[3] SCOLDING
Scolding,
Amisha(9 years old).
Sunday noon baked the haveli in lazy gold.
The rest of the family had piled into two cars for a cousin's wedding in the next town-Lakshmi's laughter, Dadi's sharp instructions, Rajveer's horn, the kids' excited shrieks-gone, leaving only cicadas and the smell of marigold garlands still hanging from the gate.
Abhiraj (sixteen, taller by the day) leaned against the veranda pillar, phone in one hand, bike keys spinning on a finger.
Jeans, white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow-ready for cricket and cold drinks with the boys.
A small voice piped behind him.
"Kahan ja rahe ho?"
He didn't turn.
"Bahar. Doston ke saath."
Tiny sandals pattered closer.
"Mujhe bhi le chalo. Main akele kya karungi?"
He spun the keys faster.
"Jo karna hai karo. Woh mere dost hain, tumhare nahi."
Amisha (nine, lavender frock, two uneven ponytails) planted herself in his path, arms crossed like a miniature guard.
"Main bhi chalungi."
He stepped around her.
"Nahi."
She followed, stubborn as dust.
Every time he moved, she mirrored-left, right, left-ponytails bouncing.
He stopped at the gate.
"Amisha, wapas jaao."
She shook her head, eyes huge.
He tried once more, voice rising.
"Jao andar!"
Still she stood, toes curling in her chappals.
Something snapped.
The keys clattered to the marble.
"KITNI BAAR BOLNA PADEGA?" he roared. "MAIN AKELA JA RAHA HOON! TUM MERE SAATH NAHI AA SAKTI! SAMJHI YA NAHI?"
The veranda rang with it.
Her face crumpled-cheeks, nose, ears-flaming red in one heartbeat.
Eyes welled, chin wobbled.
Without a sound she turned and ran, frock flying, sandals slapping tears across the floor.
Abhiraj stared after her, chest heaving.
The gate stood open, bike waiting.
But the echo of his own shout clung to the pillars like smoke.
He kicked the pillar once-hard-then scooped the keys and strode out, the engine's roar drowning everything.
The sun bled orange across the sky, sinking behind the haveli's domes at 6:30 sharp.
Abhiraj rolled the bike to a stop, engine ticking as it cooled.
One glance up: the east wing was dark.
Amisha's window-black, curtain still.
The rest of the haveli blazed with diyas and tube-lights, but her corner stayed stubbornly off.
He strode through the courtyard, boots echoing.
"Amisha?"
Only the peacocks answered from the mango trees.
Kitchen-empty.
Veranda-swing creaking alone.
Her room-bed made, workbook closed, lavender frock missing from the hook.
A prickle crawled up his neck.
He jogged back out, past the gate, scanning the dusty service road that skirted the fields.
There-twenty metres down, under a lone neem.
Amisha, ponytails loose, laughing in a circle of village kids.
Two boys tossed a rubber ball; she caught it, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
One boy-maybe ten-ruffled her hair.
She squealed, delighted.
Abhiraj's jaw locked.
Something hot and sharp coiled in his gut.
"AMISHA."
Heads turned.
She spotted him, smile faltering.
Skipped over, ball still in hand.
"Kya hua?"
He didn't answer-just tilted his head toward the haveli, eyes flat
"Chalo ghar."
She opened her mouth. "Mujhe aur-"
"CHALO."
The word cracked like a whip, low and final.
The ball slipped from her fingers, bounced once, rolled into the grass.
Without another word she fell in step behind him, small shadow trailing his long one back through the gate.
The neem tree kept its laughter; the haveli swallowed them both.
The haveli doors thudded shut, sealing the dusk outside.
Abhiraj spun, keys clinking.
"Tum wahan khelne kyun gayi?"
Amisha's sandals scuffed the marble.
"Aap leke nahi gaye... toh main chali gayi."
"Mat jaana wahan."
"Theek hai. Par aapko mere saath khelna padega, tabhi nahi jaungi."
He scoffed.
"Main khelunga? Tumhare saath?"
"Pati ho na aap mere. Khelo."
"Nahi hoon main tumhara pati."
Her face brightened. "Toh main wapas-"
"NAHI JAOGI!"
The shout cracked like a whip.
She planted her feet. "Aapki baat kyun maanu?"
"Main pati hoon tumhara!"
"Abhi toh mana kiya."
Victory flashed in her eyes.
Abhiraj's patience snapped.
He dropped to a crouch, face inches from hers, eyes black ice.
Voice dropped to a slow, cruel whisper, each syllable carved in stone.
"MAINE... KAHA... NA... NAHI... JAOGI... TOH... NAHI... JAOGI."
No drama. No theatrics.
Just pure, cold menace.
Amisha's knees buckled.
She crumpled straight to the floor, small body folding like paper.
Tears spilled instantly, silent, terrified.
Cheeks blazed crimson; nose ran; no sound but shaky, panicked breaths.
Abhiraj rose, stared down.
Muttered, "Jyaada dara diya kya?"
He tried.
A gentle "Rona band karo."
More tears.
Water glass.
She shrank away.
Hand on shoulder.
She flinched harder.
Nothing worked.
He sat beside her on the cold marble, elbows on knees, watching the storm he'd unleashed.
No one else home. No one to fix it.
Half an hour later the sobs thinned to hiccups.
Her eyes fluttered shut mid-breath.
She slept, curled small, tear tracks drying on flushed cheeks.
Stared at the ceiling.
Regret tasted bitter.
Abhiraj exhaled, long and low, then bent.
One arm slid under her knees, the other behind her shoulders.
She weighed nothing, warm, limp, tear-damp.
He carried her down the corridor, her head lolling against his chest, small fist still curled in sleep.
The diyas flickered gold across her face:
cheeks flushed scarlet,
lashes spiked wet,
nose a tiny red dot.
A quiet, twisted warmth curled in his gut.
Too damn cute.
He liked it, the way fear painted her like this.
The thought should've bothered him.
It didn't.
He nudged the bedroom door with his shoulder, laid her on the little bed.
Tugged the rajai up to her chin.
Her mouth parted again, soft snore.
He lingered one heartbeat, thumb brushing a stray tear from her temple.
Then turned away.
Chair scraped.
Books opened.
Lamp clicked brighter.
He bent over physics, pencil scratching, while the small, flushed storm slept three feet away.
The lamp's flame wavered, throwing long shadows across the open physics book.
Abhiraj's eyes had stopped reading ten minutes ago.
Two years.
Then eighteen.
Then gone.
Papa's decree had been delivered over dinner last month, voice flat as the steel plate in front of him:
"Oxford. Full scholarship. You leave the day you turn eighteen. No return until you've made the Shekhawat name untouchable."
No timeline.
No "come back for holidays."
Success first.
Everything else (haveli, family, her) second.
He was sixteen now.
Two birthdays to go.
730 mornings of her grey eyes blinking awake beside him.
730 nights of her small snores filling the silence.
He glanced at the bed.
Amisha slept on her side, one arm flung out, fingers curled like she was still reaching for something.
The ribbon from her braid lay on the floor between their beds (lavender, frayed, mocking).
She'll be eleven.
Still in pigtails.
Still calling him "pati" like it was a game.
Still believing he'd always be three feet away.
His chest tightened (sharp, sudden).
He pictured the day:
suitcase packed,
car idling,
her standing at the gate in some new frock,waving until the dust swallowed him.
And then?
Years.
Maybe five.
Maybe ten.
No guarantee of return until the world bowed to the name Shekhawat.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
You wanted this.
The lie tasted sour.
He did want it (the labs, the lectures, the power).
But the thought of her growing up without him (without anyone to braid her hair, scare the boys, carry her when she fell asleep on the table) carved something raw inside his ribs.
The pencil in his hand snapped clean in two.
He stared at the broken halves.
Two years.
Then exile.
Then silence.
He looked at her again.
Her mouth had fallen open in sleep, a tiny whistle on every breath.
The ribbon glinted under the lamp like a tiny, cruel countdown.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and whispered to the dark:
"Don't grow up too fast, moti."
The lamp flickered.
The ribbon didn't answer.