[34]BORING
The afternoon sun filtered softly through the lattice windows, painting golden stripes across the room.
Abhiraj sat at the wide desk, navy-blue shirt stretched across his shoulders, sleeves rolled high, black trousers, completely focused on the laptop and a stack of files.
And on his lap sat Amisha, like she had every right in the world (which she did).
She was wearing the simplest dove-grey cotton saree, no jewellery except her mangalsutra and a tiny black bindi.
Yet she looked unreal.
Pregnancy had turned her into something luminous:
skin glowing like someone had lit a diya inside her,
cheeks round and permanently rosy,
lips fuller, naturally pink,
eyes brighter, framed by lashes that seemed thicker every day,
her long hair (darker, shinier, almost blue-black) left loose, falling in soft waves over one shoulder,
and her body…
softer, rounder, the gentle curve of her two-and-a-half-month bump just visible under the saree, her waist still tiny but hips fuller, breasts heavier, everything about her screaming quiet, breathtaking fertility.
She was bored, restless, and had decided the only cure was to glue herself to her husband.
So there she sat, legs dangling on either side of his thighs, pallu slipping again and again, one hand playing with his big, rough fingers while the other traced idle circles on his shirt.
“Kitne boring ho aap,” she complained for the tenth time, voice soft and whiny, resting her chin on his shoulder.
Abhiraj kept typing, but his lips twitched.
“Kya karun main jo tum bore na ho jao?”
“Kuchh bhi karo!” She kicked her feet lightly like a child.
He didn’t look up. “Maine kaha tha Ludo, carrom, saanp-seedi khel lete… tumne mana kiya.”
“Par main hamesha haar jaati hoon, maza nahi aata,” she pouted, now twisting his wedding ring round and round.
A tiny smile broke on his face. “Theek hai, ab se tum jeetogi.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Kya matlab… jaan-boojh ke haar jaoge?”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Toh kahin bahar ghumne chalen?”
Instant head-shake. “Motion sickness ho jaati hai… nahi jaana.”
Abhiraj finally glanced down at her (at the rosy cheeks, the shining eyes, the soft glow that made her look like a painting come to life).
He closed the laptop halfway. “Toh tum hi batao, meri pregnant rani… kya karogi?”
Amisha let out the longest, most dramatic sigh, kicked her legs again, and dropped her forehead against his chest with a little thud.
“Pata nahi… par bohottttt boring lag raha hai!”
And there she stayed, clinging, glowing, impossibly beautiful, and utterly, perfectly bored on her husband’s lap,
while the afternoon stretched lazily ahead of them.
Amisha suddenly sat up straight on his lap, eyes sparkling like a child who just remembered Christmas.
“Aaj gaon mein mela lagne wala hai! Chale na, please please please!”
Abhiraj looked at her, calm as ever.
“Amisha, aaj doctor ke paas jaana hai. Tumhari check-up hai. Aur mujhe kaam bhi hai.”
She waved her hand like swatting a fly.
“Hospital se aate-aate ghoomte aa jayenge mele mein!
Aur kaam? Kisi aur ko de do na!”
He raised a brow.
“Main sarpanch hoon, baby. Kisi aur ko kaise doon?”
She shrugged dramatically.
“Toh bana do kisi aur ko sarpanch!”
Abhiraj actually laughed.
“Logon ne mujhe vote diya hai, pasand kiya hai.”
Amisha crossed her arms, pouting.
“Mujhe nahi jaanna. Mujhe mela jaana hai.”
He leaned back, folded his arms, and gave her that slow, teasing smile.
“Theek hai… jaayenge.
Par mujhe kya milega?”
She blinked innocently.
“Main gareeb insaan hoon, mere paas kuchh nahi hai.”
Abhiraj’s eyes glinted.
“Accha? Bahut kuchh hai tumhare paas.”
He started counting on his fingers, dead serious:
Foreign companies mein shares,
teen gaon ki jameen,
haveli ke andar ek poora room sona-chandi se bhara,
bank lockers full of jewellery…
Amisha interrupted, cheeks pink.
“Nahi nahi! Yeh sab aapki mehnat se aaya hai, mera kya hai isme?”
He tilted his head.
“Agar mehnat ki hi baat hai…
tum bhi to sarkari teacher ho? Salary to achhi-khaasi milti hogi.”
She brightened.
“Haan! Milti to hai!”
She thought for a second, then grinned.
“Toh kya karun… meri salary de doon aapko?
Waise mujhe pata bhi nahi kis account mein girti hai salary.”
Abhiraj instantly shook his head, laughing.
“Nahi nahi, salary nahi chahiye.”
He tapped his own cheek twice with one finger, eyes soft and playful.
“Yeh chahiye.”
Amisha’s face lit up.
“Bas itna??”
And then she attacked.
A shower of loud, smacking kisses:
cheeks,
forehead,
nose,
chin,
jaw,
neck,
everywhere her lips could reach.
Abhiraj closed his eyes, laughing helplessly as she peppered his whole face.
Finally she pulled back, cupped his face in her soft hands, and declared,
“Chalo ab! Mela confirmed!
Aaj bill mera, date mera, aur jhoole bhi main dilwaungi!”
He wiped his cheek, still smiling.
“Bas itni si payment mein poora mela?”
She kissed the tip of his nose one last time.
“Haan ji. Aapki pregnant biwi aaj aapko ghumane le ja rahi hai.”
Abhiraj surrendered completely.
“Theek hai, meri ameer gareeb biwi.
Chalo, mela chalte hain.”
And just like that, the bored pregnant queen won again.
The private clinic was quiet, only the hum of the air-conditioner and the faint ticking of a wall clock.
Amisha practically bounced onto the examination bed, grey saree pallu already slipping, eyes shining with excitement.
“Jaldi check-up ho jaye na, doctor saab! Mela miss nahi karna!”
The young male doctor (barely 30, nervous smile) adjusted his glasses and tried to look professional.
Abhiraj stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, navy-blue shirt sleeves still rolled up, face completely blank.
Dead silence.
The doctor cleared his throat.
“Ma’am, please lie down… pallu thoda side kar dijiye.”
Before he could move, Abhiraj spoke, voice calm but cold enough to freeze the room.
“Aaj female staff kahan hai?”
The doctor jumped a little.
“Sir… woh… aaj chhutti pe hai, sir.”
Abhiraj gave one slow, expressionless nod.
Amisha bit her lip to stop giggling.
The doctor swallowed, turned back to Amisha.
“Ma’am, pallu please…”
Amisha glanced at Abhiraj (who was staring at the doctor like he was one wrong move away from unemployment), then obediently slid her pallu aside just enough to expose the gentle swell of her stomach.
Abhiraj’s eyes never left the doctor’s face.
Not once.
The poor man’s hands shook slightly as he squeezed cold gel onto Amisha’s skin.
He placed the Doppler probe carefully (very, very carefully), keeping maximum possible distance.
A strong, rapid heartbeat filled the room.
Thump-thump-thump-thump…
Amisha’s eyes went wide and teary instantly.
Abhiraj’s blank mask cracked; his shoulders softened
.
The doctor exhaled in relief.
“Baby absolutely healthy hai.
Heartbeat 158 beats per minute, perfect.
Growth bhi ek hafta aage chal raha hai… bahut achha sign hai.”
He quickly switched to the ultrasound machine, moved the probe gently.
On the screen: a tiny bean-shaped baby, arms and legs already moving.
“See? Yeh haath hila raha hai… bilkul active.”
Amisha let out a delighted squeal.
Abhiraj finally looked at the screen instead of the doctor, and the corner of his mouth lifted (just a little).
Doctor hurriedly wiped the gel, speaking fast.
“Ma’am, calcium, iron, protein continue kariye.
Thoda walking, thoda rest. Paani zyada.
Aur stress bilkul nahi.”
He handed the reports to Abhiraj without meeting his eyes.
Abhiraj took them, gave one last long look, then placed a possessive hand on Amisha’s lower back as she sat up.
“Thank you, doctor,” Amisha said sweetly.
The doctor nodded so hard his glasses slipped.
As they walked out, Amisha whispered, giggling,
“Doctor saab bechare ki jaan nikal gayi thi!”
Abhiraj opened the car door for her, voice low.
“Agle se female doctor fix kar di hai maine.”
She poked his arm, grinning.
“Jal bhuj gayi aapki?”
He helped her in, leaned down, and kissed her forehead.
“Nahi. Bas mera baby aur meri biwi…
sirf main dekh sakta hoon.”
And with that, they drove straight to the mela,
one very relieved doctor left behind,
and one very happy, very protected pregnant wife glowing brighter than all the fairylights waiting ahead.