Page 54 of Mrs. Pandey
IRA
"What kind of kheer is this?" Mrs. Pandey snapped, her voice cutting through the thick silence of the kitchen as she pointed a trembling finger at the offending bowl I had just placed on the table. Her eyes, usually so cold and sharp, now blazed with a terrifying fury.
"Do you think I am going to feed this… this to my guests? You don't even know how to make kheer, huh? What are you, a child who doesn't know when to wake up, how to feed, or how to talk?"
She practically shrieked the last words, and I winced, the sound echoing in the small space like a physical blow. I stood with my head lowered, my gaze fixed on the worn kitchen floor, listening to her cold words cascade over me. Each one felt like a slap, yet she spoke them with an alarming nonchalance, as if addressing a particularly dull inanimate object rather than a human being with a beating heart. She didn't look like a woman who had ever acknowledged anyone's feelings, let alone her own.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Pandey… I mean, Maa…" I let out a shuddering breath, the faint, acrid scent of burnt milk still lingering in the air, a cruel, persistent reminder of my culinary failure and why I should probably never trust myself with a saucepan again. The heat still throbbed on my hand where the spluttering milk had scalded me, a raw, angry mark, but her words were far harsher than any burn, any wound on my skin.
"Sorry?" She hissed, her voice dripping with acid. "Will you correct everything with a pathetic 'sorry'? You have no idea, girl, what a mess you're putting my family in! First, you created drama last night, and now you're feeding my family this… this shit?"
Her hand shot out, grasping my arm with surprising strength, her fingers digging into my flesh. She pulled me closer, forcing my eyes to meet her furious gaze, a silent challenge in their depths.
"I swear to God, you'll be really sorry for whatever you have done to my son." The last words were a low, dangerous growl.
"Make me sorry," I said softly, the words barely a whisper, yet she caught the underlying tone, the subtle defiance I couldn't quite suppress. A flicker of surprise, quickly masked, crossed her face. "Are you trying to threaten me?"
"Are you challenging me, Bahu?" She sneered, her grip tightening on my arm, her lips curling into a predatory smile.
"Maybe I am, Maa," I shot back, my voice steady despite the frantic tremor in my chest, the fear that still coiled in my gut. But something else was there now too, a spark of defiance.
"Because unlike this kheer," I gestured vaguely at the offending bowl with my free hand, "I'm not something you can just throw away or mold to your liking. I'm Ira. And I have a voice. And feelings. And I won't stand here and be called 'shit' or be blamed for everything that goes wrong in your perfect little world."
Her jaw dropped, her eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and disbelief. For a split second, she looked utterly stunned, hercarefully constructed composure shattered. It was a victory, small but profoundly significant, a tiny crack in her formidable facade.
She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to unleash another torrent of abuse, to reclaim her dominance, but I cut her off before she could utter a single word.
"And as for your son," I continued, my voice rising, gaining in volume and conviction with each word, "don't you dare bring him into this! Whatever happened last night had nothing to do with 'creating a drama.' It had everything to do with facing the truth!"
She lunged forward, her hand raised, poised to strike, her face contorted with fury. But this time, I didn't flinch. My eyes locked with hers, a silent dare passing between us, an unspoken challenge that hung heavy in the air. Her hand hesitated, hovering for a moment, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, dropped to her side.
The air crackled with unspoken threats, with the residue of her anger, but something had shifted irrevocably. The power dynamic, for the very first time since I had entered this house, felt a little less one-sided, a little more balanced.
"I may not know how to make perfect kheer," I said, my voice softer now, almost a whisper, but no less firm, no less resolute. "But I know how to stand up for myself. And I will. Every single time."
She stared at me, her chest heaving with unspent anger, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The usual venom in her gaze was still present, but now it was undeniably mixed with a sliverof surprise, perhaps even a grudging respect. Or maybe it was just pure, unadulterated shock that I had dared to speak back, to challenge her authority.
Either way, the silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the lingering, unfortunate scent of my culinary disaster and the faint but distinct sound of my own heart beating, finally free of the crushing weight of her words. _______
Prashant's house was anything but a safe haven. Its cracked, half-finished walls hinted at a precarious existence, a life lived on the edge of structural integrity. Within its four rooms, a modest living room, a small, perpetually damp kitchen, and two bathrooms that offered little comfort, the pervasive wall seepage was a constant, seeping reminder of its decay, a damp stain spreading across every surface.
Outside, the absence of a proper drainage system only compounded the problems, turning every rain shower into a miniature flood around the crumbling foundation. I wasn't complaining out loud, not yet, but the reality was stark and undeniable: this place felt dangerously unfit for habitation. A chilling thought often crept into my mind: what if a heavy monsoon caused the already weakened structure, burdened by years of neglect and moisture, to finally collapse?
I stepped into Prashant's room, a space that felt both Spartan and intensely personal. It held a small, narrow bed that looked barely big enough for one, and a single chair and table, both practically groaning under the weight of an impressive stack of books. Most of them were thick tomes on military tactics, strategy, and history. We were in the same field, both serving our country, but it was clear that Prashant had immersed himself in his studies, meticulously preparing to achieve ahigher score in our competitive examinations. I, on the other hand, had merely scraped by, clearing my exam in the first attempt, a stark contrast to his apparent dedication.
My gaze drifted to the wall beside the bed, drawn by an almost magnetic pull. I moved closer, my fingers tracing the faint, almost imperceptible marks where my nails had inadvertently clawed against the plaster when Prashant had taken me against it, his body pressing mine into the rough surface. God, I hated the circumstances of that moment, the anger and resentment that had fueled it, yet a strange, undeniable longing twisted in my gut. I loved having sex with my husband; it was good, intensely good, a raw, primal connection that transcended the bitterness of our interactions. Prashant, with his rugged looks and powerful body, just made me even more impossibly horny. I had never wanted to be with any man this much, not even Aryan.
I looked down at my burnt hand, the skin still red and tender, and a sad, weary smile touched my lips. Was I really enduring all of this, all the pain and humiliation, just to have sex with him? The immediate, undeniable answer was no, not entirely. It was more complicated than that. The more he hated me, the more I found myself wanting him, wanting to break through the impenetrable wall he had built around himself. I would make him realize again how much he was, how much he had been, in love with me. I would do everything, whatever he asked of me, to win back that part of him. But first, I desperately needed his help to teach Kabir Rajput a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. That vengeance, that justice, was a fire burning deep within me. But to achieve it, I needed to win Prashant's heart, to mend what was broken between us.
A faint creak of the door behind me shattered my reverie, pulling me abruptly back to the harsh present. I turned around, a hopeful smile blooming on my face. But my smile faltered, then dropped completely, freezing on my lips as I saw his expression. His face was a thundercloud, his eyes dark and stormy, devoid of any warmth.
"What did you just say to Maa?" Prashant asked roughly, his voice a low growl that vibrated through the small room. He strode towards me, his movements quick and purposeful, like a furious animal closing in on its prey. "What did you just say to her, Ira?" Each word was punctuated by a step, closing the distance between us until he loomed over me.
"What are you talking about, Prashant?" I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper, trying desperately to read his expression, to find some crack in his anger, but I could discern nothing but raw fury, cold disgust, and unadulterated hatred. It was a terrifying mask.
"Oh, now you'll behave like the innocent you are not!" He snapped, his voice sharp, his words lashing out like whips across my face, making me flinch, instinctively recoiling. He was getting more violent, more unhinged, day by day, and the realization sent a shiver of fear down my spine. "I know what type of woman you are, Ira, so please drop this drama and admit it!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" I hissed out, a surge of my own anger rising to meet his, stepping back from him, trying to put some distance between us. "And mind your language!"
