[56]HOME
The black Fortuner moved smoothly through the village lanes, driver at the wheel, windows half-down to let in the gentle winter sun and fresh air.
In the back seat, Abhiraj sat with the baby cradled securely in one strong arm, the little one fast asleep against his chest, tiny fist curled near his father's heart.
Amisha leaned into his shoulder, head resting perfectly in the crook of his neck, eyes half-closed, body finally relaxed after days of exhaustion.
The car was peaceful (only the soft hum of the engine, the occasional chirp of birds outside, and the faint, rhythmic breathing of their newborn son).
Amisha's hand rested lightly on the baby's back, over Abhiraj's arm.
She wasn't sleeping.
She was remembering.
Every moment of the last few days replayed in her mind like a soft, warm film.
How he had stayed by her side the entire time (never leaving the hospital room for more than a few minutes).
How, when her nipples were sore and cracked from feeding, he had gently applied the soothing balm the nurse gave (his big hands so careful, eyes full of guilt and love, whispering "sorry" like it was his fault).
How, in the quiet of the night, when she woke bleeding and uncomfortable, he had changed her pads without a word (calm, tender, like it was the most natural thing in the world).
How he had helped her sit up to feed the baby, holding her back when it ached, adjusting pillows, bringing water to her lips.
How he had fed her himself (spoon by spoon, soft khichdi and fruits) when her arms were too tired.
How he had changed her clothes while she dozed (slipping off sweaty gowns, putting on fresh ones, never waking her fully).
How he had massaged her lower back when the after-pains hit, strong fingers pressing just right, easing the cramps.
How, even when he was exhausted (dark circles under his eyes, shoulders heavy), he never complained.
Never slept more than an hour at a time.
Always there.
Always watching over her and their son.
And this morning (how he had dressed her for coming home).
He had chosen the softest pink cotton saree himself, draped it around her slowly, carefully (tucking pleats with the same precision he used for everything, but with infinite gentleness around her still-tender body).
He had made her sit in front of the mirror, combed her damp hair, parted it neatly, and braided it loosely (his big fingers surprisingly deft, tying the end with a soft rubber band).
He had even applied a little kajal in her eyes and pink lip balm on her lips, saying, "Ghar ja rahi ho... sundar lagna chahiye."
She had laughed then, weak but happy.
Now, in the car, she looked at him (at the way he held their son so securely, so naturally, like he was born to be a father).
Her heart swelled.
He was her everything.
Her protector.
Her caretaker.
Her love.
The man who had faced the world's darkness without flinching,
but trembled when applying balm to her sore skin.
She leaned closer, pressed a soft kiss to his jaw.
He turned his head slightly, eyes warm.
"Kya hua?"
She smiled, voice low.
"Bas... soch rahi thi.
Aapne kitna khayal rakha mera."
He looked at her, then at the baby, then back at her.
"Tera aur iska khayal rakhna... meri zindagi ka kaam hai."
She rested her head back on his shoulder.
The car turned into the haveli gates.
Home.
With her husband holding their son,
and her heart full of him.
Amisha's eyes soft and fixed on him.
She couldn't stop looking-his profile sharp against the window, the way his strong arms cradled their sleeping son against his chest, the tiny baby bundled in a soft blanket, looking impossibly small in his father's hold.
Every few seconds, Abhiraj's gaze would drop to the baby (watching the rise and fall of the little chest, the occasional twitch of a tiny fist), then lift to her (checking if she was comfortable, if she needed anything).
His free hand rested on her lower back, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles (massaging gently, easing the lingering ache from labour).
Amisha's heart felt full to bursting.
No words.
Just quiet glances, soft touches, and the overwhelming peace of finally going home as a family of three.
The baby slept on, oblivious.
The Fortuner rolled under the arched gate.
The entire household was waiting.
Dadi at the front, aarti thali in hand, eyes already shining.
Minakshi Ma and Rajveer Papa beside her.
Mihir, Karishma, Shatish, Shushila, Megha-all lined up.
Even the servants stood in a respectful row, smiling wide, some holding small flower garlands.
The driver opened the door.
Abhiraj stepped out first, baby still secure in his arms.
Then he turned, offered his hand to Amisha.
She took it, stepped down carefully.
The family surged forward.
Minakshi Ma performed the aarti first (circling the diya around mother, father, and child, voice trembling with the welcoming prayer).
Dadi sprinkled rice and flowers.
"Nazar na lage mere pote aur bahu ko..."
Everyone echoed softly.
No touching feet-Amisha was still recovering, and no one would make her bend.
The servants peeked excitedly,
whispering, "Kitna pyara hai..."
Megha couldn't resist. "Bhabhi, dikhao na properly!"
Amisha smiled tiredly, pulled the blanket back just enough to show the baby's sleeping face.
A collective "awww" rose.
Everyone settled in the hall.
The baby became the centre of attention immediately.
Rajveer Papa took him first (proud grandfather holding his grandson like a treasure).
Dadi beside him, cooing.
Megha, Karishma, and Shushila crowded close, toys already in hand (soft rattles, a tiny teddy).
The baby (dressed in light-yellow romper with a cute brown teddy face on the chest and matching teddy booties) yawned, blinked, and promptly fell back asleep.
Servants brought trays of sweets and tea, but no one really ate-everyone was too busy staring at the new Shekhawat heir.
Dadi finally spoke.
"Jao ab... room mein jaake thoda araam kar lo.
Baby bhi yahan hum log sambhal lenge."
Abhiraj nodded, stood, helped Amisha up.
They left the hall quietly (the baby happily passed around like a prized possession, giggling and snoozing in different arms).
In their room door closed.
Peace.
Abhiraj dropped onto the bed with a tired sigh, still in his kurta, eyes closing for a moment.
Amisha sat beside him, watching.
Then she reached for his feet.
He opened his eyes.
"Kya kar rahi ho?"
She was already pulling off his socks.
"Socks nikaal rahi hoon."
He sat up slightly.
"Nahi... main kar lunga."
She didn't stop.
"Aapne mere liye itna kiya...
mujhe bhi toh karne do aapki seva."
He looked at her (soft, tired, but determined eyes).
His heart melted.
He let her finish, then pulled her into his arms.
She curled into him immediately, head on his chest.
His hand rested on her stomach (still rounded, soft, empty now).
He spoke quietly, voice full of emotion.
"Itna dard saha tumne...
ab dobara bachha nhi."
Amisha chuckled softly against his kurta.
"Arre aise kaise?
Aapko toh beti chahiye thi na?
Toh karna toh padega."
He shook his head, arms tightening.
"Nahi. Maine kaha tha beti better hai... matlab ladka bura nahi.
Par tu phir se itna dard nahi sahegi."
She lifted her head, eyes teasing.
"Dekhte hain."
He groaned, pulled her closer.
"Tum nahi maanogi na?"
She kissed his jaw.
"Nahi."
He smiled against her hair.
"Theek hai... par abhi ke liye araam."
They stayed like that (wrapped in each other, the sounds of family cooing over their son drifting faintly from downstairs).
The new parents,
finally home,
finally together,
finally at peace.