Page 108 of Mrs. Pandey
The walls of my room closed in, and my lungs burned as if I’d been suffocated.
“No… no, no, no…” I choked, shaking my head violently. “This can’t be happening. Not Ira. Not her.”
Within minutes I was at the airport, my uniform half-packed, boots unlaced. I don’t even remember the flight, just that my hands wouldn’t stop trembling and I prayed...prayed like I never had before. “Please God, not her. Take me, not her. Let me suffer, not her. She’s stronger, she’s everything good… not her.”
By the time I reached Jaipur and rushed into the hospital, my body was shaking from exhaustion and dread. The smell of antiseptic hit me first, sharp and cold. My boots pounded against the sterile tiles as I followed Avni’s directions to the ICU.
When I stepped into Ira’s room, time froze.
She lay there, pale as ivory, tubes snaking out of her fragile arms, machines beeping in rhythm with her faint heartbeat. Her hair spilled over the pillow, her lips parted slightly as though she were just sleeping. But she wasn’t.
I staggered forward and stopped at her bedside. My knees weakened, and for a moment I thought I would collapse. My hands hovered above her face, afraid to touch her, terrified she would vanish if I did.
“Ira…” My voice broke on her name. Tears blurred my vision. I sank onto the chair beside her, clutching her limp hand.
In that instant, every memory assaulted me, her laughter during training in Dehradun, when she had slipped into the river and splashed water at me; her smile the first time we made love; the fire in her eyes when she argued with me, and the softness when she forgave me.
How could I have ever left this woman? How could I have doubted her, hurt her, abandoned her?
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, pressing her hand to my forehead. “Ira, please… please come back to me. I can’t do this without you. You don’t deserve this, not after everything you carried, everything you bore for me.”
The machines continued their cold beeping. Her chest rose and fell in a mechanical rhythm.
I broke. Tears slid down my cheeks, unchecked. I had faced death, torture, war, but nothing had ever terrified me like the thought of losing her.
Kavya entered quietly, her face etched with exhaustion and sorrow. She didn’t say anything at first, just placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Prashant…” her voice was gentle, almost reluctant. “There’s someone you need to see.”
I looked up, confused. “Who?”
“Your son.”
Oh, I have a son now and why Ira didn't tell me she was pregnant.
My lips trembled, my hands clenched. “No.” I shook my head violently. “I don’t… I don’t want to see him.”
Kavya frowned. “What are you saying?”
“This… this happened because of him!” I snapped, my voice raw and broken. “Ira is lying there because of that child. She almost died giving birth. She’s in a coma because her body broke down carrying him!” My chest heaved as anger and grief twisted inside me. “I can’t… I can’t look at him. I can’t.”
Kavya’s eyes flared, and she stepped closer, her tone fierce. “Don’t you dare say that, Prashant. Don’t you dare blame an innocent baby for this. That little boy is the only piece of Ira we have right now, the only living part of her outside that room.”
I turned away, my fists trembling. “I don’t care. I don’t want him.”
Her voice cracked like a whip. “Do you even know what Ira went through? Do you know how many nights she cried for you? Howmany times she held her belly, whispering your name? Even when she knew she might die, she never gave up on carrying your child. She begged me… begged me… that if something happened to her, you must see his face. That’s the last thing she asked of me before they wheeled her into the labour room!”
I froze, my breath caught in my throat. My heart stopped.
“She begged… to see me?” I whispered.
Kavya’s eyes glistened. “Yes. She said, ‘Tell Prashant… he has to know, he has to see our baby.’ That was her last thought, Prashant. Not herself. Not her pain. You.”
The words shattered me. I staggered back, my legs giving way, and I sank into the chair again, burying my face in my hands.
My son.
Her son.
