[52]
The winter sun was still soft, filtering through the heavy curtains, but the room felt like a battlefield of emotions.
Amisha sat on the edge of the bed, back against a mountain of pillows, legs stretched out, her enormous bump dominating everything.
The baby had grown so much—the bump was round, high, and tight, skin stretched and shiny, every movement visible like ripples on water.
She wore only a petticoat and blouse for now, saree waiting on the chair.
And she was irritable (beyond irritable).
Pregnancy had turned her into aA firecracker with a very short fuse.
Everything annoyed her:
the way the fan creaked,
the way her ankles swelled,
the way her back ached constantly,
the way the baby kicked like a footballer at the most inconvenient times.
Right now, the baby was having a party.
A strong kick—visible, the skin stretching outward.
Amisha winced, placed both hands on the spot.
“Ey bachhe!
Jaldi bahar aa…
Main thak gayi hoon ab!
Itna mat naacho andar!”
Her voice was half-warning, half-pleading, the chidchidi tone that had become her default these days.
Abhiraj knelt in front of her, trying (and failing) to hide his smile as he picked up the light green saree.
He had taken over the morning ritual of draping her saree weeks ago.
It was too hard for her now—reaching, bending, tucking with that massive bump in the way.
He remembered her baby shower just days ago:
her in that stunning red saree, bump proudly on display, sitting in the centre of the courtyard surrounded by women, glowing like a goddess, henna on her hands, flowers in her hair, laughing as everyone blessed her and the baby.
She had looked ethereal.
Now?
She looked like a grumpy, beautiful, very pregnant cat who wanted the world to suffer with her.
He started tucking the pleats carefully, hands gentle, eyes soft.
Amisha kept scolding the baby.
“Arey! Phir se kick maara!
Bahar aa ke dekhna… main bhi maarungi!”
Abhiraj’s lips twitched.
She noticed.
“Jyada daant nahi nikaal rahe aapke?”
He looked up innocently, fingers still working on the pleats.
“Nahi nahi… kahan?
Tumhe bhram hua hoga.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Mujhe kya bhram hote hain?
Aapko hi hote hain!”
He paused, looked up at her seriously.
“Nahi…mujhe hi hote hain.”
Amisha blinked.
“fir… aisa kyun bola?
Mujhe hote hain!”
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop the laugh.
“Galti ho gayi, Amisha. Sorry.”
She crossed her arms (as much as the bump allowed), turned her nose up.
“Hmm. Very good.”
He looked up, confused.
“Very good kya?”
She leaned forward suddenly, pressed a quick, firm kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you for draping the saree for me.”
Then she stood (slowly, with his help), adjusted her pallu herself, and waddled out toward the balcony, muttering,
“Ab balcony mein thandi hawa lungi… yeh bachha rukega shayad.”
Abhiraj stayed kneeling on the floor, hand slowly coming up to touch the spot on his cheek where her lips had been.
He sat there like a lovesick teenager (eyes wide, cheeks warm, heart doing stupid flips).
He was going to be a father in weeks.
But right now, one kiss from his grumpy, pregnant wife had turned him into a blushing boy again.
He smiled (big, foolish, unstoppable).
“Pagal ladki…”
Then he stood, shook his head, and followed her to the balcony (ready to serve his irritable queen whatever she demanded next).
Because even her worst mood swings were his favourite part of the day.
The balcony overlooked the quiet village lane, fog still clinging to the rooftops, the distant sound of a cowbell and early birds the only noise.
Amisha stood leaning against the carved stone railing, one hand on her lower back, the other resting on her massive bump.
The light-green saree fluttered gently in the cool breeze, her loose hair dancing around her face.
Abhiraj stood beside her, arms folded on the railing, looking out at the lane but smiling to himself (that soft, private smile he couldn’t hide).
Amisha noticed.
She turned her head, eyes narrowed playfully.
“Itta has kyun rahe ho?”
He glanced at her, smile widening.
“Ab hasun bhi na?”
She tilted her head, lips curving.
“Maine kab mana kiya?”
He sighed dramatically, turning to face her fully.
Then, before he could speak, she rose on her toes (as much as the bump allowed) and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
He blinked, touched the spot with his fingers.
“Kal ke liye ab?”
She smiled, eyes warm.
“Hamesha… meri madad karne ke liye.”
His heart did that stupid flip it always did when she said things like that.
He opened his mouth to reply (something teasing, probably), but she cut him off.
“Mujhe woh ice cream khani hai.”
She pointed down to the lane below, where a small cart had just set up (bright colours, the vendor already scooping kulfi and softy cones).
Abhiraj’s smile faded into that firm, protective look.
“Nahi, Amisha. Thand lag jayegi.”
She pouted immediately, then leaned in and kissed his cheek again (this time lingering, lips soft and warm).
“Please laa do na…”
He didn’t budge.
“No means no.”
She sighed dramatically, turned back to the railing, arms crossed under her bump.
“Theek hai…”
Silence for a few seconds (her sulking, him watching her with that fond, helpless expression).
Then he moved.
Quietly, from behind.
His big hands slid around her, palms cupping the underside of her heavy bump, lifting gently (taking the full weight off her lower back and hips).
Amisha’s eyes fluttered closed instantly.
Her whole body loosened (shoulders dropping, breath leaving in a long, relieved sigh).
“Tha…nk you,” she whispered, voice soft and pleased.
“Very much thank you.”
He smiled against her hair, chin resting lightly on her shoulder, holding her and the baby like they were the only things that mattered in the world.
She leaned back into him, completely relaxed now, the ice cream forgotten.
The winter breeze blew.
The village woke slowly below.
And on the balcony, the king held his queen and their unborn child,
taking her weight, easing her pain,
and loving every second of it.
Because some mornings didn’t need ice cream.
They just needed him.