Page 99 of Mrs. Pandey
My phone buzzed on the bedside table. I glanced at the screen, it was an appointment with the doctor. I had almost forgotten my checkup. I had been putting it off for weeks, too consumed with the storm inside my marriage. Perhaps that explained my sudden fatigue, the nausea I had brushed aside as stress. Perhaps the sleepless nights had finally taken their toll.
With a heavy sigh, I dressed in a brown top with jeans. I removed the bangles, the mangalsutra, and wiped away the sindoor, I no longer needed to wear them. I looked at myself in the mirror, examining my face: the hollow cheeks, the dark circles underneath my eyes, and my colourless lips. I grabbed a lip gloss and dabbed it on.
I reached the hospital in ten minutes. The lobby smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee. I checked in quietly, avoiding the curious eyes of one of the officers who seemed to recognize me from yesterday’s party. A couple of soldiers murmured something behind my back. I ignored it. This was common in army hospitals, everyone recognized you. My name was no longer private. My pain was no longer mine alone. I had done wrong yesterday, but Prashant deserved every bit of it, cheating on me. I looked at my phone, and to my surprise, there wasn’t a single message from him. He must be busy screwing Dr. Riddhima. Thankfully, she was not there to witness my agony.
When the doctor finally called me in, I sat down across from her with my palms pressed tightly together, knuckles whitening. She studied my file, then looked at me with a softness that made my heart stutter.
“Lieutenant Ira,” she began gently. There was hesitation in her voice. I swallowed hard and waited for her to speak further. “Your tests… They show something important. You’re pregnant.”
I froze, my eyes widening in white shock. For a moment, the words did not register inside my head. Pregnant. The sound of it seemed to hang in the sterile air, detached from me. My hand instinctively moved to my abdomen, pressing lightly, protectively, even before my mind had fully processed the truth.
Three months. That’s what the doctor said. I was three months pregnant and I had not even known. Three months while I fought silent wars in my home, while I believed my husband loved me, even as he was fucking another woman. All that time, life had been quietly blooming inside me, fragile and unnoticed, like a hidden seed breaking through soil.
But then her voice lowered, careful and deliberate. “There are complications, Ira. It won’t be easy for you. Your body is under stress, and there are high risks in having this child. That’s what your reports say. We will need to monitor you closely. As your doctor, I suggest you consider aborting this pregnancy, because it may not only risk your life, but also your unborn baby’s.”
Her words blurred at the edges as my heart pounded in my ears. She was still talking about the complications and risks. I thought of the weight I had gained, the glow Pari had innocently noticed, the nausea I had ignored. My eyes stung. In another world, I might have smiled at this news, run to tell my husband with joy, imagined tiny fingers curling around mine. But in this world, the world that had betrayed me, I sat frozen, torn between terror and a strange, aching love.
“Do you want to keep the pregnancy?” the doctor asked softly, her eyes searching mine.
I closed my eyes. Behind the darkness of my lids, I saw flashes of last night: the applause turning into gasps, Prashant’s silence, Pari’s tearful eyes. And then I imagined something else, something untainted, a small cry, a tiny face, a heartbeat I could call my own. A reason to keep walking, even when the ground shook beneath me.
When I opened my eyes, they were wet but steady. “Yes. I want to keep it.” My voice trembled, but it held its truth. “No matter the risks. This child is mine.”
The doctor nodded with understanding, though worry flickered across her face. She explained medicines, restrictions, appointments. But her voice had become a distant hum. My hand stayed pressed to my abdomen, as though through thattouch I could already feel the pulse of the little life growing inside me. It would be fragile, complicated, but mine. ______
I was sipping lukewarm tea in my office while working on the computer when I heard murmurs in the background, soldiers talking outside my door. And then I caught his name on their lips. I froze, listening.
“Captain Prashant Pandey is transferred back to Jammu and Kashmir. I heard he’s been selected for a high-risk mission again.”
The words struck like ice rain against my skin. My chest tightened, not with love, not with longing, but with the strange, complicated ache of a bond that refused to dissolve so easily. Once upon a time, I had feared every posting, every mission, terrified he would not return. Now, even after his betrayal, even with divorce papers between us, the instinct did not vanish. My heart clenched at the thought of him walking into danger again. He had come back from the den of death years ago, and now he was going again.
But I did not allow myself to linger on it. I did not allow myself to care. He had chosen his path, and I had chosen mine.
Later that afternoon, I found out I was transferred to the Jaipur Unit. Away from Barmer, away from the whispers, the curious stares, the pitying glances that followed me everywhere. Jaipur meant a new beginning, even if fragile, even if uncertain. A place where my child could first know the sound of my laughter, not just the echo of his or her father’s betrayal.
The day I received my posting letter, I held it in trembling hands. My belongings were already half packed: boxes stackedin corners, books wrapped in newspapers, clothes folded with care. The pink saree from that night hung separately, a relic of both my breaking and my rebirth. I could not bring myself to fold it away. It was a wound and a medal all at once.
Sitting on the floor amidst the chaos, I placed a palm on my belly. “We’re going to Jaipur,” I whispered, as though the child could hear me already. “A fresh start, little one. Just you and me.”
Tears blurred my vision, but they were not only of pain. They were of hope. I thought of the risks, the complications, the doctor’s warnings. Fear crawled inside me, yes, but stronger than fear was resolved. I had chosen to keep this life. I would fight for it with everything I had.
In the silence of my quarters, the sound of my metal bangles brushing together was the only melody. A melody that no longer reminded me of chains, but of strength.
The night before leaving Barmer, I dreamt. In the dream, I stood in the same banquet hall as before, chandeliers glittering, whispers swirling around the hall. But this time, instead of handing over divorce papers, I carried a small person in my arms, a baby swaddled in soft cloth, its face peaceful, untouched by the storms that had created it. The crowd blurred, Priya’s scowl faded, even Prashant’s gaze dissolved into nothingness. All I saw was the child. It was my child.
I woke with tears on my pillow, my heart aching with both fear and hope. I pressed my hand to my belly once more, whispering into the dawn, “We’ll be okay. Somehow, we’ll be okay.”
And as the city began to wake outside my window, I realized something profound: yesterday I had chosen myself, but this morning I chose us.
Me and the little life within me, growing inside me. Against all odds. Against the world. We would grow stronger and stronger. _______
Chapter 47
PRASHANT
SIX MONTHS LATER
MILITARY HOSPITAL – DELHI
