[50] PERSONALITY CHANGE
The Jeep moved smoothly through the familiar lanes, winter sun low and golden, casting long shadows from the neem trees lining the road.
The Sabha ground was already far behind, the crowd dispersed, the echoes of Abhiraj’s words still hanging in the air for the villagers.
Inside the car, silence reigned (but it was a loaded silence).
Amisha sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed under her bump, face turned toward the window, lips pressed in a stubborn line.
She was angry again (without any new reason, just the pregnancy anger that flared up like dry grass catching fire).
One minute she was fine, the next she was fuming (hormones, discomfort from the bra she had finally removed, the lingering adrenaline from the Sabha, and the simple fact that her husband had been away for ten days and now dared to breathe calmly beside her).
She huffed every few minutes, shifted in her seat, adjusted her pallu dramatically.
Abhiraj drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear stick, face calm, eyes on the road.
But the corner of his mouth held the faintest smirk.
He knew this mood.
And he loved it.
Every huff, every shift, every little attempt to irritate him (it wasn’t irritation for him).
It was pleasure.
Pure pleasure to serve his angry, pregnant wife in whatever way she demanded.
The road curved past the usual row of street food stalls (the ones that appeared every afternoon like clockwork).
First: the jalebi-gota stall (bright orange syrup bubbling, gota frying golden and crisp).
Then fafda (long, thin strips being folded into newspaper).
Then roasted mungfali (hot, salty, the vendor shaking the kadhai over the fire).
Then samosa (puffed, steaming, green chutney on the side).
The smells drifted in through the AC vents.
Amisha’s head snapped toward the window.
Her tongue darted out, licking her lower lip (slow, unconscious).
She turned to him abruptly, voice sharp and commanding (no please, no softness, pure queen-mode).
“Mujhe yeh sab khana hai.”
She pointed imperiously at the stalls.
Abhiraj’s eyebrows rose slightly at the tone (his gentle wife rarely ordered like a general).
But he didn’t argue.
Just signalled, pulled the Jeep to the side, and stopped.
“Okay.”
He got out, closed the door softly, and walked to the stalls.
Amisha watched from the window, arms still crossed, trying to stay angry.
He bought everything.
Two full plates of dripping jalebi.
A big packet of gota.
Half kilo hot roasted mungfali.
Fafda with extra jalebi chutney.
Six samosas with green and tamarind chutney.
Even two small kulhads of adrak chai.
He carried it all back, arms loaded, face expressionless.
Opened her door, placed everything carefully on her lap and the seat beside her (plates balanced, packets tucked so nothing would spill).
Then got back in the driver’s seat.
Amisha attacked the jalebi immediately.
No “thank you.”
No glance at him.
Just munch munch munch (cheeks bulging, syrup on her fingers, eyes half-closed in pure greedy bliss).
Abhiraj started the car, smirk deepening.
He opened the peanut packet with one hand, placed it within her reach.
She took a handful, still not looking at him.
Munch munch.
Every few minutes she pointed at another stall.
“Wahan se dabeli.”
“Arre woh khaman le lo.”
He stopped each time, bought whatever she commanded, came back with more food.
The car turned into a moving food stall.
Her lap was a mountain of paper plates and packets.
Back seat piled high.
The entire Jeep filled with smells (hot oil, jalebi syrup, roasted peanuts, spicy chutney, tea).
She ate like the food was her personal victory.
No offering him a bite.
No softening of the anger.
She was trying to irritate him (silence, commands, no gratitude).
But Abhiraj?
He was in heaven.
Every order she gave was music.
Every munch munch on his right was the sweetest sound.
He didn’t want her thanks.
He didn’t want jalebi from the plate.
He wanted it from her sticky fingers (later, when she finally forgave him).
For now, serving her every craving (without a single complaint) was his pleasure.
Pure, obsessive pleasure.
She could stay angry all the way home.
He would keep stopping, keep buying, keep smirking.
Because this (his commanding, food-obsessed, angry pregnant wife) was exactly why he had hurried back in eight days instead of ten.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
The haveli gates appeared.
Amisha was still munching, cheeks full, eyes narrowed at the windshield.
Anger intact.
Abhiraj parked, turned off the engine, and finally spoke.
“Ghar aa gaya, meri gusse wali rani.
Ab utarogi ya yahin khaati rahogi?”
She huffed, stuffed one last jalebi piece in her mouth, and turned away.
He laughed softly.
Game on.
And he was winning (by letting her win every round).
The black Jeep rolled to a smooth stop under the arched entrance.
The winter sun was warm now, but the air still carried that crisp bite.
Abhiraj got out first, walked around, and opened Amisha’s door.
She was still angry (arms crossed, face turned away, cheeks pink with lingering irritation).
But when he offered his hand, she took it without hesitation (fingers curling tightly around his, like even in anger she needed him).
He helped her down carefully (one hand steady on hers, the other hovering at her lower back, ready to support the bump).
Today, miraculously, no nausea from the car ride.
Maybe the anger had distracted her, or the food mountain had settled her stomach.
Whatever it was, she stepped down without a single wobble.
She grabbed only one packet (the gota, her favourite) from the pile on the seat, leaving the rest for him.
Abhiraj didn’t complain.
He gathered the mountain of food packets with both arms (jalebi, fafda, peanuts, samosa, everything balanced precariously) and followed her inside.
The family was waiting in the courtyard (Minakshi Ma, Dadi, Megha, Karishma, Shushila, all smiling at the returning hero and his wife).
Megha spotted the food first.
“Bhaiya! Yeh sab kya hai? Poora mela le aaye ho?”
Abhiraj handed half the packets to her without a word.
“Le, tu, Shushila aur Karishma khao.
Baaki Amisha ke liye.”
Megha’s eyes went wide.
Amisha didn’t even look, just clutched her gota packet tighter and started toward the stairs.
Abhiraj followed, one hand lightly on her elbow as she climbed (slow, careful steps, his palm steady in case she felt dizzy).
No one commented.
They all knew (when the sarpanch and his wife needed space, you gave it).
Door closed.
Amisha marched straight to the bed, sat cross-legged in the centre, and opened her gota packet like it was her lifeline.
Abhiraj dumped the remaining food mountain on the bed beside her (jalebi plate balanced carefully, samosas in newspaper, peanuts in a cone).
Then he sat next to her, leaning back against the headboard, watching.
She attacked the gota (crunch crunch, eyes half-closed in bliss, crumbs on her lap).
He reached over, broke a piece of jalebi, and held it near her lips.
She took it without looking at him.
Crunch.
He chuckled.
“Kitna khaogi, moti?”
Amisha froze mid-bite.
Slowly turned her head.
Eyes narrowed to slits.
“Khabardar mujhe moti kaha toh.”
He grinned, completely unrepentant.
“Par moti hi toh ho.”
She put the gota down, wiped her hands on a napkin, and in the next heartbeat,
climbed him.
Legs on either side of his hips, knees sinking into the mattress, bump pressed safely forward.
Hands fisted in his shirt collar like a little gundi.
Face inches from his.
Nose tips almost touching.
Eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
Lips barely apart.
“Nahi kaha na?”
Her voice low, angry, challenging.
Abhiraj’s hands came up slowly, settled on her waist (thumbs brushing the curve of her bump).
He pouted (fake, dramatic, baby-like).
“Par mujhe toh moti bolna pasand hai.”
She tightened her grip on his collar
.
“Par mujhe nahi.”
He tilted his head, eyes dancing.
“Toh kya karogi agar main phir bhi bolun?”
Her answer was immediate, fierce.
“Room se bahar nikaal dungi.
Chhodungi nahi aapko.”
His pout vanished.
Eyes darkened.
In one heartbeat his arms locked around her like steel (one across her back, the other under her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer).
“Please mat chhodna,” he whispered, voice suddenly rough.
She blinked, anger faltering for a second.
“Kya hi kar loge aap?”
His gaze dropped to her lips (full, sticky from jalebi, trembling with anger).
Hot breaths mingled.
Eyes locked.
He leaned in until their lips were a whisper apart.
“i will lean you again this bed and tear this marron saree from your body and fuck you until,you get unconscious.”
The words came out low, dark, deliberate.
No teasing now.
Pure promise.
Amisha’s eyes went wild (wide, shocked, pupils blown).
Her breath caught.
Cheeks flamed red.
Anger mixed with something else entirely.
He held her gaze, unblinking.
Waiting.
The room went completely silent except for their breathing.
She swallowed.
He didn’t move.
Just held her (tight, possessive, waiting for her next word).
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Then Amisha’s lips parted, voice barely a whisper.
“Abhiraj…”
And that was all it took.
The anger cracked.
The challenge accepted.
And the winter afternoon in their bedroom turned very, very warm.