- AUSHKA'S POV -
"I have learned to fold my fear into my lap and wear it like a dupatta, so no one notices the edges."
They say women should learn to adjust, they say women should bend themselves, stay silent, and especially, learn to take everything thrown at you.
Society tells women everything she never asked for.
But when it comes to men, their perspective changes.
Men are providers, oh... Should I learn how to pamper him then?
They say men are the protectors.
Some really are.
But what if the man who is supposed to be your protector becomes the one who haunts you?
Mumbai was full of night.
But inside the apartment? Only silence. My reflection in the living room window looks like a photograph someone carefully staged to be obeyed.
My saree weighs more than it should.
The colour of my saree was red. The pallu is tucked the way I was taught to tuck when I wanted to make myself smaller and still respectable.
My wrists are a concerto of glass bangles.
My bangles clink when I move and it's sound makes me feel less invisible. The mehndi on my palms, it's rich colour was dark.
People, especially my grandmother used to say that the dark stain of mehndi is a sign that your future partner will love you a lot.
I wonder why it was dark when my husband never actually loved me.
Maybe it's just a myth.
A mangalsutra is on my neck and earrings on my ears and the nose pin which I still remember how much I cried when I gotten it in my childhood.
Today is Karwa Chauth. I can hear the Neighbours laugh and gossip through paper-thin walls. I see women on the street a group of women chant for their husbands' long lives like it will change fate if they say it loud enough.
A fast for their husband's long life.
I picked up a match stick and lit the diya. I look at it until my eyes water, because that is what we are told: devotion will keep a man whole.
I close my eyes and I picture the man I'm married to. He called himself mine and practiced possession like it was a prayer.
People always ask me who I am before they know what I have lived through. I am a woman who folds flowers into paper cones at a stall near CST when money is needed.
I am not the bechari heroine in the novels. I am not the small, helpless thing that pity must wrap in ribbons. I am not innocent, I'm not weak. I know the edges of my own hardness. I have learned to count the cracks and still keep the mirror clean. I pray not because it absolves me but because it gives me a rhythm to breathe.
The man I'm married to is... I can't even find a word that fits him. Or a word that defines him.
He knew how to hold your hand in public tight enough to make you feel chosen and squeeze it harder in private to remind you who it belonged to.
He used love the way others used liquor to numb himself first and hurt others after.
Everytime he smiled, it was a smile that made neighbours think we were happy. When he spoke, it was with a calm that always came before a storm. He dressed his cruelty in suits and his apologies in gifts.
To the world, he was successful, suave.
But to me, he was a lesson carved in silence.
Aarav is the man who taught me how to clamp my fear down and arrange my face to please an audience that never paid rent. He dresses his temper in charm and his charm in threats.
He was the reason I learned to move like glass everytime he was near. And yet, when I think of him tonight, I wish pain could make a crown of gold. I wish anything would make the waiting easier.
I was about to tell myself the thing I have been rehearsing for months. I am about to say the sentence that will break me if I let it.
The bitter truths of this marriage.
The lies.
And the control.
The shower runs off, and I heard door of the bathroom opened.
He stepped directly onto the balcony with his wet hairs and a towel knotted low around his hips.
His body was carved. He did not look at me the way a husband might look at a wife dressed for a festival. He looked through me like I were part of the furniture he paid for and not a person who he's supposed to protect.
His eyes didn't even flicker when they landed on me standing there in a red saree with bangles in my wrists.
He didn't care how I looked. Actually he never cared.
Not even my efforts.
This man? He just leaned against the railing like he was bored. Not a single expression on his face.
"So, it's that day?" he said in a lazy tone. "Karwa Chauth. Praying for your husband's long life, huh?"
I remained silent. My throat was too tight to answer. It was late at night and my stomach growled reminding me that I haven't eaten or drank anything since last night. And he knew it. But he didn't seem to care.
His lips curved into a slow smirk as he pushed off the railing and came closer to me."Tell me, Aushka," he started with an amused tone, "do you really believe starving yourself makes me live longer?"
I looked away from him and clutched the edge of my saree.
He picked up the thaali. The plate I'd decorated with flowers, sindoor, sweets, and a small brass pot (lota) of water for the ritual. He said nothing and turned the thali in his hand. He was inspecting it like a child with a toy he planned to break.
"You fast, you pray, you pretend," he murmured. "And then what? You think it changes anything between us?"
Before I could react, he picked the brass pot of the water and splashed the water across my face.
He threw the water on my face. It stung my skin and soaked my hair. With a last small flicker, the diya I lit earlier died because of water drops falling on it. My bangles clinked softly as I froze.
He laughed under his breath. "There. Fast broken. You should thank me," he said. "My long life is safe now, isn't it?"
He set the empty thali down on the table with a hard thud. "Next time, don't waste your time pretending to be a good wife. It doesn't suit you."
With that he returned and walked back inside without even looking at me once, leaving me behind with his cold words. The door shut closed.
I stood there like a fool.
You must be thinking why did I do it?
Why did I dress up and fast and fold my prayers into a plate for a man who spat on everything I offered?
Because if I had not, the consequences would have been worse.
He did not only punish me. He would punished the world around me. Refusal did not stay between us. If I say a sharp word or a flat no to him, he would find a way to make my life harder. If I hadn't done the fast, he would definitely cut off the little work I did at the flower stall.
He had friends who liked to remind people what happened when you displeased him and besides this he had a reputation that worked like a lock on every door I might have opened.
I had seen what he did when he wanted obedience. I had learned the geometry of fear: deny him and the angle of attack always widened.
I knew he was a gangster.
So I kept quiet. I learned how to bend so the breaks were small. I faked gratitude until my face remembered the shape of a smile. I let him ruin a ritual. It was better than him ruining whatever peace I have. I chose bruises of dignity over bruises of consequence.
I hated him.
I hated every man who is a gangster like him.
With a sigh I closed the balcony door softly and stepped into the bedroom. The view I got to see was him lying on bed only his trousers. His one leg thrown over the other and phone glowing in his hand. He didn't look up.
He never looked up unless he wanted something.
I moved to the vanity and stood infront of the mirror. With care, I removed my earrings and heavy bangles. I gently placed them down on the vanity table.
Then I wiped the water from my face with the back of my hand.
I changed into a comfortable kurti and pajamas in the bathroom and stepped out. And when I looked at him, he was still lying in the same position.
"Eat something," I said in a small voice.
He didn't even blink. "I already ate before I came home," he said in his usual not-interested voice. He knew I had fasted, and still he ate outside.
He knew.
He turned onto his side and tucked the phone beneath his pillow. I stood in the middle of the room like an unwanted person.
How could I lose my appetite for a man like him? I questioned to myself. And the answer sat in the cold of his back turned to me.
I left the room and went to the kitchen.
I served the rice and sabji (curry) to myself and sat on the chair. I picked up the spoon and started eating. But the food tasted like cardboard. The dining room was empty except me and the sound of my chewing.
You must be thinking why didn't I leave?
Why didn't I run away the first time, or the second, or the hundredth?
I did run.
I ran so hard my lungs burned and the hem of my saree sucked mud from the gutter. I ran into the rain and into a bus-stop light and I sat there in the bus stop waiting for my bus of fate to arrive. I thought if I took this bus, I'll escape this hell. I still remember how I was shivering while sitting there.
But before the buss of my fate would arrive, he arrived.
He found me.
And what happened after that was worse.
Flashback:
The streetlights were weak due to the heavy rain and my feet slapped against the road until they hurt. Just two raw things dragging me away from the life I'd built wrong. I didn't look back; I was afraid.
I stopped at a bus stop.
The bus stop was half-lit, metal roof rattling as water poured off its edge. I ran over there and sat on the waiting benches. Wrapping my arms around myself, I closed my eyes to calm my racing heart. My wet saree was all stuck to my skin.
My mangalsutra hung heavy against my throat. I yanked it off from myself and for the first time since the wedding, I could breathe without its weight.
I thought about leaving it there. To let some stranger pick it up and wonder who'd been desperate enough to abandon it.
The rain didn't stop. My heartbeat didn't slowed. I slowly opened my eyes and whispered to myself. "I'll start over. Anywhere but there."
I never knew the bus I was waiting for would never let me change my fate.
Because, he found me before my fate could find me...
I saw a car stopped a few meters away. It's light made me blinked my eyes. My pulse froze when door opened.
And ofcourse a man who stepped out of the car was none other than my husband, Aarav. His crisp white shirt damped instantly due to the falling raindrops.
His face was calm.
Which means that the stom was coming.
He stared at me with his sharp eyes full of coldness. Then he walked toward me. My body moved unconsciously. I stood and stepped back but the curb caught my heel. His cold and steady hand shot out and gripped my wrist.
"Aushka," he said tenderly. "You really thought you could go?"
I shook my head. I couldn't speak when I knew what was about to happen. The words choking in my throat. "Please... just let me..."
With a tight grip on my wrist, he made me stop my words. He leaned in close, so close I could feel the heat of his breath beneath the smell of rain and cologne.
"You embarrassed me," he murmured. "You made me chase you through the streets like a thief. Do you know what that makes me look like?"
His tone was almost polite, but his eyes were a mirror of something far colder.
I tried to pull free. For a second, I did.
My wrist slipped from his grasp, and I stumbled back toward the bus stop bench. My legs were too tired from running, and before I could run he was closer again. He followed me with no rush and no anger on the surface just inevitability.
The way a storm rolls toward you after the lightning has already struck.
The back of his hand came fast when he reached me again. His hand landed hot against my cheek.
He slapped me.
He caught me by the hair when I tried to step away again, his fingers knotting into the wet strands. He pulled me until my scalp screamed. "P-please..."my mouth open and a sob came out.
"Let's go home," he said as if we were leaving a party. "You've caused enough of a scene."
He dragged me toward the car. I dug my heels into the ground. I was sobbing, begging, half-crying, half-pleading for someone to help. But the street was empty. No one was there because the rain had driven everyone inside.
I remember the sound of the car door closing after he pushed me in. He wiped the water from his jaw with the back of his hand and slid into the driver's seat. He turned his head and looked at me with a chilled smile.
"You'll thank me later," he said. My heart dropped completely. I know what it means. I tried to struggle, which entertained him the most.
The drive home blurred. My tears fogged the window. I tried to pray, but even my voice inside my head sounded small.
He stopped the car when we reached the apartment. Without saying anything, he dragged me inside and shut the door behind us. He guided me toward the center of the room by the back of my neck. The grip was firm but almost careful like he were teaching me a lesson that required patience.
Careful like he was breaking me and not breaking me at the same time.
"You think the world will take care of you?" he asked quietly. "You think anyone would believe the things you say about me? They see what I show them. That's all they'll ever see."
He let go of me and I fell to the floor. My saree spreading around me like a spill of water. The slap still rang in my head; the way he pulled my hair still burned.
He crouched in front of me, lifting my chin with a single finger. His voice dropped low. "Next time you run, Aushka, you won't have a home to come back to."
And then like the storm has calmed, he calmed himself. He adjusted his cuff and stood up at the same time and walked away toward the bathroom. He was humming under his breath as he left. I sat there on the cold floor with the chain of my mangalsutra tangled in my fist.
I wanted to scream. But instead, I cried quietly, because loud tears only made him return.
That night I learned what helplessness really meant. It was the realization that even escape could be used against you.
Maybe this is what 'owned by fate' is....
Present time:
We'd been married six months now.
Six months of learning how to make my life smaller so it would fit inside his rules. Six months of counting bruises, counting apologies that meant nothing. Six months of letting him decide who I could call, where I could go, what I could wear, what I could speak.
Six months of tricks small kindnesses used as leash. You didn't understand? Let me enlighten you....
A dinner out that was actually a public show. A gift that came with a ledger of debts. A soft voice that returned like a tide after each storm to pull me back into the water.
Six months of his compliments turning into commands, of my wages disappearing into his accounts, of my friends thinning away because his calls had more pull than my pleas. Six months of being watched, of being tested, of being taught to ask permission for breaths.
I can write hundreds of pages about this six months of marriage, yet it still won't be enough to express my thoughts.
I'm tired of pretending devotion while counting new ways to survive. He had taken everything that once belonged to me and called it love.
I pushed the chair back and stood. My legs numb from sitting too long. My feet carrying me toward the mandir of the house without any other thoughts.
The only place of this house where I didn't need to explain myself...
Didn't need to cry...
Didn't need to explain what I did, why I did ...
Because he already knew everything.
Krishna's idol stand on the small marble platform. The diya infront of him was burning yellow. I looked at him with a heavy heart. But his smile... The same calm smile He always did calmed my heart instantly. A gentle eternal smile that warms my heart automatically just by staring. I stopped there for a second, just looking at Him.
And before I could be pulled by the inner thoughts of me, I sank down onto the step in front of Him. The marble was cold, I could feel it through my kurti. My throat tightened before I even said a word. "You must be tired of hearing me," I whispered. My voice breaking. "But I have no one else to talk to."
I stared at His face.ย "I've done everything, Kanha. Every fast, every prayer, every promise. I tried to be what a good wife should be. Then why am I being punished like this? What mistake did I make?"
Tears blurred my vision until His face blurred. "They say You protect Your devotees, don't You? Then why are You so quiet? How much longer do You want me to pretend that I'm fine? How many times should I fall and get up again before You decide that I've had enough?"
My voice cracked completely. My shoulders shook as I bowed my head on his feet. "I'm so tired, Kanha," I whispered. My hands were shaking when they touched his lotus feet. "If You won't free me, at least help me sleep."
I closed my eyes, and like always my heart was calm completely in a few deep breathes like he was listening but choosing not to speak. The diya's soft golden flicker was calm and unchanging. Maybe that was His answer. Maybe He was telling me to wait.
I forgot the drying tears on my cheeks and ache in my chest as I finally drifted into sleep.
And I saw a dream that night. I dreamt of a road that led me somewhere far. I couldn't understand what it was but the place somewhere I hadn't reached yet.
- TO BE CONTINUED -
So this was the first chapter.
Guess... When will they meet ??? (Ml and fl?)
Um... Hope you enjoyed โกโกโก
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