[32] UNCOMFORTABLE
The engagement was still in full swing, but the women had started sending sweet-dabbas to be placed on the gift tables.
Minakshi Ma spotted Amisha balancing three silver boxes in her arms and called out,
“Amisha beta, dibbe rakh do bahar! Heavy hain, koi madad—”
Before she could finish, Abhiraj was already moving.
Minakshi Ma turned to him, smiling softly.
“Jao, Abhiraj. Amisha ki madad kar do.”
He answered with a simple, flat “Haan Ma,” face blank, eyes unreadable.
But inside his chest, something leapt.
Finally.
A reason to be close.
He followed her into the dimly-lit corridor that led to the store-room, steps silent.
Amisha knew he was behind her; she always felt him.
But she didn’t turn, didn’t slow down, didn’t speak.
She walked ahead, hips swaying gently under the weight of the silk, the naked curve of her back glowing under the yellow bulb light.
The gajra in her bun bobbed with every step, releasing waves of mogra that wrapped around him like a rope.
He caught up in three long strides, now only inches behind her.
Without a word he reached out and slid two of the heavy boxes from her arms.
His fingers brushed hers (barely), but she pulled her hand away as if burned.
Now she carried only one small box… and was quietly popping pieces of kaju katli into her mouth with the other hand, completely ignoring the man walking a breath behind her.
Abhiraj’s eyes traced every movement:
the soft roll of her waist when she walked,
the way the saree hugged her hips,
the delicate line of her spine disappearing into that tiny blouse string he wanted to bite off.
He swallowed hard.
Her fragrance (mogra, silk, and warm skin) filled his lungs.
He had missed it all day.
He had missed her voice saying his name all day.
He wanted to slide his palm across that bare back, pull her into him, bury his face in her neck and beg,
“Ek baar mujhe dekho… bas ek baar mera naam lo, moti.”
But there was no permission.
She kept walking, slow and deliberate, licking sugar off her thumb, knowing exactly what she was doing to him.
He stayed behind her like a shadow, carrying the boxes, heart thundering, every nerve on fire.
In his head a single thought looped, over and over:
I can’t stay more than one metre away from her.
Not even for a day.
Not even for an hour.
He had decided she would not go to school (too much standing, running after children, heat, dust).
That decision was not changing.
But tonight he already knew:
before the night ended, he would beg.
He would fall on his knees if he had to,
just to hear her call him “Abhiraj” again,
just to be allowed to touch that strip of bare skin that had been torturing him for hours.
And when she finally forgave him,
he would still not let her step out to work.
Some battles he would lose happily.
Some he would never.
Both truths lived in his chest as he followed his silent, sugar-dusted, red-saree-clad wife through the corridor,
one step behind,
completely, utterly, willingly defeated.
They stepped out of the dark store-room together, Abhiraj still carrying the empty boxes, Amisha walking just half a step ahead, the last piece of kaju katli between her fingers.
Suddenly her foot faltered.
The world tilted.
A soft, dizzy wave washed over her; the sweet still in her mouth, her hand reached back instinctively.
Before she could even sway, Abhiraj dropped the boxes with a clatter and caught her.
One strong arm slid around her bare waist, the other across her chest, pulling her flush against him, steadying her instantly.
“Amisha!”
His voice was sharp with worry.
“Kya kar rahi ho? Kitni baar bola tha dheere chalna, heavy cheezein mat uthana—”
He stopped.
Because her eyes were already glassy, nose turning pink, lower lip trembling, tears balancing on the lashes.
One tiny, hurt blink and they would fall.
Abhiraj’s scolding died in his throat.
“Arre… arre meri maa…”
The boxes forgotten on the floor, he turned her fully into him, arms
wrapping around her small frame like a shield.
His palm settled on the warm, bare skin of her back, thumb stroking softly
.
“Sorry… sorry moti… galti ho gayi… daant nahi raha tha… bas darr laga.”
She made a tiny, broken sound and buried her face in his chest, both hands coming up to clutch his red velvet jacket.
Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, ears bright red, fingers digging into the fabric like she was afraid he’d vanish.
Abhiraj pressed his lips to her temple, rocking her gently.
“Maaf kar de… please… jo bola, jo kiya, sab maaf kar de… bas rona band kar.”
She cried harder (soft, hicupy tears that soaked his kurta), then suddenly lifted one small hand and smacked the side of his head, not hard, just a frustrated little pat.
He laughed under his breath, eyes soft.
Another pat, this time on his cheek, then she covered his eyes with her palm, ears scarlet, nose still red, but the tears slowing.
Abhiraj smiled against her hair, arms tightening.
His hand kept moving in slow circles on her bare back, warm and soothing, fingers tracing the edge of the blouse string he had been dying to touch all evening.
She was glued to him now, face hidden in his chest, breathing in his scent, fists still twisted in his jacket.
He rested his chin on her head, voice low and fond.
“ kitni pyaari roti ho tum.”
And in his mind, clear as day:
How the fuck is my wife this cute when she’s angry, crying, and winning all at once?
He didn’t care who saw.
Didn’t care that the corridor was half-open to the courtyard.
He just held her closer, palm spread wide on that sinful bare back, letting her cry it out, letting her win, letting her own him completely.
Because some wars are worth surrendering to,
especially when the prize is her tiny, sugar-dusted, teary self stuck to his chest like she never wants to leave again.
Amisha’s tears had dried.
Her breathing was back to soft little puffs against his neck.
She was calm now, still glued to him, tiny hands clutching his jacket.
Abhiraj’s heart finally settled.
He looked down at her flushed face, red nose, damp lashes, and felt happiness flood his chest like warm honey.
His innocent, cute, pregnant wife was back in his arms, exactly where she belonged.
Without warning, he bent and scooped her up, bridal style (one arm under her knees, the other across her bare back, cradling her like a baby).
Amisha squeaked, arms flying around his neck.
“Ab naraz mat hona mujhse,” he murmured, voice low and rough with relief. “Kafi tough hai tumhari naraazgi mere liye.”
She turned her face away, still sulky.
“Kisne kaha main ab naraaz nahi hoon? Abhi bhi hoon.”
He grinned, picked the last piece of kaju katli from the box on the floor with two fingers, and pushed it gently between her lips.
Before she could chew, he crushed his mouth to hers.
Deep.
Possessive.
The sweet melted between their tongues, sugar and heat and everything he had been starving for all day.
Amisha’s hands slid up, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, legs tightening around his waist as he pressed her gently against the cool pillar.
He kissed her until her breath was gone, until she was dizzy again (this time not from pregnancy), until tiny whimpers escaped her throat.
When he finally pulled back, their foreheads stayed touching, hot breaths mingling, eyes locked.
His voice dropped to a dark whisper.
“Maafi maangunga main, ghutno pe baith ke, bina jhijhak.
Lekin agar nahi maanogi…
mere paas aur tareeke bhi hain.
which make you lifeless on bed.”
Amisha narrowed her eyes, cheeks burning.
“Dhamki denge?”
He smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Haan dhamki, request, jo bhi samjhe…
bas samajh lo, aakhir mein tum mere paas hi aaogi”
His fingers moved to the thin strap of her blouse, sliding it slowly off her shoulder, the knot loosening with one lazy tug.
Amisha gasped, both hands flying up to catch the front before it fell.
“Kya kar rahe ho?! Koi dekh lega!”
He didn’t even flinch.
“Kisi mein itni himmat nahi.”
His knuckles brushed the swell of her breast as he loosened the string further.
“Yeh blouse… tight ho raha hai na?”
She blinked, confused.
“What—”
He looked down openly, shamelessly, eyes dark with hunger.
“Maine notice kiya tha…
bahut tight lag raha hai ab.
Saans lene mein takleef ho rahi hogi.”
His gaze lingered on the way the fabric strained, on the soft, fuller curves that hadn’t been this pronounced a week ago.
“Comfortable nahi hai na ye…?”