[43] passing days
Amisha sat on the edge of the bed in their room, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls.
It was the first night without him, and the haveli already felt like a hollow shell.
She had tried to sleep, tossing and turning under the heavy razai, but the left side of the bed was cold, empty.
No arm draped over her waist, no warm breath on her neck, no gentle hand resting on her belly like it was the most precious thing in the world.
She reached for his pillow, burying her face in it, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something uniquely him. It made her chest ache.
"Abhiraj..." she whispered into the darkness, her voice small and broken. The baby kicked softly, as if sensing her loneliness. She placed her hand on the bump, rubbing circles. "Papa jaldi aayenge, beta. Bas das din."
But das din felt like an eternity.
The next morning, she woke with puffy eyes and a heaviness in her heart.
The family noticed immediately. Minakshi Ma was the first to pull her into a hug at breakfast, serving her extra aloo paratha and badam doodh.
"Beta, chinta mat kar. Woh jaldi aa jayega."
Dadi patted her back, telling stories of how Rajveer had once left for a month on business and how the haveli had survived. Megha tried to distract her with silly videos on her phone, and Shushila quietly made her favourite herbal tea.
Karishma, who had become like a sister since marrying Mihir, sat with her in the veranda, talking about school gossip to make her laugh.
Mihir bhaiya even offered to take her for a short drive in the scooter (since she hated cars now), but she shook her head, smiling weakly.
They treated her like a princess—fussing over every meal, making sure she rested, bringing her books and magazines, even Dadi massaging her feet with oil in the afternoon.
But Amisha didn't want to be a princess. She wanted to be the queen beside her king, teasing him in the kitchen, stealing his shirts to sleep in, waking up to his kisses. Without him, the pampering felt empty, like a beautiful cage.
She missed his voice scolding her for eating too much imli, his hands lifting her effortlessly, his obsession with feeling the baby's kicks. Every night she called him on video, begging him to come sooner.
"Abhiraj, please jaldi khatam kar lo kaam... yahan sab theek hai par tum nahi ho." He would smile that tired smile, tell her stories of his day (edited, of course, no mention of the blood on his hands), and promise, "Bas ek-do din aur, gudiya. Main aa raha hoon."
On the other side, in the cold cities far from home, Abhiraj was a storm. He missed her so much it felt like a physical wound—every empty hotel bed, every silent meal, every night without her warmth beside him.
The separation fueled his rage. Those bastards who had forced him away with their betrayal paid dearly.
In Jaipur, he had started with the four in his office, executions clean but cruel—knees shattered first so they begged, then the final shots. He didn't do it for pleasure; it was justice, cold and calculated.
From Jaipur he flew to Chennai (South India), where two more rats hid in a warehouse. He found them, tied them, made them confess every rupee stolen, then ended it with the Glock (silencer on, no noise, just the thud of bodies).
Bengal was next—Kolkata's humid streets, three more names. One tried to run; Abhiraj chased him down an alley, dragged him back to a rented room, and let him scream before the final bullet.
Each kill was deadlier than the last, their deaths not quick—torture first, to make them regret every breath they took after stealing from him. He imagined the room shaking with his anger, but it was controlled, precise, psycho in its ruthlessness.
No loose ends. Bodies dumped in rivers or burned in abandoned factories. Clean-up crews handled the rest.
Days blurred into nights of work and vengeance.
He barely slept, ate only enough to function, smoked more than he had in years to dull the ache of missing her.
Every video call was his lifeline—her face on the screen, her voice telling him about the baby's kicks, her begging him to come home sooner.
"Abhiraj, please... yahan sab theek hai par tum nahi ho."
It broke him a little more each time. He channeled it all into the hunt: more names crossed off, more betrayers found in hiding, more ruthless ends (one man begged for his life mentioning his pregnant wife—Abhiraj shot him twice for that reminder alone).
South India to Bengal, city to city, he removed every filthy stain from his empire.
No mercy. No survivors. Just the cold satisfaction of justice, fueled by the burning need to get back to her.
By the 8th day, it was done. Every traitor eliminated, every loose end tied or burned. The empire was clean again. He boarded the first flight back, heart racing faster than the plane.
Haveli – 6:45 p.m., 8th day (Amisha 6 months pregnant, almost 7)
Amisha was a ball of bouncing energy.
The entire day she had been pacing, checking the clock every five minutes, smiling at nothing.
Abhiraj’s plane had landed an hour ago; he would be home any minute.
The family had noticed, of course.
Megha teased her relentlessly (“Bhabhi, aap toh dulhan ban gayi ho wapas!”), Minakshi Ma smiled knowingly, Dadi blessed her three times, Shushila quietly prepared his favourite dinner, Karishma helped with the rangoli at the gate, Mihir kept an eye on the road.
Now Amisha stood in their room, getting ready like it was their wedding night all over again.
She had chosen the most beautiful pink chiffon saree (light as air, embroidered with silver threads that caught the evening light).
It draped perfectly over her six-month bump (round and prominent now, but still graceful), the blouse low-backed but modest, the pallu tucked neatly at her waist.
She stood in front of the mirror, loose braid falling down her back (soft waves from the day's humidity), a small red bindi on her forehead, pink lip balm making her lips shine.
Her skin glowed even more these days—pregnancy had turned her into a walking light, cheeks always rosy, eyes brighter, hair thicker and darker.
She rubbed her hands over the bump, smiling.
“Beta… papa aa rahe hain. Aaj se hum teeno phir saath!”
Excitement bubbled inside her like fizzy soda.
She couldn’t sit still—pacing the room, adjusting the curtains, fluffing the pillows, lighting the diya near the small mandir in the corner.
Downstairs, the family was gathered in the courtyard, waiting for the car horn.
Amisha heard it first.
The distant rumble of the Fortuner approaching the gates.
She gasped, one hand on her mouth, the other on her belly (the baby kicked hard, as if sensing the excitement).
He was home.
Ten days (that had felt like ten years) were over.
And the haveli was about to feel whole again.
---
The Fortuner’s doors opened, and the winter air carried the familiar rumble of the engine straight into Amisha’s heart.
She was already on the last step of the grand staircase, pink chiffon saree shimmering under the diyas, one hand lightly on her seven-month bump, the other gripping the railing so she wouldn’t run.
Abhiraj stepped out.
First the broad shoulders, then the navy-blue shirt rolled to the elbows, then the tired but impossibly handsome face that belonged only to her.
Behind him, three men began unloading bags (far more than expected): glossy baby-store bags in pastel colours, sweet boxes from famous shops, even a couple of toy-store bags peeking out).
Everything she had playfully demanded on video calls.
But Amisha didn’t see a single bag.
Everything blurred.
Only he existed.
He was home.
He looked around instantly, eyes scanning the crowd of smiling family members (Rajveer Papa’s proud nod, Minakshi Ma’s teary eyes, Dadi’s wide grin, Megha’s excited waving), but his gaze cut through them all and landed on her.
On his Gulabo standing at the foot of the stairs in that sinful pink saree, glowing like an apsara who had descended just for him.
Their eyes locked.
The world fell away.
Abhiraj’s lips curved into that slow, private smile he saved only for her.
He started walking (not running, never running in front of family), but every step deliberate, straight toward her.
The family swarmed him (back-slaps, hugs, “Beta aa gaya!”, “kaisa hai?”), but his focus never wavered.
Amisha waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot, toes curling inside her mojris, fingers twisting the edge of her pallu like an excited puppy waiting for permission to jump.
She wanted to launch herself at him, wrap her arms around his neck, bury her face in his chest, feel his hands on her bump, kiss him until she forgot how to breathe.
But family was watching.
So she waited, biting her lip, eyes shining, legs bouncing slightly.
Abhiraj answered everyone politely (yes, work is done; no, not too tired; yes, baby shopping done), all while walking, walking, walking toward her.
Ten feet.
Five.
Two.
He stopped right in front of her.
The family chatter faded into background noise.
He looked down at her (at the pink saree clinging to every new curve, at the bump that carried their entire future, at the loose braid and the gajra and the pink lip balm that made him want to ruin it immediately).
His voice was low, only for her.
“Gulabo…”
That one word broke her.
But she still didn’t move (family).
He understood.