent, savage):

I'll keep her safe. From everyone. Even from me.

Even if it meant becoming the monster she already feared.

The last diya guttered out in the courtyard; only the scent of cooled ghee lingered.

Rituals done, the haveli exhaled.

Amisha had already found Megha-two small shadows giggling over shared jhumkas.

Mihir tugged Amisha's dupatta once, daring; Satish offered her a laddoo, shy.

She took it with sticky fingers, eyes bright.

Abhiraj stood apart, arms folded, face carved from the same stone as the pillars.

No smile. No nod.

A statue learning how to hate itself.

Minakshi touched Amisha's elbow.

"Chalo, kamra dikhaati hoon."

Amisha trotted behind; Abhiraj followed, footsteps heavy with unsaid protests.

The room was his-until tomorrow.

Now it smelled faintly of her marigolds.

Two beds, carved teak, pushed too close.

Minakshi opened the almirah, pulled out one of Abhiraj's old cotton shirts-faded blue, soft from a hundred washes.

She folded a simple skirt from Megha's drawer, handed both to Amisha.

"Change. Bed is yours tonight."

Amisha nodded, solemn.

As Minakshi reached the door, Abhiraj's voice cut low.

"Mera shirt kyun?"

"Megha patli hai. Uska nahi aayega ispe."

A grunt. Door clicked shut.

Amisha spun in slow circles, drinking in the high ceiling, the lattice shadows.

Abhiraj pointed. "Wahan bathroom."

She scampered.

He changed fast-kurta off, loose shirt and pyjamas on-then sat on his bed, elbows on knees, staring at nothing.

The door creaked.

Amisha emerged swallowed in blue fabric.

The shirt hem brushed her shins; sleeves flapped like sails.

Buttons marched crooked-one eye open, one closed.

Her ghagra bunched beneath like a scarlet tumour.

He crooked a finger.

She padded over, bare feet whispering.

"Hath aage."

She obeyed.

He rolled each sleeve in neat cuffs, fingers brushing her pulse-quick, bird-like.

The touch was clinical, almost angry.

She drifted to the mirror, attacked the nest of hairpins.

"Oww-" A hiss, a wince.

Pins clattered like hail.

"Iss taraf aao."

She turned, hair a tangled storm.

He took the comb-rosewood, worn smooth-and started at the ends.

Long, straight, ink-black strands slid between his fingers.

Section, smooth, section.

No tug, no hurry.

At the nape he split three parts, wove a loose braid that reached her waist.

Tied it with the ribbon she'd worn at the mandap.

Amisha spun. "Aapko kaise aati hai choti?"

"Faltu sawaal mat karo."

She pressed lips together, scampered to her bed, climbed under the rajai printed with tiny elephants.

Within minutes her breathing evened-soft, trusting, child-deep.

Abhiraj lay on his back, eyes on the dark ceiling.

Two beds.

One room.

A lifetime sentence.

Outside, the storm finally broke into quiet rain.