Chapter 40 Hope in Red Silk
Some prayers are spoken to gods. Some are whispered to the sky.
- Adhrita Vritant Vardhan
It was 4 a.m. when the alarm rang. Adhrita stirred instantly, slipping out of sleep with practiced ease. Beside her, Vritant groaned, irritation flickering across his face as he instinctively pulled her closer.
She gently pried his hand off her waist, trying not to wake him, but his eyes fluttered open-half-lidded and sleepy.
"Adhri... don't," he mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness.
"I need to go. You sleep," she whispered softly.
He turned, blinking at the clock. The time registered-and suddenly his eyes were wide open.
"Hospital? Emergency?" he asked, concerned momentarily chasing away sleep.
"Karwachauth," she murmured, almost shyly.
For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, wordlessly, he pulled his hand back and let out a quiet sigh.
She smiled faintly, leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before disappearing into the washroom.
A little while later, she emerged-wrapped in a deep red saree draped with effortless precision.
She sat at the vanity, adjusting her bangles, applying a small bindi, and curling a loose strand of hair.
In the mirror's reflection, she saw him sitting on the bed, tousled hair falling over his forehead, gaze lost somewhere between disbelief and awe.
Adhrita tied her hair into a messy bun, the faint chime of her bangles echoing in the quiet room as she walked to him. Standing beside him, she smiled, and he leaned into her touch when her fingers brushed through his hair.
"I know you don't believe in God," she said softly, "and I'm not expecting you to come for the pooja."
"Keeping a fast?" he asked, his tone gentle now.
"Yes."
"Gentle reminder-" he murmured, eyes half-open again, "you're a doctor."
"I'll manage," she replied, smiling at his concern. He nodded faintly, still half in dream.
"How do I look?" she asked, playfully searching his eyes for approval.
He smirked lightly. "If you live for someone's compliment, you'll die when they criticise."
She rolled her eyes. "Subah-subah gyaan nahi-compliment do, Mr. Pseudo Kabir Vardhan."
That finally drew a quiet laugh from him, and the morning filled with the warmth of shared irony, love, and the sound of her bangles dancing to it.
??? V ? A ???
The house was softly alive in the faint blue of dawn. The air carried the aroma of incense, ghee, and sandalwood. Silver thalis shimmered under the warm glow of diyas, and the soft hum of morning prayers filled the grand Vardhan mansion.
Adhrita descended the staircase quietly, her red saree trailing like a whisper behind her.
The women of the house were already gathered in the living room - Devika Dadi, regal and commanding even in her simplicity; Vedashree, her mother-in-law, serene in her cream saree; Anamika chachi, always with a spark in her eyes; Shweta bua, gentle and affectionate; and Saanvi, her cousin, trying hard to stifle a yawn behind her mehndi-stained hands.
The silver trays of sargi were beautifully arranged - coconut, dry fruits, mithai, and sindoor, all symbols of blessings and love passed from one generation to another.
Just then, a soft murmur went around as the men of the house entered - Shaurya Vardhan, Dev Vardhan,Raj Vardhan and Aryan all settling comfortably on the sofas, watching the morning unfold with mild amusement.
"Adhrita, you don't have to..." Dadi began in her calm, matriarchal tone - but her words trailed off when Adhrita looked up and saw Vritant, half-awake, descending the staircase. His hair was messy, his tshirt slightly crumpled, and his expression hovering somewhere between sleepy and curious.
Adhrita smiled faintly before lowering her gaze and sitting among the women. Vedashree came forward first, handing her a sargi thali with a gentle smile.
"For power," she said softly.
Then Dadi came, her bangles clinking as she placed another sargi in Adhrita's lap.
"For patience," she blessed, touching her head affectionately.
Finally, Anamika walked up, her smile teasing and warm. She handed over her own sargi thali, saying with a light chuckle,
"Chachi saas toh hoon, for strength."
And through it all, Adhrita's eyes flickered once toward Vritant - who was leaning against the staircase railing, watching quietly, a sleepy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The women soon gathered around the long dining table, the silverware gleaming under the soft golden light.
Laughter and chatter filled the air as everyone began their sargi.
The faint clinking of bangles and spoons mixed with the distant sound of the temple bells echoing through the courtyard.
Just as Adhrita lifted her spoon, she heard a familiar sleepy voice from behind.
"What are you doing here?" It was Vritant, speaking to his father.
"Mummy forced me," Shaurya replied dryly, taking a seat beside the other men. Adhrita looked up at Dadi, trying not to smile.
Shaurya turned toward his son with a smirk. "And what are you doing here, hmm? Tere bachchon ki mummy ne force kiya?"
A ripple of laughter went around the table, the morning suddenly feeling lighter. Even Vedashree hid a faint smile behind her cup of chai.
Soon the women finished their sargi, exchanged smiles and blessings, and began to disperse. Adhrita gathered her thali, about to rise, when a hand slipped into hers.
Vritant, still half-drowsy, gently tugged her back into her seat. "I heard the Adanis don't waste food," he whispered, nodding toward her half-finished plate.
"Technically," she said, eyes glinting with mischief, "I'm just a Vardhan. I dropped Adani long ago - so I'm allowed to, Mr. Shaurya Vardhan ke ladle."
He shot her a lazy glare, then reached for the bowl of kheer and lifted a spoonful toward her. "Eat, laadle ki laadli," he muttered, yawning halfway through.
"I'll have it, you sleep," she said softly, amused by his stubborn presence.
He didn't argue - just nodded, then rested his head on the table beside her. Within moments, his breathing evened out, and in one endearing, unthinking motion, he tugged the end of her saree's pallu and draped it over his head.
Adhrita smiled, heart softening as she watched him sleep under the red fabric - the man who claimed not to believe in rituals, yet sat beside her through one.
??? V ? A ???
They walked downstairs together, the morning sun spilling softly through the tall French windows. Adhrita adjusted her bag on her shoulder, ready to leave for the hospital, while Vritant, still in his crisp white shirt and half-tied tie, trailed behind her toward the main door.
But instead of heading out, he sank lazily onto the living room sofa.
Adhrita stopped mid-step and turned to him, brow furrowed.
"We'll get late," she reminded, glancing at the clock.
"Sit," he said simply, leaning back.
Before she could respond, Karma trotted into the hall, tail wagging, and immediately jumped onto Vritant's lap. Without hesitation, he began scratching behind Karma's ears, the sleepy softness from earlier still clinging to his features.
Adhrita stared at him in disbelief. Is this the time to play with Karma? she thought, torn between exasperation and fondness.
She finally gave in and sat beside him, adjusting her saree with a sigh.
Without a word, he took her hands into his-his touch warm and deliberate. His eyes trailed over her palms.
"Didn't apply mehendi? What next, skipping the moon too?" he asked, voice laced with quiet sarcasm, lips twitching into a half-smile.
She looked away, trying to hide her own smile, knowing fully well he'd noticed more than she wanted him to.
"I was supposed to apply it yesterday, but there was an emergency," she said, adjusting the pleats of her saree.
"Then apply it now," he replied simply.
She blinked. "Now? I have to go to the hospital."
"I thought you're the owner," he shot back, the corner of his mouth lifting.
She shook her head at his audacity and walked toward the kitchen. A few moments later, she returned with a mehendi cone in her hand.
Before she could start, he plucked it from her fingers, took her wrist gently, and made her sit.
Without saying another word, he began tracing designs on her palm. The strokes weren't perfect-but they were deliberate, sharp, almost artistic. She stared at him, surprised by the focus in his expression. Was he an artist or what?
When he was done, she looked down and saw a single word etched in bold, slightly uneven letters - "Ant."
"Listen," she said quietly, breaking the silence, "I have to go to Rajasthan tomorrow."
He paused mid-air, the cone still in his hand. "Why again? Didn't you already go? Dr. Gupta said your trip was last week."
Her eyes narrowed. "Wait... you talked to Dr. Gupta?"
He blinked, feigning innocence. "How would I talk to Dr. Gupta?"
"Dr. Gupta suddenly went on 'vacation' for a week and told me to stay back. It was you, wasn't it?" she asked sternly.
And then he smirked - that infuriating, unapologetic smirk.
"I like my wife hydrated."
She gasped softly. "You planned this. Admit it."
He nodded shamelessly. "Guilty."
"Why?" she demanded.
"I like Rajasthan," he said simply, with a confidence that made her want to laugh and hit him at the same time. "And since we never went for a honeymoon, I thought I'd surprise you."
She stared at him, caught between disbelief and reluctant amusement. This manipulator. She'd deal with him later. For now-Karwachauth came first.
She took the cone from his hand, lifted his palm, and carefully drew three neat letters - "Ace."
He looked at it, smirked, and stood. "Let's go."
They walked out together, the city just beginning to stir. In the car, she fastened her seatbelt and frowned.
"I thought you were dropping me at the hospital," she said, trying to hide her confusion.
He glanced at her briefly, expression unreadable.
"No. Your mehendi isn't dry yet," he said matter-of-factly, steering the car toward the office instead of her expected destination.
She raised an eyebrow, glancing at the familiar skyline of the Vardhan Empire headquarters.
"Wait... we're going here? Not... my hospital?"
He didn't answer immediately. He just parked the car, stepped out, and opened the door for her.
"You sit. I've got a meeting," he said casually, already halfway toward his cabin.
She hesitated, realizing the subtle shift - her day wasn't going as planned. But then, as always, she followed silently, letting him lead.
She rolled her eyes and sank into his chair, glancing around the office. It was unexpectedly personal - the miniature Hot Wheels cars lined on the shelf, the faint scent of his cologne still in the air.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. Neil entered with his usual polite smile.
"Would you like something, ma'am?"
She shook her head. "No, thank you."
When he left, she wandered to the small fridge in the corner. Inside-rows of juice cans, ORS packets, and just two bottles of alcohol.
She paused. He hasn't been drinking lately, she realized. Maybe he never needed the drink-just the quiet it promised.
The door clicked open again. Vritant stepped in.
"Vritant, do you have Dr. Radhika Mehta's number?" she asked, turning to him.
He frowned immediately. "Yeah, why? Are you okay? The riots still bothering you?"
"No, it's for one of my patients. She met with an accident-still struggling with trauma. I think she should see the best psychiatrist."
He nodded, pulled out his phone, and handed it to her without hesitation.
She smiled softly. "Thank you. I should leave for the hospital."
"Ace..." he murmured suddenly, rubbing his temple. "My head's aching."
Concern replaced her composure instantly. "What happened?" she asked, walking over.
He leaned back on the sofa, eyes half-closed. "Didn't take the pills. I just need-" His voice trailed off as he pressed his fingers to his forehead.
Without a word, she guided him to lie down, his head resting on her lap. Her fingers moved to his temples, gentle and rhythmic, easing the tension there.
Within minutes, his breathing steadied. Sleep found him easily.
Adhrita looked down at him - the man who irritated, challenged, and quietly cared in his own twisted way - sleeping peacefully, the faint trace of mehendi still drying on his hand where she had written Ace.
She took his hand gently, her fingers brushing against his skin as she traced the faint blue veins that ran across his wrist. They pulsed softly under her touch - steady, calm, alive. For a moment, the world outside his cabin didn't exist.
His phone buzzed on the table, once, twice - and then again. He shifted slightly, brows furrowing in irritation. Before he could reach for it, Adhrita leaned forward and picked it up, glancing at the screen.
Without a word, she switched it to silent and placed it face down on the table.
"Peace," she murmured, her thumb still drawing idle circles over his wrist.
He didn't open his eyes, but the corner of his lips curved faintly. For once, even Vritant Vardhan didn't argue.
??? V ? A ???
By evening, when Adhrita returned home, the sky outside had begun to shift into hues of gold and coral. She slipped off her heels quietly, walking into their room to find Vritant standing near the window, phone pressed to his ear, his expression grave.
He ended the call after a moment, his jaw tight.
"Listen, I need to leave," he said curtly, rubbing his temple again as if the ache from earlier hadn't left.
Adhrita's brows knit together. "But... Karwachauth?" she whispered, her voice uncertain.
He didn't respond immediately - just pressed his fingers against his forehead, exhaling slowly. Something about his silence made her chest tighten.
Then he looked at her. "Come along."
She blinked, surprised. "I can't- I mean... ghar pe rituals, pooja..."
"There's no function tonight. No guests either," he said in that same calm, matter-of-fact tone. "If you'd rather stay with Saanvi, you can."
There was no demand in his voice, just quiet expectation - and an exhaustion she couldn't ignore.
"I'll come with you," she said finally.
The moment the words left her mouth, he smiled - small, brief, but genuine.
He's not well, she thought, watching him. I should go with him.
Without wasting a minute, she began packing - her essentials, his medicines, and even the small silver thali with her Karwachauth items tucked neatly inside.
Then she went to Devika Dadi's room.
"Dadi, I need to leave with Vritant," she said softly.
Dadi looked up from her prayer book, eyes kind and knowing. "Anything serious?"
Adhrita shook her head. "No, Dadi. Just some work."
Dadi smiled faintly and placed a hand on her head. "Take care."
"I will," Adhrita promised, touching her feet before turning to leave - her saree trailing behind her like a quiet promise in the fading light.
??? V ? A ???
They were soaring high above the clouds, the horizon painted in dusky shades of violet and silver.
The world below was asleep, but inside the quiet hum of the private jet, Adhrita's stomach growled in protest. She pressed her palm against it, sighing softly - the Karwachauth fast felt longer at thirty thousand feet.
Vritant, seated beside her, noticed. A teasing smirk appeared on his face as he tilted his head toward her.
"You can see this moon and break your fast," he said, pointing at his own face.
She blinked - and then laughed.
"Tarif karu kya uski jisne mujhe banaya..." he hummed under his breath, voice deep and lazy.
She leaned against his shoulder, shaking her head with a smile. Her fingers absentmindedly found his hand again, tracing the veins along his wrist like she had done that afternoon.
He glanced down. "Naya shaukh?" he asked, his tone somewhere between amusement and affection.
Without looking up, she replied softly, "You play with my hair, my dupatta, even my neck - I didn't complain."
He raised an eyebrow. "Fair point." A pause. Then, with that familiar teasing edge, he asked, "You're going to break your fast in this saaree?"
Before he could even smirk fully, she got up, shooting him a mock glare, and disappeared into the private suite.
A few minutes later, he heard the faint rustle of silk and the soft clinking of bangles.
Adhrita stood before the mirror inside, draping her red saree with delicate precision.
She applied her makeup - subtle yet glowing - added her ornaments one by one, and pinned the long strands of lotus and jasmine she'd just found in a tray outside her door.
Someone - and she didn't need to guess who - had arranged it for her.
When she finally opened the door, he was waiting outside, lost in something on his phone. But the moment he looked up, his breath caught midair.
"Tarif karu kya uski jisne aapko banaya..." he murmured again, but this time his voice had softened into awe.
She laughed, a shy flush rising to her cheeks as he reached for her hand and guided her to sit beside him.
The dim cabin lights caught the glow of her mangalsutra, the red of her sindoor, and the gentle sway of lotus strands in her hair. She looked ethereal - like the festival had chosen to live through her.
He pointed toward the window. "Look."
She turned - and there it was. The moon. Pale, distant, perfect.
Her eyes lit up instantly, the glow of devotion and relief washing over her face. She lifted the thali slowly, the diya flickering as she gazed at the moon through the sieve. And just as she turned back toward him, she heard a soft click.
Vritant lowered his phone with a small grin.
"Couldn't let the goddess go undocumented," he said.
And for once, she didn't scold him. She just smiled - moonlight glimmering on her face, his reflection glowing in her eyes.
She got up quietly, the silk of her red saree brushing against his sleeve as she moved past him.
Vritant watched in silence as she went to the side cabinet, her bangles making the faintest sound in the still cabin.
She took out the silver sieve and the diya - things she'd insisted on packing herself before they left.
Without a word, she placed them on the narrow table by the window.
She lit the diya. The flame shivered once before finding its rhythm - like her, steady despite the turbulence outside. The light fell across her face, tracing the line of vermillion in her hair, the gold of her earrings, and the quiet determination in her eyes.
She filled the kalash with water and set it beside the thali. No temple bells, no crowd, no chanting - just the hum of the engines and two people in the middle of nowhere. Yet somehow, it felt enough.
Then she turned. The diya's light softened her features; she looked like someone caught between prayer and defiance. Vritant said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed on her - half amused, half undone.
The moon appeared through the window, cold and perfect. She lifted the sieve, her breath catching for a second. Through it, she saw the moon... and then him. The reflection trembled slightly - not because of her hand, but because of everything that had gone unsaid between them.
When she lowered the sieve, he took a step closer, his voice low - almost a whisper.
"Adhrita ka pati looks good, no?" he smirked, eyes glinting with mischief.
She gave a small nod, and instead of answering, turned the sieve toward him - her way of saying he was the reason anyway. He glanced at her, at the diya between them, then back at the moon.
She laughed, shaking her head. "Unbearably smug," she murmured, but her smile didn't fade.
Adhrita smiled faintly, set the sieve aside, and poured the water from the kalash, completing the ritual.
Before she could lift it again, he took the kalash from her hand and made her drink from it.
She sipped quietly, eyes never leaving his, and he placed it back on the table with a gentleness that didn't match his usual edge.
Then he picked up the sweet and held it to her lips.
She took the bite - and in that moment, it wasn't just her fast that broke, but the silence, the restraint, and the distance that had been sitting quietly between them all day.
He pulled out his phone suddenly, angled it just right, and clicked a selfie - her red saree, his half-smile, the moonlight sneaking through the window behind them. She hid her face in his neck with an embarrassed laugh just as the air hostess entered with trays of food.
He served everything himself and started feeding her without a word.
"Why so silent?" she asked softly.
"Focus on food," he muttered, offering her another bite. She was already full, but he kept going until she realized-
"You didn't eat anything?" she asked, frowning.
He froze for a second, the spoon halfway up.
"Vritant," she said, but he didn't look up.
"Ant..." she whispered his nickname this time.
He quietly handed her a plate. She took it, scooped up a bite of macaroni, and brought it to his lips. He didn't refuse. He just looked at her once - that unreadable, heavy look - and took the bite.
"You kept the fast?" she asked again, her voice breaking slightly. He didn't answer, only pointed at the food as if to change the topic.
Her chest tightened. The man who didn't believe in gods, who mocked rituals, had stayed hungry just because she was.
When the meal was finally over, she wiped her hands, set the plate aside, and without saying a word, climbed into his lap. Her arms wrapped around him, holding him close - not in drama, not in passion, but in quiet disbelief that someone like him could care that deeply, that silently.
"Ant," she whispered again, her voice soft against the hum of the jet.
He didn't open his eyes at first - just exhaled, slow and tired - before finally speaking.
"You know there's this Greek folk tale," he began quietly, "about Pandora's box. It held all the evils of the world, and when she opened it, they escaped. But there was one thing left inside - hope."
He paused, his voice deep, calm - but there was something in it, something brittle.
"Everyone thinks Zeus put hope there as a kindness - so humans could endure the pain.
But that's not how the story goes. Zeus was angry.
He wanted humans to suffer every misery, but still...
keep hoping. Because hope keeps you alive just long enough to feel everything.
That was his revenge. Hope wasn't a gift," he said with a faint, ironic smile. "It was the cruelest curse."
Adhrita looked at him - the man who never believed in prayers, who fought belief itself - and saw something fragile in his eyes.
"I thought hope just makes you suffer," he said softly, eyes finally meeting hers. "But whenever you look at me with those hopeful eyes... I just want to protect that hope. I want to give it back to you."
He let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.
"And maybe, for once, I just want to hope with you. Hope that I can have a beautiful life... with my beautiful wife."
Adhrita just looked at him - really looked. The man who spent his life dissecting emotion like it was a threat, now sitting there confessing it in metaphors.
She didn't say anything at first. Her hand just reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary.
"You know," she said finally, her voice low, steady, "if hope is really a curse, then I think I'll keep it anyway."
He frowned slightly, as if trying to understand her.
"Because even if it hurts," she continued, "it still means I haven't given up on you."
For a second, he looked away - like her words had landed somewhere too deep. Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.
"So maybe," she whispered, "let Zeus have his revenge. We'll still keep hoping."
He didn't reply, just closed his eyes and breathed in her closeness - and for once, there was no battle between belief and disbelief, between logic and emotion. Just the silence of two people who'd stopped pretending they didn't need each other.
He didn't move for a long moment, just breathed her in - the scent of jasmine, the warmth of her skin, the unbearable peace of being understood.
Then, almost under his breath, he whispered, "Thank you, Elpis."
She smiled faintly, tilting her head in question.
"Elpis means hope," he said softly, his lips curving with the smallest trace of irony - the kind that always hid his ache. "In Greek."
And before she could respond, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead - slow, reverent, final.
For someone who claimed not to believe in gods, he was beginning to worship quietly.
??? V ? A ???
They reached the dock just as the wind began to pick up, carrying the faint scent of salt and dusk. A white yacht waited at the edge of the pier, its lights glimmering against the darkening water.
Adhrita stopped in her tracks, saree brushing against her ankles, her confusion plain.
"This is so important?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
Vritant just looked at her - his expression unreadable, but his voice steady. "Very."
She blinked, trying to process it - this was why they left Delhi? To stand by the sea, in her bridal red, while the world slept above the waves?
He didn't bother explaining. Instead, he simply reached for her hand - the same hand that still carried the faint imprint of his name in mehendi - and guided her toward the yacht.
And just like that, she followed - partly out of trust, partly out of the strange certainty that whatever awaited her out there on the water, it wasn't ordinary.
Love, manipulation, and a private jet yacht: modern rituals, Vardhan style.
────────── ?? ? ?? ──────────