[5] AFTER 9 YEARS
Shekhawat Mansion – 6:42 a.m., nine years late.
The mansion woke like a living thing: peacocks on the parapet, the old well-wheel creaking, diyas still flickering from dawn aarti.
Inside, the kitchen was a battlefield of love.
Amisha stood at the giant black stone chulha, green silk saree tucked high, pallu knotted at her waist like a warrior’s banner.
Her palms, dusted white with atta, slapped roti after roti onto the tawa—
thap-thap-thap—
each one puffing into a perfect golden dome before she flipped it with bare fingers, the heat kissing her wrists.
A loose bun sat low on her nape, baby hairs curling from steam; a single jasmine pinned behind her ear drooped, heavy with scent.
No kohl, no bindi—just lip-balm that caught the light like wet rose petals.
Still 5'3", still soft in all the places childhood had promised, but the softness had ripened: hips curved under the pleats, arms strong from kneading dough for twenty people every dawn.
Megha, in mustard kurti and palazzo, stirred okra at the next burner.
Her phone buzzed nonstop on the counter—
“Ma’am, gate kholo”
“Ma’am, silk batch ready”
“Ma’am, 15 women waiting”
She silenced it with a floury thumb.
“Suta factory khulne se pehle main mar jaungi.”
Amisha laughed, breath fogging the air.
“Drama mat kar. Bas do minute."
She slid the last roti onto a steel plate, stacked it like a leaning tower, and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist—leaving a white streak like war paint.
Minakshi Thakurain entered like a queen in a hurry, pallu fluttering, bangles singing.
“Arre bas bas! Dono madams late ho rahi hain! Jao, main sambhal lungi.”
Amisha and Megha dropped their ladles mid-air.
Feet touched—
“Ma, aashirwad.”
Minakshi cupped their faces, kissed their foreheads in one motion.
They sprinted—
but doubled back in a whirlwind of green and gold,
planted wet kisses on both her cheeks
“Love you, Ma!”
—and vanished.
Hallway sprint,
Rajveer looked up from Dainik Bhaskar, tea steaming
Dadi adjusted her spectacles over the Gita.
Two sets of feet skidded, touched elders’ feet in perfect sync.
“Papa-ji! Dadi-ji! Aashirwad!”
Rajveer’s hand rose in blessing; Dadi’s voice followed, “Jaldi jaao, par surakshit!”
Courtyard
The sun was a burning coin above the tamarind tree.
Satish (22, kurta crisp dalal as lawyer of jamin) jingled keys.
“Main Megha ko Suta drop kar deta hoon.”
Mihir (22, blazer sharp, cufflinks glinting) beat him to the SUV.
“Aur main Bhabhi Maa ko school chhodunga.”
He opened the rear door with exaggerated chivalry.
“Bethiye, Bhabhi Maa. Aapki royal gaadi taiyaar hai.”
Amisha slid in, saree rustling like jungle leaves.
Mihir shut the door, hopped into the driver’s seat, and reversed with one hand—smooth, practiced, too smooth.
Dust rose behind them like applause.
Amisha leaned forward, chin on the seat.
“Waise… yeh roz ka drama thoda ajib nahi lagta?”
Mihir’s ears went pink under the AC vent.
“Arre… aap late ho jaati hain na, isliye…”
She hummed, teasing.
“Pehle itni fikr nahi thi. Ab achanak karishma ho gaya?”
Mihir scratched his head, eyes fixed on the road.
“Woh… traffic… safety…”
Amisha’s grin widened, cat-like.
“Karishma ne karishma kar diya, na?”
The car swerved slightly.
Mihir coughed.
No eye contact.
Zero.
She settled back, folding her pallu neatly.
“Waise, aaj Karishma school mein nahi aayegi. Urgent kaam hai uska.”
The SUV braked a little too hard at the red light.
Mihir’s knuckles whitened on the wheel.
Amisha bit her lip to hide the laugh.
Ahead, the school gates loomed—
red brick, children’s laughter spilling out like marbles.
Another day of chalk dust and secret crushes.
And in the rearview mirror,
Mihir’s ears stayed pink
all the way to the staff parking.
The SUV rolled to a smooth stop under the neem tree.
Mihir killed the engine but didn’t move.
His eyes were glued to the rows of scooters—
searching,
hunting,
praying for a familiar pink Activa with the “K” sticker on the mudguard.
the morning sun like a forest after rain.
She shut the door with a soft thud, then turned—
and froze.
Karishma strode across the gravel in a crisp cream salwar-kameez, dupatta fluttering like a battle flag.
Hair in a high ponytail, jhumkas dancing, files tucked under one arm.
She didn’t even glance at the SUV.
“Amiii!”
Karishma’s voice rang out, bright as temple bells.
“Tu late hai aaj bhi! Principal ma’am ne poocha tha!”
Amisha’s eyes sparkled.
“Arre, bas five minutes!”
The two linked arms instantly—
Karishma already chattering about the new Class V syllabus,
Amisha laughing, nodding, completely ignoring the frozen statue in the driver’s seat.
They walked toward the red-brick gate,
two silhouettes in perfect sync,
saree and salwar swaying like synchronized metronomes.
Halfway, Amisha glanced back—
just once.
Mihir was still staring at the empty scooter row,
mouth slightly open,
keys dangling uselessly from his finger.
She bit her lip.
Chuckled.
A tiny, wicked sound—
then turned away,
Bun bouncing,
and disappeared into the school with her best friend.
Mihir exhaled.
The pink Activa was definitely,
definitely
not coming today.
– Class V-A, Mathematics
The chalk danced across the blackboard as Amisha’s voice rang clear:
“Arre, dhyan se suno! Agar ek auto ?3 mein 3 km jaati hai, toh 12 km ka kitna hoga? Jaldi socho!”
In the back row, little Munna sat with his head down.
Amisha knelt beside him, saree pooling.
“Kya hua, beta? 3 ka table yaad hai na? Bol, 3 ka 4 kya hota hai?”
Munna mumbled shyly, “Barah…”
“Shabaash.ata to hai confidence ke sath bola karo.!” She ruffled his hair with a grin.
The staffroom buzzed with twenty-three teachers.
Eighteen men in safari suits, pens tucked in pockets, sipping chai.
Only four women—Amisha, Karishma, and two seniors—huddled at the corner table.
One male teacher set down his cup.
“Amisha ji, aaj bhi green saree? Gaon ki auratein toh ab bhi ghoonghat mein hain.”
Amisha twirled her cup, smiled.
“Unko bhi ek din khulna padega, sir. Sabr rakhie.”
Recess.
Amisha slipped out the staffroom’s back door, sandals whispering over dry leaves.
The kindergarten block’s gate was locked—off-limits to senior staff.
Except for her.
Mr. Khanna leaned against the post, keys dangling.
“Aaj bhi andar jaana hai?”
His tone lingered on her waist.
Amisha met his eyes, firm. “Bacche intezaar kar rahe honge, sir. Jaldi kholi e.”
The gate creaked open. She stepped through, not looking back.
Kindergarten courtyard
“AMISHA DIDI!”
Twenty toddlers in red-check uniforms swarmed her.
A girl with missing teeth tugged her pallu.
“Didi, aaj ringa-ringa roses?”
Amisha knelt, saree spreading like a lotus.
“Haan, par pehle haath dhona! Sab line mein!”
She spun the circle—
“Ringa ringa roses, pocket full of posies…”
Laughter soared, mingling with her own.
A boy climbed her hip; she lifted him effortlessly, pleats intact.
Mr. Khanna watched from the doorway, mouth agape.
Final Bell
The corridor erupted into a stampede.
Amisha waved across the chaos.
“Karishma! Kal milte hain—staff meeting mat bhoolna, 4 baje!”
Karishma saluted with her lunchbox. “Pakka!”
Walk Home.
Five kids trailed her like ducklings.
Amisha carried the smallest on her hip, tiffin swinging from her wrist.
The village road shimmered in the afternoon heat.
Men at the paan shop froze mid-chew.
A cyclist braked hard, nearly toppling.
Women on charpoys craned their necks, whispering:
“Arre, yeh green silk kahan se li?”
“Border kitna heavy hai, dikha zara!”
“Shekhawat wali teacher hai na… subah roti banati hai, phir yahan padhati hai…”
Amisha didn’t notice.
She was settling a marble dispute:
“Bhai-behen ladte nahi, baant-te hain. Marble de do, Munna!"
Munna handed it over.
She pinched his cheek. “Good boy!”
Her green saree glowed like a moving emerald in the dust.
The village stared—
men stealing glances,
women murmuring over silk and borders.
Mr. Khanna lingered at the gate,
still watching long after she turned toward the haveli’s golden arches.
The gates creaked open under Amisha’s hand.
The courtyard smelled of sun-baked marigolds and cooling earth.
Dadi dozed on the wide veranda jhoola, steel tumbler of chai balanced on her lap.
Minakshi’s voice floated from the kitchen—steel utensils clinking, a soft hum of an old Rajasthani lullaby.
Amisha kicked off her sandals at the threshold.
“Amma, kya kami baki hai? Batao, main kar deti hoon.”
Minakshi appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her pallu.
“Arre, sab ho gaya, beta. Chalo, veranda mein baithte hain. Tum mungfali le aao—aur gud bhi. Saath mein khaate hain.”
Amisha padded to the rasoi, reached the top cupboard on tiptoe—green saree stretching tight across her back.
She pulled down the steel mungfali dibba, then the smaller gud box, and carried both out like treasures.
The jhoola was massive—teak wood, thick cushions, almost a bed suspended by iron chains.
Dadi shifted to make space; Minakshi patted the center.
Amisha climbed in, legs folded beneath her, and the swing rocked gently.
She cracked a mungfali between her teeth.
“Mmm… perfect namkeen.”
Passed the gud to Dadi, who broke off a jagged piece and popped it in her mouth.
Minakshi leaned back, eyes on the courtyard.
“Soch rahi thi… Suta factory chal rahi hai, school mein ladkiyan padh rahi hain, par auraton ka dar nahi ja raha. Har baar jab meeting bulati hoon, sirf 10-15 aati hain. Baaki? ‘Pati mana kar diya.’ ‘Sasur ne daanta.’ Kya karoon?”
Dadi clicked her tongue.
“Mard hain na. Ego bada hai. ‘Ghar ki izzat’ ke naam pe band rakhte hain.”
Amisha chewed thoughtfully, then spoke around a mouthful of gud.
“Toh hum auraton ko samjhaana chhod dein. Mard ko samjhaayein to?.”
Dadi raised an eyebrow.
“Woh nahi samjhenge, beta. Unka dimaag lohe ka hai.”
Amisha’s eyes lit up—teacher mode.
“Nahi, Dadi-ji. Lohe ko bhi garam karo toh pighal jaata hai. Hum unko lalach deinge.”
Minakshi turned, curious.
“Kaise?”
Amisha sat straighter, the jhoola creaking.
“Hum unko yeh samjhaayein: ‘Agar tumhari biwi ya beti kaam karti hai, toh ghar mein do salary aayengi. Tumhe kam kaam karna padega. Tumhare paas zyada paisa hoga—naya TV, naya phone, naya tractor bhi. Tumhare bacche private school jaayenge. Tumhare ghar ki deewarein pakki ho jaayengi. Aur sabse badi baat—tumhare parivaar ka naam gaon mein upar chadh jaayega.’”
She paused, cracked another mungfali.
“Mard ego se nahi, jeb se sochte hain. Jab jeb bharna dikhega, darwaza khud khul jaayega.”
Dadi’s eyes widened, then narrowed in approval.
“Arre wah… yeh toh naya tareeka hai.”
Minakshi laughed, clapping her hands.
“Beta, tu teacher nahi, strategist hai! Kal hi ek ‘Mard Sabha’ bulati hoon. Tum speech degi.”
Amisha blushed, tucked a loose strand behind her ear.
“Bas itna sa idea… par try toh karna chahiye na?”
The jhoola rocked slower now, three generations sharing mungfali, gud, and a quiet revolution.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, painting the haveli gold.
Inside, a new plan took root—one that didn’t ask permission,
but offered profit.
The jhoola creaked to a stop.
Amisha unfolded her legs, green saree rustling like leaves in a breeze.
“Chaliye, do maharaniyon ko batao—aaj kya khana banega?”
Dadi patted her stomach.
“Aloo paratha. Thodi si mirch kam.”
Minakshi grinned.
“Aur paneer bhurji. Haldi zyada.”
Amisha saluted.
“Hukum, huzoor. Aap log baatein kijiye—main kapde badal ke chai deti hoon, phir dinner shuru.”
She hopped off the swing, bare feet padding across cool marble.
Minakshi’s phone buzzed on the jhoola cushion.
She glanced at the screen—Abhiraj—and her face lit up.
“Amisha, ruko! Abhiraj se baat kar lo—”
Amisha was already halfway down the corridor.
“Haan, aati hoon!”
she called back, voice light, footsteps quicker than her words.
Their room
The door shut with a soft click.
Nine years ago: two narrow beds, one lamp, one ribbon on the floor.
Now: one giant teak four-poster, carved with peacocks, draped in ivory sheets.
Still too big for one person.
She stepped into the attached bathroom, unhooked her saree pin.
Green silk slid down like water, pooling at her feet.
She folded it neatly—habit from childhood—then pulled on a soft pink kurti, white salwar, dupatta tossed over one shoulder.
Mirror check:
Bun undone.
Hair spilled down her back, black silk to her hips.
Loose braid, three quick twists.
Bindi peeled from forehead, stuck on the mirror’s corner like a red full-stop.
Lip-balm—thick, cherry—swiped twice.
She pressed her lips together, glossy and stubborn.
A flash of memory:
“BOJH HO… BEWAQOOF…”
Her jaw tightened.
He called Maa, Papa-ji, even Megha on her birthday. Never me. Nine years. Fine. He scolded first—he can apologize first.
Till then? Radio silence.
She squared her shoulders, marched out.
Kitchen
Kettle whistled.
Amisha poured chai into three steel tumblers, added elaichi, balanced them on a tray.
Veranda:
“Lijiye, maharaniyon ki special.”
Dadi took hers with both hands.
“Abhiraj ka phone tha na?”
Minakshi nodded.
“Haan, bussiness mein busy hai. Bas ‘sab theek’ bola.”
Amisha’s smile didn’t waver.
She turned back to the rasoi—
paneer cubed, aloo boiling, tawa heating.
The scent of ghee and jeera rose like a promise.
In the veranda, the phone lay silent.
In the kitchen, Amisha’s knife chopped onions—
steady, sharp,
and perfectly, beautifully mute.
_____________________________________
Shekhawat Haveli – 8:00 p.m., Dining Hall.
The long teak table glowed under brass lamps.
Steel thalis clinked, aloo paratha steam curled, paneer bhurji shimmered golden.
Amisha and Megha moved like synchronized dancers—
Amisha ladling dal, Megha tearing paratha, both slipping into empty chairs to eat between serves.
Rajveer wiped his moustache with a napkin, voice warm.
“Aaj baat hui thi… woh aa raha hai. Jaldi.”
A collective inhale.
Minakshi’s spoon paused mid-air.
“Abhiraj?”
“Haan Bussiness set hai—Oxford ke baad London mein startup kiya or dusre desh me bhi hai kafi sari company, ab global. Yahan settle hoga—company computer se manage karega. Satish-Mihir bhi toh hain vo madad kar denge,. Main jaldi retire le lunga… phir woh sarpanch banjaega.”
The table erupted.
Dadi’s eyes shone.“Mera pota… nau saal baad.”
Satish punched the air. “Bhai ka swagat grand hoga!”
Megha squealed, “Shopping karna padega!”
Amisha’s heart skipped—one quick, traitorous beat.
She kept ladling, face neutral.
Yes, still mad. But… home.
If he said sorry—one sorry—she’d melt. Maybe.
Topic shifted.
Megha twirled her dupatta end.
“Meri—main apna ladka khud chunoongi. Arrange nahi, love.”
Rajveer chuckled.
“Teri marzi, beta. Tu capable hai.”
Dadi nodded.
“Achha ladka milega.”
Satish leaned back, arms wide.
“Meri toh done! Kisi ko pasand kar liya—bas aap log ko bata dena.”
All eyes swiveled to Mihir.
“Aur tu, beta?” Minakshi teased.
Mihir’s ears went scarlet.
“Mujhe abhi ladkiyon mein interest nahi. Baad mein sochunga.”
Amisha’s lips twitched.
A devil-smirk bloomed—slow, wicked.
She leaned forward, voice syrupy.
“Achha? Kisko pasand kiya, Mihir? Kar—”
Mihir’s hand shot across the table—
palm clamped over Amisha’s mouth, gentle but lightning-fast.
“Bhabhi Maa, baad mein meri shaadi!”
The table roared.
Satish choked on dal.
Dadi wiped tears of laughter.
Minakshi shook her head, smiling.
Amisha’s eyes danced above his hand—
caught.
She nodded, muffled giggle vibrating against his palm.
Everyone understood:
Karishma.
Name unsaid.
For now.
Paratha passed, dal refilled, laughter echoed off the walls.
And under the table, Amisha’s bare foot tapped—
once, twice—
counting down to a certain someone’s return.