Chapter 30 Collateral Truths
The throne never stains its own hands; it simply finds better fingers to point with.
- Vedashree Vardhan
She was playing with her fingers in the car, eyes downcast. He glanced at her hands, then caught one in his own.
"Are you scared?" he asked lightly, spinning the wheel with his other hand.
"I just... wanted to see Papa," she whispered, gripping him tighter.
"Funny. Someone used to be completely against sasurji," he teased.
"Jaise bhi hain, mere papa hain," she shot him a glare sharp enough to cut.
He smirked, turned down an unfamiliar route, and soon pulled up at the Vardhan Hotel. As he stepped out, she frowned in confusion but followed.
"Why are we here?" she asked as they crossed the marble lobby and into the elevator.
"To write one more love letter to my sasurji," he said, deadpan. He cleared his throat theatrically and added,
"Dear my husband's sasurji,
Though I'm still furious with you, I miss you anyway. Hope to see you soon.
Yours, the angry wife of your damad."
(Son-in-law)
The elevator doors slid open. "And here it is-sealed and delivered," Vritant said with a mock flourish, gesturing ahead.
She stepped out beside him, confused, only to freeze when she saw her father waiting in the private lounge.
Her pace faltered. She glanced at Vritant, then back at Ashwin Adani.
"You meet my sasurji," Vritant said smoothly, slipping his silver lighter into her palm as if sealing the moment. "I'll get done with my important meeting." And before she could speak, he was already gone.
(My father-in-law)
Adhrita stood for a beat, the lighter warm in her hand, before walking toward the lounge.
Ashwin spotted her, his chair scraping back in haste. "Adu," he breathed, hurrying to her, pulling her into his arms. "Thik ho, beta?"
(Are you fine?)
She nodded against his shoulder, then gently pulled back. "I'm fine," she whispered.
"I was so scared, beta," he admitted, his voice cracking in a way she wasn't used to.
She only offered a small nod.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the sofa. They sat opposite each other, silence settling like glass between them.
"When did you come?" she finally asked.
"Yesterday," he replied.
Her brows lifted in surprise. "You didn't come home?" she asked softly.
"I didn't want to disturb your peace," he said, eyes skimming the table instead of her face.
The silence stretched.
"Breakfast?" he asked, almost tentative.
"Papa ke saath kar liya," she said.
His head snapped up, a shock plain on his face.
"I mean Shaurya Papa ke saath," she added quickly, catching his expression.
Ashwin let out a faint breath. "Shaurya is a very good father," he said after a pause. "He's keeping his promise to keep you safe."
"And happy," she murmured before she could stop herself. The words surprised even her, hanging in the air heavier than she intended.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant pushed open the door to Room 707. Inside, Samarjeet Deshmukh sat sprawled comfortably, humming under his breath.
"Naa chahu sona chandi, naa chahu heera moti..." Samarjeet broke into song the moment he saw him.
Vritant didn't miss a beat. "Yeh toh hai bas naam ke..." he sang back, his voice laced with mock drama.
"Deta hai dil ke badle mein dil ke-" Samarjeet carried on.
"Ghe ghe re saibaa, pyaar main sauda nahi..." Vritant cut him off with the punch line, shaking his head at the very idea.
Both chuckled, and before words could follow, Vritant stepped forward and hugged him tight. Not just an old ally-his Mama ji.
"Kaisa hai mera baccha?" Samarjeet asked, voice softening.
(How are you, my child?)
"Main theek hoon," Vritant said, sliding onto the sofa. Samarjeet settled beside him.
(I am fine)
"I've brought something for my nephew," Mama-ji said, rifling through his bag. He produced an envelope and handed it over. Vritant slit it open and flipped through the papers and photographs. His mouth tightened.
"Mama-ji, this is-" he began.
"Dange ka asli jimmedar insaan," Samarjeet said, tapping a photograph. "Not the opposition-one of our own. He wants Vedashree tai's chair."
(The real person responsible for the riots)
Vritant scanned the images, the angles, the timestamps. "Wasn't he content just being Maharashtra's CM?" he asked, voice flat, scanning the files again.
"You know politics, beta," Samarjeet replied. He let the words hang. "That's precisely why I never wanted you in it."
Vritant folded the photos back into the envelope.
"I'll look after the CM for now. Thanks.
But I can't force him to resign - not yet.
PM sahiba just forced Delhi's CM out; if I topple another right away, markets wobble, foreign ministers get looped in.
The fallout is deeper than a headline. Let him sit. I have other plans."
"Won't you make him resign?" his uncle pressed.
"No," Vritant said, a small, dangerous smile. "This time I want him in the chair."
Samarjeet sighed and reached for Vritant's shoulder, the old man's voice breaking. "Beta, I never wanted you in this political filth, and I don't want it now. Take Adhrita and go to London. She's lived in America - India was never really hers. Take her away; keep her safe. Keep yourself safe."
Vritant blinked. "Mama-ji, I can't just run away with my wife."
"Agar-" Samarjeet's eyes stung with memory.
"Veda tai ne baba ke kehne par naa ruki hoti aur baba ne unki kursi tai ke liya naa rakhi hoti.
Aur naa hi Tai ne woh faisla liya hota jisse mera Vedant hum sab se dur chala gaya.
Kya main nahi janta tum dono ke sath kya hua tha?
" He swallowed. "Aur kya main nahi janta ki Vedant ke jaane ke baad tum dusri baar kidnap huye the aur coma mein chale gaye the?
" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Bappa ki kripa se tum wapas aaye ho Vritant.
main nahi chahta ki ab iss rajneeti ki aag mere bhanje aur humari bahu tak pahoche. "
("What if-" Samarjeet's eyes burned with memory. "What if Veda Tai hadn't stopped at Baba's insistence, and Baba hadn't kept her chair for her? What if Tai hadn't made the decision that drove my Vedant away from all of us? Don't you think I know what happened to both of you?" He swallowed hard.
"And don't you think I know that after Vedant left, you were kidnapped a second time and slipped into a coma?" His voice fell to a whisper.
"By Bappa's grace, you came back, Vritant. I don't want the fire of politics to reach my nephew-or our daughter-in-law-ever again.")
Vritant went very still. The room narrowed to the envelope in his hands and the weight in Samarjeet's eyes. He stared at nothing, his jaw working, every old memory and old wound flickering across his expression.
"Do saal, Vritant - jab tu coma mein tha - main roz hospital ke chakkar lagaaya.
Do saal main tere paas aaya. Aaj socha tha mera Vritant uthega aur bolega, 'Mama, Mumbai le chalo.
'" Samarjeet's voice cracked; a few drops fell from his eyes.
"Ab main apne bhanje ko ya uski biwi ko aise nahi dekh paunga. "
("Two years, Vritant-while you were in a coma-I went to the hospital every single day.
For two years, I stayed by your side. Today, I thought my Vritant would wake up and say, 'Mama, take me to Mumbai.
'" Samarjeet's voice cracked, a few tears slipping down his cheeks.
"I cannot bear to see my nephew-or his wife-like this. ")
Vritant looked at him for a long, calm moment. He didn't reach for the tissue. He didn't offer comfort in words. Instead his voice came out flat, hard as stone.
"Don't worry, Mama-ji. That twelve-year-old boy who went into the coma is dead.
Politics tried to finish Vritant Vardhan-and for a while, it nearly did.
I still hate politics as much as I did then.
If anything, I hate it more now." He let the words land and then added, clipped and lethal: "You know how I hate-how I do hate.
Love can be diluted. Hate? Hate is pure. "
"I know, beta. I just want you safe-away from politics. For two years I watched you fight death in that bed. I was there every moment until your father decided to take you out of India. I cannot bear to see that happen again," Samarjeet said, voice cracked.
Vritant's smile was slow and dry, the sort that made the air colder. "History won't repeat itself, Mama-ji. And if it even thinks about trying-this time I'm not going to burn alone. If the fire comes, everyone's getting roasted with me."
He stood, the sarcasm folding into something harder than a joke, and walked away.
??? V ? A ???
She sat in the car and pulled her seat belt across.
"Did you read my journal by any chance?" she asked.
"Nope," he replied, starting the car.
"Oh... then it must be someone from Gujarat who knows Gujarati," she teased with a sly smile.
"Yeah, sure. Jamai of Gujarat sneaked in, put that lotus, and no-I didn't read your journal. While keeping your flower, I just saw a question mark. So I thought, why not convert it into a full stop?" he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
(Son-in-law of Gujarat)
She raised an eyebrow. "How did you know I wanted to see Papa?" she asked, noticing the familiar road that led straight to Vardhan LifeCare.
"Well, don't you know? Your Dogesh bhai can speak too," he shot back, with a smirk, referring to their dog.
She rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I really wonder, Karma Vardhan is in whose party?"
"Definitely not in the Rashtradhara party," he replied instantly, and they both burst out laughing.
Soon they reached the hospital. Vritant parked, and they stepped out.
Adhrita paused for a moment, looking up at the building. A flashback rushed in-sharp, vivid.
"Doctor Ace," he had called her once, and she had instantly turned.
"Are you sure?" he had asked again, searching her eyes.
She had only smiled and nodded.
Now, as they entered, walking down the corridor together, she slowed when they neared her cabin. Confusion flickered across her face-Why was he here?
Before she could ask, a young man came running up to them. His ID tag swung forward: Dr. Aman.
"Mam, are you okay?" he asked breathlessly.
Adhrita parted her lips, but Vritant cut in first.
"Yes, Dr... Aman," he said slowly, eyes flicking to the tag as though tasting the name. "Ma'm is fine. Sir is fine. The car survived too. No casualties today... but don't look so disappointed."
The corner of his mouth twisted into a smirk. Aman blinked, thrown off, while Adhrita gave him a sharp look-half warning, half amusement.
"Sorry, Sir," Dr. Aman mumbled, forcing an awkward smile before retreating down the corridor.
Vritant pushed open the cabin door, holding it just long enough for Adhrita to step inside.
She turned to him, brow furrowed. "Why are you here?"
"To see if Dr. Aman's mam is fine or not," he replied, voice thick with sarcasm, shutting the door behind him. "Wouldn't want to disappoint his medical curiosity."
She picked up the notepad, scribbled a few lines, then drew a star beneath them. After a moment's pause, she added one more sentence under the star: Read this line five times after pills.
Without another word, she tore off the sheet and handed it to him.
"What's this?" he asked, eyeing the paper.
"Prescription," she said coolly. "Take these pills before breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And these two, after breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
He scanned the page, frowning at the absurd medicine names-until his eyes caught the starred note at the bottom. He read it out loud, his voice flat but edged:
'Main Dr. Adhrita ka pati hoon.'
(I am Dr. Adhrita's husband)
He slowly lifted his gaze to her.
"Confused?" she asked, tilting her head. Sliding into her chair, she folded her arms and smirked.
"I thought maybe you keep forgetting who I am to you.
Like just now-'Dr. Aman's mam.' The other day-'Shaurya papa ki ladli.
Sasurji ki beti. PM sahiba ki bahu. Dogesh bhai ki behen.
' And before you invent something new like Rawat ki bhabhi-" she leaned forward, her tone dripping with sarcasm-"I figured I should remind you.
You're Adhrita ka pati. So unless you failed first standard, you'll remember: I'm your wife. "
(Shaurya papa's dear, Father-in-law's daughter, PM sahiba's daughter-in-law, Dogeshbhai (Karma)'s sister, Rawat's sister-in-law)
Her words cracked like a whip, but her smile carried the unmistakable sting of borrowed sarcasm-her husband's style, turned back on him.
Vritant leaned against the wall, the paper dangling between his fingers. His smile was slow, dangerous-the kind that made it hard to tell if he was joking or not.
"Five times a day? Careful, Doctor. Sounds less like a prescription and more like a spell. Read it enough and maybe I'll start hallucinating you as my wife." He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Oh wait-too late."
He slipped the note into his pocket with deliberate care, then looked at her again.
"Though I must admit," he added with a crooked grin, "as side effects go, hallucinations of you aren't the worst. Could've been worse-like rashes, or indigestion."
He turned as if to leave, but paused mid-step. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled something from his pocket-the mangalsutra, its chain glinting under the cabin light.
"Prescription's cute," he drawled, holding it up just enough for her to see. "But I think I already had a slightly stronger reminder that my wife is Dr. Adhrita."
His smirk was sharp, wicked, the kind that cut deeper than the words.
"Don't worry, Adhritoxin," he added as he slipped the chain back into his pocket. "If I ever forget, I'll just wait for the pharma company to launch Mangalsutra-500 mg. That one you can prescribe thrice a day."
And with that, he turned and walked out.
Adhrita could only shake her head, half-exasperated, half-amused-the familiar sting of his sarcasm still hanging in the air.
She took the paper and drifted toward the sofa corner-her usual place. Settling in, she began to scribble lines in her neat, deliberate hand.
No mirror breaking recently.
Not harming himself.
Sometimes eats and sleeps.
No racing since last two weeks. (Did I miss something?)
If he is not having alcohol frequently... then what's the alternative? Medicines?
Her pen hesitated.
No past link-ups? No article, no rumor with any girl or woman. (As per Papa.)
She froze, her thoughts snagging. He was right. She had never heard a single whisper, not a single story-before she could let her father's words echo any further, she stopped herself.
Folding the paper into a tiny square, she pressed it into her palm as if hiding the thought itself.
Rising, she walked toward the idol of Maa Amba. She bowed low, then turned and bowed to her mother. A faint smile touched her lips before she reached for the Bhagwat Gita on the table. She lifted it to her forehead with reverence.
"Maa Amba... please help me," she whispered, sliding the folded paper between its pages-where others already lay hidden, like quiet secrets.
The vibration of her phone broke the silence. She glanced at the screen.
A message from her mother-in-law: Meet me in an hour.
??? V ? A ???
He was mid-sentence with his security detail when the phone buzzed. A text from his wife lit the screen:
"Mummy asked me to meet her in an hour."
"Coming in five," he typed back, slipped the phone into his pocket, and without another word walked straight toward her cabin.
Inside, Adhrita was briefing a group of doctors. They turned as soon as he entered. One glance at Vritant-sharp, unreadable-and without a single exchange, the doctors quietly gathered their files and slipped out of the cabin.
Adhrita's eyes followed them in surprise, then flicked back to him. He stood there, calm as ever, expression impossible to read.
"Let's go," he said simply.
She blinked. "Now?"
He didn't answer, just held her gaze.
She nodded slowly, still confused. Wasn't she supposed to meet Vedashree Vardhan alone? But then again... this was Vritant Vardhan. Predicting him was impossible.
The drive up to Vedashree's office was steeped in silence. Adhrita sat pressed against the window, mind racing, still unsure why she had been summoned. Beside her, Vritant was unreadable-lost somewhere between brooding and dangerous calm.
By the time they entered the office, the silence had hardened into stone. Adhrita's eyes darted around. So this was how the Prime Minister's office looked... cold, vast, intimidating.
The moment Vedashree turned, her gaze landed on her son. A flicker of surprise crossed her otherwise composed face.
"I called Adhrita Vardhan here for an official statement," she said, her voice cool, but her glare sharp as glass when it cut toward him.
Vritant sank into a chair without asking, his smirk already forming. "What part of my wife should not be near politics was unclear to you?"
Vedashree's lips tightened. "Maybe you forgot who saved her." She lowered herself into her chair with practiced authority.
Adhrita, caught between them, quietly moved to her seat. Under the table, she slipped her hand over Vritant's, grounding him-or maybe grounding herself.
But his eyes stayed locked on his mother.
"Well," he began, voice rising with theatrical sarcasm, "you were the reason she was there in the first place. And guess what-just like the first time, even this time there's only one thing connecting Riots and the Prime Minister's chair."
He leaned back, every word dripping with scorn. "And that thing, dear Mother, is you."
Vedashree stiffened. "What do you mean?"
His laugh was low, mocking. "Oh, you don't know? How shocking. RDP can't breathe without Vedashree Deshmukh's permission, and yet you're pretending innocence?" He spread his hands wide in mock disbelief. "Well then... let's rewind. You know I'm a great storyteller, so let me tell you one."
He leaned back, tapping his finger on the armrest, eyes locked on her.
"Let me tell you a story, Queen." His tone was mocking, almost sing-song.
"Once upon a time, there was a family of four.
Happy in their own little world. Until Mumma-our glorious Vedashree Deshmukh-decided to keep walking in her Papa's footprints.
Papa's party. Papa's politics. Papa's throne. "
He tilted his head, smirking. "But you know how thrones are, don't you? They glitter with blood. And one day, the throne demanded its price."
His voice dropped, darker now. "The great Vedashree Deshmukh and her Papa were given a choice: release a few terrorists to save their babies... or save the country. And what did Mumma do? She thought of her throne, her country, her legacy. And sacrificed her children."
His words cut sharper, the sarcasm cruel. "One survived. The other? Martyred for the throne. For your campaign. For your crown of blood."
He paused, just long enough for the silence to sting.
"Fast forward to a few days ago. A peaceful protest suddenly turns into riots.
Coincidence? No, no... another aspiring PM, desperate to follow in the footsteps of the saintly PM.
" He gave her a slow, deliberate clap. "History was about to repeat itself.
Last time, it was my brother's blood. This time, it was my wife's turn, wasn't it? "
He leaned forward, his smirk razor-sharp. "Didn't RDP win because my brother died? The great Vedashree Deshmukh sacrificed her son for the country-please vote for her!" His tone was sing-song mockery now.
He let the words hang, venom curling in his tone, before adding with a razor smirk:
"Except this time, it wasn't even your plan. No, no... this was Abhijeet Bapat's masterpiece. The oh-so-promising CM of Maharashtra. The next Prime Minister in training."
Vritant leaned forward, his voice dropping into a dangerous mock whisper.
"Funny thing, though-he didn't need to invent anything new.
He just followed your manual. Vedashree Deshmukh's step-by-step guide to the throne: demand blood, crown yourself with sacrifice, and sell the story as patriotism. "
Then he sat back, his eyes dark, unreadable, a half-smirk playing at his lips.
"So that's the official statement from my wife's Mummy ji. Same throne. Same blood. Different scapegoat. And now? A new student of your gospel-Abhijeet Bapat."
"I know you won't believe me," he said, his voice low, deliberate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope his Mama Ji had given him, placing it carefully on the table.
"You trust your brother more than yourself. Here-truth from him, not me." His eyes flicked to Vedashree, sharp and unyielding. "Aur PM sahiba... history repeated again. Mama Ji helped me yesterday, and today as well. Well... not all Deshmukhs."
He let the words hang in the air, a mix of sarcasm and accusation curling at the edges, before standing.
Without waiting for a response, he reached for Adhrita's hand. She hesitated for a heartbeat, still reeling from everything he had just said.
Vedashree sat frozen, the weight of his revelations pressing down.
And then, with a single, deliberate motion, Vritant led Adhrita out of the office. This time, the silence that followed them was different-deadly, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
??? V ? A ???
As soon as they reached home, Vritant bolted straight for his room and disappeared into the washroom. Adhrita exhaled, heavy with exhaustion and disbelief.
Her mother-in-law... sacrificed her children for a throne? The thought kept echoing in her mind.
She was about to step into the dressing room when a sharp crash stopped her in her tracks-mirror shards scattering across the floor.
"Vritant!" she shouted, heart thudding, and hurried to the washroom door. She knocked urgently. "Open the door!"
After a tense pause, the door creaked open. She froze.
Vritant stood there, shirtless, sweat glistening on his skin. His hand was bloodied, and shards of broken mirror littered the floor behind him.
Adhrita's eyes widened.
He gave her a slow, crooked smirk. "Relax," he said, voice low and dangerous, "I didn't miss."
She froze, horrified, as she watched blood drip from his hand onto the floor. Without a second thought, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the washroom, guiding him to the sofa.
"Relax, it's nothing," he whispered, but she shot him a glare sharp enough to silence him. She examined his hand. The cut wasn't deep, but it was definitely there-a stark reminder of his obsession with breaking mirrors.
Rising, she opened the drawer and pulled out her royal pin. He blinked in mild confusion. She's a doctor... surely she'd grab a first aid kit, right?
Instead, she returned and sat beside him. Calmly, she removed the cap from the pin, revealing the hidden blade. She pressed it lightly against her palm, applying just enough pressure to draw a line of blood, preparing to use it on him.
Vritant's eyes widened. In a flash, he snatched the pin from her hand and flung it across the room.
"ADHRITA!" His voice thundered, echoing in the room. Anger, raw and sharp, laced every syllable. With his bloodied hand, he gripped hers. Blood from his palm mingled with hers, and still she held firm.
"Relax, Mr. I-don't-get-hurt-it's-nothing," she whispered, her voice steady despite the tears welling in her eyes.
"Pagal ho gayi ho?" he growled, trying to pull his hand away, but she wouldn't let go. Instead, she gently pressed their palms together, tears streaming down her cheeks, and slowly began wiping the blood from both of them.
(Are you mad?)
Vritant froze, his dark eyes locked on her, silent, unmoving, as if time itself had stopped. The room was thick with tension, blood, and something dangerously intimate, leaving him caught somewhere between fury and awe.
"Socha... nahi, pagal nahi huyi hoon," she said, forcing a small, ironic smile, her fingers still pressed against his palm. "Thoda sa apne pati ke jaisa behave kar liya. Socha... itna khoon beh raha hai, donate kar dete hain."
("I thought... no, I haven't gone crazy," she said, forcing a small, ironic smile, her fingers still pressed against his palm. "I just decided to act a little like my husband. Thought... since so much blood is flowing, why not donate some?")
When he looked at her hands, smeared with blood, and her face marked by stains, a cold sweat broke across his forehead. His hands trembled uncontrollably.
"My wife... bolne se kuchh nahi hota... usko apni biwi-"
("My wife... saying it won't change anything... she just needs to be your wife-")
Before he could finish, he pulled her close, wrapping her in a fierce, almost desperate embrace. His grip was tight enough to feel like it could crush bones, yet it was filled with raw need.
Adhrita pressed her hands against his bare chest, closing her eyes to absorb the storm of his emotions. She could feel the tremor running through him, the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat, the tension he tried-and failed-to hide.
"Please... Jaan," he whispered, his voice barely audible, rough with vulnerability.
A single drop of a tear slid from his eye, landing on her bloodied palm. She remained still, letting the moment stretch, letting him release what he had been holding inside for too long.
He murmured again, but the words barely escaped, his voice lost in the tremor. Closing his eyes, he seemed to shrink into himself.
Slowly, Adhrita took his hand and tucked it into her hair. He gripped it between his fingers, and she caught the faintest whisper-"Sorry"
Some couples share Netflix and popcorn. The Vardhans? Blood, chaos, and moral panics, all before breakfast.
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