3. Khichdi

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐯....

"Jija ji...

Jija ji...

Jija ji..."

The word echoed in the room like a thunderbolt as Ansh turned to face Devika, who was peeking at him from behind the bathroom door.

"Wait a minute," Ansh said, pulling out his Bluetooth earbuds. He abruptly walked toward the bathroom.

"Did you just call me...?" he asked, staring at her small face—so tiny and timid, almost like a little rat.

"Uhh... vo... vo... jija ji... vo main kya pehnun?"

"Ohh wait..."

"Wait... what...?"

Ansh stopped mid-step as the words finally registered.

Jija ji...

Jija...

Jijaaaa...

His eyes widened. The realization hit him like a jolt of electricity. He snapped his head toward Devika, but before he could utter a word, she slammed the door shut in his face.

"Hey! Open the door, Devi! What did you just call me?" he shouted, knocking loudly.

"Devi!"

No response.

"Devi, I said open the damn door!"

Still, silence.

"Okay, fine! If you don't, I swear I'm going to break it!"

Just then, the door creaked open slightly, revealing only Devika’s trembling face.

"Step out," Ansh ordered, his eyes shifting from disbelief to pure rage.

Devika shook her head, unable to face him. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked away.

Ansh's patience snapped. His jaw clenched as he flung the door open with a loud thud and grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him.

Devika flinched at the sudden act—too scared, too shaken to even look at him. Her grip tightened around her towel in fear to slipped,

Ansh's hand moved to her waist, pulling her closer. Panic surged through her veins as her hands landed against his bare chest.

"Look at me," he said—his voice soft, yet commanding.

She didn’t react. Her lips trembled, and she tried to pull away from his grip, but he was far too strong for her.

"Maine kaha meri taraf dekho, Devi," he repeated, firmer this time.

She shook her head, still refusing, still struggling to escape.

Ansh grabbed her chin and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. His gaze was only finding her eyes not anywhere, only her eyes,

"Kaun hoon main tumhara?"

"H... Husband," she stammered.

She knew he wouldn’t harm her... yet she couldn’t fully believe that. Who knew what he was capable of?

"Then why did you call me that?" he asked, his eyes boring into hers—those glowing, intense black orbs that refused to blink.

"I… I didn’t know how else to address you… and before… you were supposed to be my brother-in-law," she murmured, struggling with her words.

"So you called me that?"

She nodded slightly.

Ansh’s gaze dropped to her trembling lips. A light smirk tugged at his mouth. He brushed his thumb against them. She flinched and shut her eyes in fear.

"Devi," he whispered, "you were always meant to be mine. I didn’t force anything."

His hand gently touched her cheek.

"It was that damn situation that forced me to act."

Devika opened her eyes—confusion and disbelief clouding her expression. She didn’t understand what he meant.

"Call me whatever you want... but never call me that fucking word again."

He kissed her forehead gently, then let her go.

She stood still—shocked, confused, and utterly lost in his words and actions.

Ansh walked to the couch, picked up a bag, and held it out toward her.

"Take it. Change now."

She looked at him, fire flaring in her eyes, but said nothing. Her eyes were red with rage and exhaustion as she snatched the bag and went back into the bathroom.

---

20 minutes later…

____________________________________



𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 : 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐤𝐚𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

𝐁𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥- 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

____________________________________

Ansh stood near the dressing table, humming a soft tune under his breath. Dressed in a crisp white formal shirt and black trousers, he adjusted his watch with calm precision. At the sound of the door clicking open behind him, he instinctively turned—and then stilled.

A goddess in red,

She stood there, draped in a red Banarasi saree. No jewelry. No makeup. And yet… she looked divine. So breathtaking that Ansh couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, overwhelmed, unable to meet his.

Slowly, as if drawn by a trance, he walked toward her. She could feel his steady steps—each one making her tremble. Her fingers clutched the fabric of her saree tightly.

"𝐁𝐨𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐠 𝐫𝐚𝐡𝐢 𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐢𝐧," he murmured, his voice husky, a soft half-smile curling on his lips. He gently took her wrist and led her toward the dressing table.

He made her sit. Only then did she lift her face, her eyes meeting his through the mirror. He stood behind her, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, veins visible on his masculine arms, watching her like a devotee beholds his deity.

After a moment, he picked up a small box from the table and opened it—inside lay a pair of red bangles. Humming softly,

“Main agar kahoon, tumsa koi,

Kaynaat mein, nahin hai koi…”

He gently took her wrist and slid the bangles on—first one hand, then the other. His gaze never left her, while she continued to watch him through the mirror. Her eyes were red, brimming with unshed tears. Whether it was love or pain, only she knew.

He then picked up a towel, stood beside her, and touched her damp hair. She shivered. A small smile tugged at his lips as he began drying her hair with tender care.

When he was done, his eyes fell on her empty hair partition. His expression shifted—restless, searching. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a tiny box, and took a pinch of vermillion. Gently, he filled her hairline with it, sending goosebumps across her skin.

She gasped softly, her eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“Why are you doing all this?” she whispered, a lone tear slipping down her cheek. But before it could fall, Ansh caught it—his palm open beneath her face.

“Doing what? Isn’t it normal… to care for one’s wife?”

“𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞,” she snapped, her voice trembling, eyes now filled with tears.

“𝐀𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐤𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐧𝐚𝐡𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐢 𝐚𝐚𝐩𝐤𝐨 𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐳𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢 𝐤𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐢𝐧.”

Ansh smirked faintly, his face unreadable.

“ whether you'reforced… but still my wife. And you can’t deny that.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, wiping away the tears.

“𝐌𝐮𝐣𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐦 𝐦𝐢𝐥 𝐠𝐚𝐲𝐢, 𝐚𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐪𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐨 . 𝐌𝐮𝐣𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐫 𝐤𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐧𝐚𝐡𝐢 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐡𝐢𝐲𝐞, 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢.”

Then, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

He cupped her face in his palms, his eyes now burning with intensity.

“And believe me, Devi… you will fall for me. More than I will for you.”

He stood up, adjusting his sleeves.

“I have to go. And by the time I return, I want those tears gone.”

Without waiting to see her reaction, he walked out, leaving her frozen in place. His words echoed in her mind:

“You were supposed to be mine.”

“Mujhe tum mil gayi.”

“You will fall for me.”

She turned toward the mirror, staring at her own reflection. Her fingers slowly reached up to touch the vermillion. That kiss. Those words…

“Zabardasti ke rishton mein pyaar nahi hote. Benaam hote hain aise rishte…”

She wiped her tears, her voice low but fierce—fighting back the storm inside her.

“I will never fall for you, … never. Not even in your dreams.”

She shouted—unaware that someone was listening.

And yes, it was none other than her forced husband.

Ansh.

Yes, Ansh… he hadn’t left.

He knew exactly how she would react.

Leaning quietly behind the door, arms crossed, legs folded, he stood still—his back resting against the cold wall. Her cracking voice reached him, not just through his ears but deeper—into the place where pain quietly brews.

But this time, he wasn’t emotionless.

There was a faint, painful smile tugging at his lips.

His eyes were shut, as if trying to relive something long buried...

Or maybe, feel something he thought he had forgotten.

"𝐉𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧... 𝐯𝐨 𝐪𝐢𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐭 𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢,"

he whispered, so softly that even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Then, slowly opening his eyes and gazing at the ceiling, he murmured—

"𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐡𝐭𝐚 𝐭𝐨𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐡𝐢 𝐧𝐚𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚…

𝐏𝐚𝐫 𝐲𝐞 𝐳𝐚𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐦 𝐝𝐢𝐥 𝐤𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐢…

And with that…

He finally walked away.

  𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚

I was still sitting in the same place, staring at my reflection.

My tears had dried, but their marks were still visible.

A sharp pain twisted in my stomach—one only I could bear.

He hadn’t returned for the past half an hour.

Did he leave me?

The thought jolted me.

No… No, he can’t.

Panic began to rise within me. But before it could take over, I heard the door creak open.

I turned, and there he was—walking towards me with a tray in his hands.

He pulled up a small table and placed the tray on it beside me.

I glanced down at the tray—khichdi.

The aroma reached my nostrils, warm and familiar. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the comforting scent of fresh spices wash over me.

Greediness suddenly took over. My hands shot out to grab the spoon. Just as I was about to dig in, a hand gripped my wrist mid-air, stopping me.

I looked down at his hand, then up at him, my brows narrowing.

“Wash your hands first,” he ordered flatly, his voice completely emotionless.

But I wasn’t in the mood to follow his instructions.

“Why? They’re already clean.”

“They’re clean? How can they be clean? You wiped your tears with them—and who knows, you probably wiped your nose too…”

I stared at him in disbelief, bringing my fingers to my nose. Seriously?

Did he really just say that?

“Stop glaring at me. Go and wash your hands,” he added.

“Pagal aadmi…” (Crazy man…) I muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

“Suna maine.” (I heard that.)

“Haan pata hai.” (Yeah, I know.)

I could feel his gaze burning into me, but I didn’t care.

After reluctantly washing my hands, I returned to the table and sat back down.

But just as I reached for the spoon again, he snatched it away.

I blinked in confusion and mild amusement as he dipped the spoon into the khichdi—and then brought it to my mouth.

This man!

Then why make me wash my hands if he planned to feed me himself?

“Open your mouth, Devi.”

“Ji nahin. Main aapke haathon se nahin khaungi. Maine apne haath dho liye hain.”

(No, I won’t eat from your hands. I already washed mine.)

I could hear the slight edge in my voice as I turned my head away from him.

“Soch lo. Mere paas aur bhi raste hain tumhein khilane ke.”

(Think again. I have other ways to make you eat.)

I looked back at him.

And I knew he meant it.

And right now, I didn’t want anything more than that warm khichdi.

So… I gave in.

I opened my mouth, and he fed me a spoonful.

A smirk curled at his lips.

Ugh, I hate that smirk.

The one he flashes after irritating me—clearly enjoying every second of it.

Spoon after spoon, he fed me in silence while I devoured it.

Only I knew how long it had been since I’d eaten fresh, hot food.

A part of me wanted to cry.

To hug him.

To curl up into him and let all my emotions pour out.

To show him my joy… but I couldn’t.

“Aapko nahin khana kya?” (Aren’t you going to eat?)

“Nahin. Pehle tum kha lo. Main jaanta hoon tumhare pet mein chuhe daud rahe hain.”

(No. You eat first. I know your stomach must be growling.)

“Hunh? Aapko kaise pata?”

(Huh? How do you know?)

“Zaahir si baat hai. Tumne kal se kuch nahin khaya hai, toh…”

(It’s obvious. You haven’t eaten since yesterday…)

Finally, after giving me the last bite, he smiled.

He picked up a tissue and gently wiped my mouth.

I stared at him—amused, confused, and something else I couldn’t name.

“Tum kuch der aaram kar lo. Hum kuch der mein niklenge.”

(Rest for a while. We’ll be leaving soon.)

“Kahaan?” (Where?)

I asked quickly, my heart suddenly uneasy.

He turned toward me, a subtle look on his face, and said—

“𝐓𝐮𝐦𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐚𝐥.”

(To your in-laws’ house.)