[7] RETURN TO HOME
The Rolls-Royce Phantom purred to a stop in the driveway, tyres crunching gravel like a low growl.
Megha peeked through the jali window, eyes widening.
“Bhai aa gaye!”
The family spilled out the door—
Minakshi twisting her pallu, Dadi leaning on her stick, Rajveer straightening his kurta, Satish and Mihir jostling like kids.
Excitement hummed thicker than the morning mist.
Nine years.
A lifetime in whispers and phone calls.
Thump. Thump.
Boots on marble—slow, deliberate.
Abhiraj Singh Shekhawat appeared at the archway.
Crisp charcoal suit, tailored sharp as a blade.
Rolex glinting on his wrist, hair combed back like polished obsidian.
Jaw carved from granite, clean-shaven, boots shined to mirror the sun.
6'4"—taller than Rajveer’s 6'3", broad shoulders filling the frame like he owned the horizon.
Totally transformed: no boyish fire, just controlled steel.
Hazel eyes sharp as hawks, that mole near his left eye a lone familiar mark.
Minakshi surged first—arms wide, tears instant.
“Beta…”
He enveloped her in a hug, broad back curving slightly, a small smile cracking his face.
“Ma.”
Dadi next—her frail hands on his cheeks.
“Mera raja beta.”
He bent low, touched her feet.
Rajveer clasped his shoulder—man to man.
“Swagat hai.”
Satish punched his arm.
“Bhai, kya look hai!”
Mihir grinned.
“Business tycoon vibes!”
Last: Megha.
She beamed, stepping close.
“Bhai!”
Hug quick, then she sidled beside Mihir, whispering loud enough:
“Bichari Bhabhi chhoti hi reh gayi—Bhai toh Kutub Minar ho gaye!”
Abhiraj’s ear caught it.
A faint smirk tugged his lips—gone in a blink.
His eyes roamed the courtyard, the arches, the veranda.
Where is she?
The group migrated inside, toward the dining hall—breakfast laid out like a feast.
Megha fell back, voice casual.
“Bhabhi school gayi hain—12 baje tak aa jayegi.”
She patted his arm and peeled off toward the kitchen.
Abhiraj nodded once, face unreadable.
The haveli swallowed him back,
but his eyes lingered on the empty gate—
waiting.
Shekhawat Haveli, Dining Hall
The table groaned under steel bowls: poha, paratha, kheer thick with almonds.
Abhiraj sat at the head—new king, old throne.
His suit jacket hung on the chair back; sleeves rolled once, Rolex catching the light.
Mihir scooped kheer, eyes gleaming.
“Bhabhi Maa ne mast kheer banayi hai!”
Minakshi waved a dismissive hand.
“Haan, par jaldi-jaldi mein—late ho gayi thi aaj.”
Rajveer tore a paratha.
“Aaj kyun gayi Amisha?”
Minakshi laughed, ladling dal.
“Arre, kal promotion hua na—ab Class 9-10 padhayegi. Woh Mr. Rao hai na, taunt na maare isliye half-day attend karke aa rahi hai. ‘Teacherji ghar baith gayi’ bolega warna!”
Satish snorted.
“Rao sir ka muh band ho jayega jab Bhabhi Maa unke saamne formulae likhengi.”
Minakshi’s eyes twinkled.
“Aaj toh bichari bistar se seedha zameen pe—jaldi mein!”
Laughter rippled.
Dadi wiped a tear.
Mihir mimicked the fall—thud—arms flailing.
Abhiraj ate in silence, fork precise.
A faint smirk ghosted his lips—
Bed se gir gayi.
The image flashed.
He hid it behind a sip of lassi.
Bowls emptied.
He pushed back his chair.
“Main room mein jaake thoda aaram karta hoon.”
Nods all around.
Minakshi: “Jaa, beta. Thakan hogi.”
He stood—6'4" of quiet thunder—and strode out.
The smirk lingered,
just for a second,
at the thought of her tumbling out of bed.
Abhiraj pushed the carved teak door.
It sighed open on old hinges.
First came the scent:
jasmine, ghee, faint chalk-dust, and something soft—her.
Nine years away, andit hit like stepping into a memory made of air.
Heaven after exile.
He stepped inside.
The room had changed.
Gone: two narrow beds, one lamp, one ribbon.
Now: one massive four-poster, ivory sheets crisp, pillows plump like clouds.
Built for two.
Used by one.
His gaze traveled.
Almirah doors ajar—
sarees in neat stacks: green, blue, lavender, pink.
Salwar-kameez folded like petals.
A single dupatta trailed out, brushing the floor like a shy hand.
Corner mirror:
red bindis stuck in a crooked line—
some fresh, some faded.
A silver kamarband glinted on the dresser.
Beside it:
six lip-balms in a row—
cherry, rose, vanilla, mint—
caps half-twisted, like she couldn’t choose.
The room breathed her.
Every corner, every fold, every scent.
He stood in the center.
Memory slammed:
11 years old. White kurta. Black skirt. Braid swinging. Tears. His own voice—cruel, monstrous: “BOJH HO… KUCH BHI NAHI!”
The way she’d crumpled.
Run.
He swallowed.
One more image:
6 years ago. Diwali photo.
Ma had sent it—group shot under fairy lights.
He’d zoomed in on the girl in pink lehenga, 14, smiling at the camera.
Same grey eyes.
Same chubby cheeks.
He’d stared too long, then locked the phone.
Never asked for another.
A voice floated up in his mind—
Minakshi, warm, coaxing:
“Amisha! Abhiraj ka phone aaya hai—baat kar ke jao!”
Her reply drifted back—
Her voice sweet, melodic, distant:
“Aati hoon, Ma…”
But she never came.
His fingers curled at his side.
Of course she didn’t.
He hadn’t called.
Not once.
Not after that day.
Courage had boarded the plane with him—
and never returned.
He stood in the middle of her room,
surrounded by her scent, her bindis, her lip-balms,
and felt, for the first time in nine years,
smaller than the boy who left.
Abhiraj stood at the foot of the giant bed, towel-in his hands, hazel eyes fixed on the empty doorway.
A quiet vow formed in his chest:
I’m here now.
You’ve been mine since the day they tied that knot—twelve years ago.
I’ll say sorry. For that day. For every day after.
Then I’ll live with you—properly. As your husband.
He crossed to the almirah, slid the doors wide.
Left side: her world—sarees, bindis, lip-balms.
Right side: his—arranged by the maids yesterday.
Crisp shirts, linen kurtas, two suits still in plastic.
He pulled out loose charcoal joggers, a white T-shirt.
Laid them on the bed like a promise.
Bathroom:
Hot water, steam, Rolex on the marble counter ticking loud.
He showered fast, eyes flicking to the watch every minute.
11:27… 11:34…
Come home, moti.
Out in a towel—
muscles carved from London gyms, water trailing down his spine.
He dropped the towel, stepped into joggers—low, loose.
T-shirt clung to damp shoulders.
Hair wet, pushed back with one hand.
He grabbed the phone, descended the stairs two at a time.
Living Room – 11:45 a.m.
He claimed the long sofa facing the main door—
phone in hand, scrolling emails he didn’t read.
Eyes on the gate.
Heart louder than the grandfather clock.
Memory flashed:
Megha’s teasing whisper—
“Bichari Bhabhi chhoti hi reh gayi—Bhai toh Kutub Minar ban gaye!”
He almost smiled.
Is she still the same?
Small. Chubby. Cheeks pink from crying. Nose a red dot. Grey eyes wide with tears—or laughter?
The clock struck 11:55.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Phone screen dimmed.
He didn’t notice.
Gate creaked.
Dust rose.
A flash of lavender.
12:00.
She was here.
The gate creaked.
Abhiraj’s spine straightened.
A flash of color—
lavender?
He leaned forward, phone forgotten.
An older maid shuffled in, carrying a steel tiffin, muttering about forgotten lunch.
Not her.
His jaw tightened.
Kitchen voices drifted—
Minakshi laughing, Megha teasing Satish about something.
No soft, familiar chime of anklets.
No her.
He sank back, eyes on the gate.
Must be delayed. Recess. Staff meeting.
12:15.
12:30.
The grandfather clock mocked him—
tick… tick…
1:00.
1:15.
His fingers drummed the sofa arm—
slow, then fast.
Patience fraying like old rope.
Where is she?
1:30.
He stood abruptly.
Phone shoved in pocket.
Stormed up the stairs—
boots silent, but shoulders rigid.
Their Room – 1:32 p.m.
Door slammed.
He paced—
three steps, turn, three steps.
The giant bed mocked him.
Her sarees mocked him.
The red bindis on the mirror—
tiny, perfect, absent.
He dropped into the armchair by the window,
elbows on knees,
fingers laced tight.
Anger simmered—
Why isn’t she here?
Half-day, she said.
Is she avoiding me?
Irritation burned hotter than the afternoon sun outside.
He glared at the gate through the jali—
empty.
The scent of jasmine still lingered.
But the room felt colder.
And he waited—
fuming,
silent,
alone.