[8] AVOIDING
The final bell rang.
Amisha gathered her files, lavender saree swishing, kamarband catching the light.
Karishma waved.
“Jaldi ja—pati-ji intezaar kar rahe honge!”
She smiled—too tight..
Why am I scared?
No reason.
He’s just… him.
Village Road – 12:05 p.m.
She walked fast, then slow, then fast again.
Anklets chimed like warnings.
Villagers murmured:
“Thakurji ka beta toh hero lag raha hai…”
“Bahar padh ke aaya hai—dikhna toh banta hai.”
A woman nudged her friend, eyes on Amisha.
“Woh uski biwi hai… dekho, kitni sundar.”
Her cheeks burned.
Stop staring.
Haveli Gate
The Rolls-Royce gleamed like a black cat under the neem tree.
Aa gaye, pati-ji.
Her feet froze.
Go in, Amisha.
…Why am I scared?
She scolded herself—
Stupid. He shouted once. Nine years ago. You’re twenty now. Teacher. Promoted. Go.
But the giant door loomed.
She slipped around back—kitchen entrance, quiet as a mouse.
Kitchen –
Empty.
Steel bowls stacked, poha cold.
She peeked through the jali window.
There he was—
on the long sofa, legs stretched,
phone in hand,
charcoal joggers, white T-shirt clinging to damp shoulders. of quiet command.
Log sahi bol rahe the—handsome toh kafi hai.
Her stomach flipped.
Ignore him.
He didn’t call. Didn’t say sorry. Ignore.
She turned to the counter—
chopped onions,
stirred dal,
hands busy, heart loud.
1:00 p.m.
Clock mocked her.
She peeked again.
Sofa empty.
Room mein honge.
1:30 p.m.
Megha burst in, arms full of clothes.
“Bhabhi, mere kapde room se le aana—dhone hain.”
Amisha’s knife froze mid-chop.
Room?
In front of him?
She forced a smile.
“Yeh wale de de—jo tere haath mein hain. Main sukha dungi. Tu ja, leke aa.”
Megha blinked—shocked.
“…Theek hai.”
Amisha grabbed the wet clothes, bolted out the back—
to the clothesline under the tamarind tree.
Lavender saree fluttering,
kamarband glinting,
running from a ghost
she hadn’t faced yet.
On other side..
., Their Room Balcony
Abhiraj sat in the carved rosewood chair, spine rigid, knuckles white on the armrests.
Anger simmered, a low boil in his veins.i know she must be angry but still...
Nine years. I come home. And she’s… vanished.
His gaze, restless, snagged on the open balcony doors.
Hot wind carried the scent of tamarind and sun-baked earth.
Beyond the jali lattice—
the back courtyard, clothesline strung between two neem trees.
A flicker of movement.
Lavender.
He stood—slow, like a man pulled by gravity.
Leaned over the balcony rail.
There.
Amisha.
Far below, maybe thirty feet, but close enough to burn.
She balanced a basket of wet clothes on one hip, lavender chiffon saree shimmering like liquid amethyst in the noon sun.
Pallu tucked tight at her kamar, the silver kamarband flashing—
clink—
as she moved.
A sunbeam struck the chain—
flash.
Light speared his eyes, sharp as a promise.
He didn’t blink.
She turned to pin a kurta.
And he knew.
Amisha.
Nine years since he’d seen her in the flesh.
Not a blurry Diwali photo.
Not a memory of a crying child.
Her.
Messy bun—half-undone, black strands curling at her nape, damp with sweat.
Whitish skin glowing like moonstone under the sun.
Big grey eyes—focused, squinting slightly at the clothesline.
Small nose, dusted with a freckle he’d never noticed.
Pouty lips—glossy with cherry balm, catching light like wet petals.
Still chubby—
but not the soft roundness of childhood.
Woman.
Cheeks full, dimples flickering as she hummed.
Hips curved, swaying as she reached up on tiptoes.
Chest rising with each breath, straining gently against the backless blouse.
Waist tiny—cinched by the kamarband, a silver river against lavender silk.
Back bare—
blouse strings crossing delicate skin,
spine a soft shadow,
still short—5'3" against the sky,
anklets chiming chhan-chhan with every step.
She bent for a fallen peg.
The saree slipped an inch—
revealing the soft dip where waist met hip.
Her fingers—small, quick—pinned the cloth.
A drop of water slid from the fabric,
down her wrist,
over the curve of her forearm,
and vanished into the saree’s fold.
His mouth parted.
Breath stalled.
Heaven.
His Amisha—
no, this Amisha—
was a fairy forged from sunlight and silk.
Cute once.
Now—
breathtaking.
Anger?
Vanished.
Replaced by a jolt so fierce it felt like worship.
He gripped the rail, wood creaking under his palms.
Watched her hang a dupatta—
graceful, oblivious.
Humming that old lullaby, voice faint but unmistakable.
Nine years.
And she had bloomed into
his wife.
He couldn’t close his mouth.
Couldn’t move.
Could only stare—
from the balcony to the ground,
at the woman in lavender,
hanging clothes under the sun,
unaware that her husband
had just seen her
for the first time
in nine endless years.
Abhiraj’s hands stayed welded to the rail,
eyes locked on the tiny lavender figure below.
She lifted a heavy bedsheet—
arms stretching,
kamarband flashing like a comet.
A bead of sweat slid from her temple,
down the curve of her neck,
glistening like a pearl on moonlit skin.
She paused.
One small hand rose—
fingers brushing the sweat away,
pushing damp strands from her nape.
The motion bared the soft hollow beneath her ear.
His throat tightened.
She bit her lower lip—
just a little,
from the weight of the wet cloth.
Cherry balm caught the sun,
a wet, pink promise.
Another dupatta.
She rose on tiptoes—
calves flexing,
anklets singing chhan-chhan-chhan.
The saree clung to her thighs,
then released,
lavender silk breathing with her.
He drank her in—
no blink,
no breath,
just her.
A final pin.
She stepped back,
hands on hips,
surveying the line like a general.
Dimples flashed—
satisfied.
Then—
she turned.
Basket on hip,
pallu still tucked,
lavender fluttering like a farewell.
She walked—
slow, unhurried—
past the tamarind,
into the shadow of the kitchen arch.
Gone.
The courtyard emptied.
Only the clothes swayed in the breeze,
dancing without her.
Abhiraj exhaled—
a long, shuddering breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
His chest ached.
He slid down the rail,
back against the balcony wall,
eyes closed.
Thoughts—
That was her.
My wife.
Not the child who ran crying.
Not the girl in the Diwali photo.
This—
—this woman who smells of jasmine and chalk,
who hums lullabies while hanging laundry,
whose waist fits in my hands like it was carved for them.
She bit her lip.
She wiped her neck.
She didn’t see me.
I saw everything.
He pressed a palm to his sternum—
as if to still the storm inside.
I’m sorry, moti.
Come back.
Let me see you again.
Let me say it to your face.
The sun burned higher.
The clothesline swayed.
And Abhiraj stayed on the balcony floor—
lost,
found,
utterly undone.
Abhiraj’s boots barely whispered on the marble as he descended.
I want her close.
Her voice—real, not memory.
He followed the scent of ghee and jasmine to the kitchen doorway.
There she was.
Amisha—
lavender saree, pallu still tucked,
balanced on a wooden stool,
one foot on a smaller crate.
Tiny.
Reaching for the steel mungfali dibba on the top shelf.
Fingers stretched,
kamarband glinting,
anklets chiming with every wobble.
She rose higher—
still short.
He stepped behind her—
silent,
a shadow in charcoal joggers.
Her foot slipped.
The stool teetered.
She gasped—
eyes squeezed shut,
arms flailing.
Aj toh gir ke hi rahungi.
But the floor never came.
Strong arms caught her.
One large hand slid under her knees,
the other splayed across her waist—
his palm covering her entire side,
warm, steady,
kamarband pressing into his skin.
She opened her eyes.
Abhiraj.
Hazel eyes locked on hers.
Breath close enough to taste.
His scent—sandalwood, London rain, him..
Her warmth bled into his chest.
He lowered her—
slow,
like she was made of glass.
Feet on marble.
But his hands lingered a second too long.
Silence stretched—
thick, electric.
She swallowed.
“Hello.”
Her voice—
melody,
sweet,
calm,
a lullaby wrapped in velvet.
Something bloomed in his chest—
wild,
ancient.
He answered, voice deep, gravel and thunder:
“Hello… milne kyun nahi aayi?”
She blinked.
“Kaam tha.”
His brow arched.
“Mujhse zyada jaruri?”
Her lips parted—
no answer.
He leaned closer, voice softer:
“Avoid mat karna ab.”
Then he walked—
calm,
heartbeat roaring in his ears,
back to the room.
Amisha stood frozen,
hand on her waist where his palm had been,
realizing—
Main usse avoid kar rahi thi.
And he had just caught her
in every sense of the word.
Abhiraj shut the door with a soft click,
leaned his back against it,
and let the grin break free.
Her voice.
That single “hello” still rang in his ears:
low, honey-sweet, a little breathless.
He pressed a palm to his sternum,
felt his heart slam against bone.
Her warmth.
Still branded on his skin.
The curve of her waist—
soft, pliant,
fitting perfectly under his hand like it had been waiting nine years for him.
He flexed his fingers;
veins stood out in sharp relief,
as if her touch had lit a fuse straight to his blood.
Her scent.
Jasmine, chalk, sun-warmed cotton,
lingered in his lungs.
He inhaled again—
slow, greedy.
He crossed to the bed,
sat on the edge,
ran a hand over the ivory sheet where she slept every night.
Tonight.
My wife.
Right here.
Beside me.
The thought detonated heat behind his ribs.
He pictured it:
lavender saree folded on the chair,
her small frame curled under the blanket,
anklets quiet,
breath soft against his shoulder.
He exhaled—
a shaky, reverent laugh.
Finally.
Kitchen
Amisha stared at the mungfali dibba,
still on the top shelf,
mocking her.
Defeated.
She couldn’t hide in the courtyard forever.
Couldn’t sprint to the clothesline every time he appeared.
The room—
their room—
waited upstairs.
Her lip-balm, her bindis, her side of the bed.
She touched her waist where his hand had been.
Warm.
Too warm.
Avoid nahi kar sakti ab.
She squared her shoulders,
picked up the stool,
and climbed—
slowly,
heart racing,
knowing the next time she walked through that door,
he would be there.
And this time,
she wouldn’t run.
The kitchen glowed with diyas and the orange flicker of the gas flame.
Steel thalis clinked, sabzi bubbled, the scent of ghee and jeera thick as incense.
Amisha stood at the black stone counter,
lavender saree swapped for a soft peach cotton one,
pallu pinned tight,
kamarband still glinting low on her hips.
She flipped a roti—
thap—
then brushed ghee across its golden surface with slow, deliberate strokes.
The brush trembled, just slightly.
Her mind spun faster than the roti.
Dinner.
He’ll be there.
Across the table… or next to me?
She bit her lip—
cherry balm smudging under teeth.
Will he touch me tonight?
His hand on my waist again—warm, huge, claiming.
My husband.
He has every right.
The ghee pooled, shining.
She stared at it like a crystal ball.
If he wants to touch me… I’ll let him.
But first—
—sorry.
One word.
That’s all I need.
Another roti.
Thap.
Ghee.
Brush.
Her cheeks warmed—
not from the flame.
She pictured his hazel eyes,
the way they’d darkened in the kitchen,
how his palm had spanned her entire waist like it was made for him.
He’s my husband.
Twelve years.
But nine without a single call.
She pressed the brush harder—
ghee overflowed, dripping onto the counter.
Sorry first.
Then… maybe.
A strand escaped her loose bun,
brushed her cheek.
She didn’t tuck it back.
Outside, the family’s voices rose—
Satish laughing, Megha teasing, Dadi calling for extra mirch.
Amisha exhaled,
stacked the rotis,
wiped her hands on her pallu.
Sorry first.
Then we’ll see.
She lifted the steel plate—
steady now—
and walked toward the dining hall,
heart loud in her ears,
peach saree whispering with every step.