[31]FIGHT
Amisha was twirling in front of the mirror, school bag on one shoulder, smiling at her reflection.
Abhiraj sat on the bed, watching her fondly, then cleared his throat.
“Amisha… bag utaar do.
Maine principal se baat kar li. Aaj se school nahi jaana, poore time ke liye. Jab tak baccha nahi aa jaata aur tum theek nahi ho jaati.”
She stopped twirling.
Her smile vanished.
“Kya… matlab poora time?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, voice soft, almost pleading.
“Gudiya, bas nau-dash mahine ki baat hai na… thodi si thakan bhi nahi leni. Please samajh lo.”
Amisha’s eyes grew wide, then hurt.
“Par… main theek hoon na! Dekho—”
She did her little spin again.
“Dekha? Bilkul fit hoon!”
He stood up, walked to her, hands raised like he was calming a kitten.
“Haan baby, fit ho. Par doctor ne kaha careful rehna. Ek saal mein wapas chali jaana, promise.”
She hugged the bag to her chest like a shield.
“Lekin meri class… meri bachchi log… woh log mujhe miss karenge…”
Her voice wobbled.
Abhiraj reached out, gently trying to take the bag.
“Ek saal baad mil lena na sabse… abhi toh bas thoda sa araam.”
Amisha pulled the bag back, cheeks puffing.
“Nahi! Main jaungi! Sirf aadha din hi toh hai aaj!”
He sighed, voice still soft but firmer.
“Amisha, please… meri baat maan lo na. Main darr jaata hoon.”
She looked at him for a long second, eyes shiny, lower lip trembling.
Then her face scrunched up in the cutest, angriest pout.
“Bahut bure ho tum!”
She stomped one foot.
“Bahut bahut bure!”
She yanked the bag off, marched to the almirah, opened it with a jerk, threw the bag inside,
and slammed the door so hard the mirror shook.
THADAK!!!
She spun around, cheeks red, eyes blazing.
“Khush? Ab main jail mein hoon na?!”
Abhiraj opened his mouth to speak.
She didn’t let him.
“Hmph!”
One final angry stomp, pallu flying, she marched out,
and slammed the bedroom door behind her with another dramatic THADAK!!
From the corridor came Megha’s giggling voice:
“Bhabhi ne darwaza nahi, poora haveli hila diya!”
Abhiraj stood there, half-amused, half-worried, rubbing his forehead.
His tiny, innocent wife had just thrown the cutest, loudest tantrum in history…
and he was already completely, hopelessly wrapped around her angry little finger.
The house was already buzzing:
women carrying trays of flowers, men shouting instructions to the decorators, dholaks being tuned for the evening.
Amisha came down the stairs, cheeks still puffed, pallu half-slipping, eyes narrowed like a tiny storm cloud.
Megha spotted her instantly and bounced over, decked in a bright pink lehenga, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Bhabhi! Jaldi ready ho jao na! Mihir bhaiya ki sagaai hai aaj, poora ghar dekh raha hoga hum sabko!”
Amisha crossed her arms, voice flat and sulky.
“Nahi hona taiyaar. Sara mood bigad diya hai kisne…”
She glared upstairs in the general direction of their room.
Megha’s grin turned devilish.
She sidled up close, cupped her hand around Amisha’s ear, and whispered:
“Bhabhi, galti mat karna apna mood bigadne ki…
doosron ka bigado!
Kal jo laal Banarasi wali saree aayi thi na, woh pehenna.
Backless blouse, woh heavy jadau set, sab kuchh.
Bas ek kaam karna…
kisi ko, KISIKO, touch nahi karne dena.
Na haath pakadne dena, na kandhe pe haath rakhne dena.
Punishment samjho unke liye!”
Amisha blinked once.
Then twice.
Her angry pout slowly melted… and a tiny, evil spark lit up in her eyes.
She straightened her shoulders, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“Megha… tu genius hai.”
Megha winked.
“Bua banne wali hoon main, thodi akal toh banta hai!”
Amisha’s smile turned into a full, determined grin.
“Done. Aaj raat tak woh mujhse sorry maangte-maangte thak jayega.”
She spun on her heel, already marching back upstairs with new purpose, pallu flying like a war flag.
Megha watched her go, giggling behind her hand.
“Ab aayega maza…
Bhaiya jail mein nahi, bhabhi ne unhe jail bana diya!”
Silent war: declared.
Weapon: one red Banarasi saree and zero touches allowed.
Target: Abhiraj Singh Shekhawat.
Mission: make him beg.
Abhiraj was sitting on the chair, scrolling through his phone, when the door opened again.
Amisha walked in, cheeks no longer puffed, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips.
He looked up, relieved.
“Mood theek ho gaya?”
She didn’t answer, just hummed softly and went straight to the almirah, pulling out the new red-gold Kanjeevaram saree, the one that had arrived only yesterday.
Abhiraj took it as a good sign.
“Main nahane ja raha hoon,” he said, standing. “Jaldi taiyaar ho jaana.”
He disappeared into the bathroom.
Amisha waited until the door clicked and the shower started running.
Then the smile turned sharp.
She slipped off her cotton saree, standing in front of the full-length mirror in just her petticoat and blouse.
The blouse (deep magenta, sleeveless, backless) was suddenly a little tighter across her chest.
Her breasts had already started growing; the fabric hugged them perfectly, pushing them up just enough to make the neckline look sinful.
Not uncomfortable… just noticeable.
She smirked at her reflection.
Perfect.
With practiced grace she pleated the heavy silk, tucked it low on her waist, let the pallu fall over one shoulder in a waterfall of red and gold.
Every pleat sat exactly where it should, the border framing her tiny waist and the curve of her hips like it was made for revenge.
She twisted her long hair into a low, elegant bun, then reached for the thick gajra Abhiraj had quietly left on the dressing table that morning (white mogra, still fresh).
She was still mad at him, but the flowers were beautiful.
Why waste them?
She pinned the gajra in place, the sweet scent filling the room.
The bathroom door opened.
Abhiraj stepped out, towel around his waist, water still dripping from his hair.
He stopped dead.
Amisha didn’t even glance at him.
She knew he was there; she heard the door, saw him in the mirror’s reflection, but she kept her eyes on herself.
Kajal.
Light blush.
And finally, the soft pink lip balm she dragged slowly across her lips, pressing them together with deliberate care.
She picked up the heavy jadau necklace, clasped it around her neck, then the matching jhumkas, the maang tikka, every movement calm and queen-like.
Not once did she look at him.
Abhiraj had changed into a cream silk kurta with a deep red velvet Nehru jacket (he looked like royalty).
But right now he couldn’t move.
She was fire in silk.
Finally, she turned, still not meeting his eyes, and walked past him, the scent of mogra and silk trailing behind her.
The door opened.
Closed.
With the softest, most lethal click.
Abhiraj stood rooted, mouth dry, hands clenched at his sides.
He looked at the mirror where she had just stood.
And realised, with dawning horror and hunger,
Tonight was going to be the longest night of his life.
And his wife had just declared war without saying a single word.
(The engagement ceremony)
The shamiana glowed golden under fairy lights.
Dholki beats mixed with laughter, clinking of bangles, the sweet smell of gajra and gulab jal in the air.
Mihir and Karishma sat on the decorated swing, both blushing, both stealing shy glances while Panditji chanted mantras and relatives showered flowers.
Everyone was smiling, clapping, chirping.
Everyone except one man.
Abhiraj stood with the group of men (cousins, uncles, friends), a glass of thandai untouched in his hand, jaw relaxed for the world, but eyes burning holes into one person.
Amisha.
She was on the opposite side of the courtyard, surrounded by the women, glowing like a living flame in that red-gold Kanjeevaram.
Every time she laughed at something Megha whispered, her bare back caught the light (smooth, golden, the thin strings of the blouse the only thing between him and madness).
He couldn’t look away.
She was talking animatedly, gesturing with her hands, passing sweets, touching Dadi’s feet, hugging Karishma, smiling so wide her dimples showed.
Not once did she look at him.
Not. Once.
His fingers tightened around the glass.
A cousin nudged him, laughing.
“Bhaiya, Mihir ko badhaai do na!”
He nodded absently, clapped when everyone clapped, but his gaze never left her.
Some young relative (a distant cousin from Jaipur) let his eyes linger a second too long on the curve of her waist.
Abhiraj’s stare shifted instantly, cold and lethal.
The boy felt it, swallowed, and suddenly found the floor very interesting.
Abhiraj wasn’t the kind of man who told his wife to cover up.
He was the kind who made sure no one else ever dared look long enough to need telling.
His wife was sin wrapped in silk tonight,
and that sin belonged to him alone.
He took one step forward, planning to cross the courtyard, slide his hand around that naked waist, pull her into him, claim her in front of everyone so there was no confusion.
She sensed it (of course she did).
The second he moved, Amisha turned slightly, presenting him with her bare back and the long line of her spine, then laughed louder at something Karishma said and drifted further into the women’s circle.
Zero access.
Zero acknowledgement.
Zero mercy.
Mihir and Karishma exchanged rings.
The entire courtyard erupted in cheers and whistles.
Abhiraj clapped mechanically, smile fixed, but inside he was on fire.
Because his pregnant wife (his glowing, laughing, untouchable wife) was punishing him in the most exquisite way possible:
By existing five feet away, looking like every forbidden dream he’d ever had,
and refusing to give him even a glance.
He exhaled slowly, knuckles white around the glass.
The night was young.
And the war was far from over.