Page 61 of Mrs. Pandey
Everything I had imagined was wrong. I knew Prashant was no longer the same person. He used to be an inspiration, even in pain. He taught others how to smile no matter how unfair life could be. But now, he had changed, completely, entirely, and, I feared, permanently. Still, I wanted him in my life. And I was ready to pay the price.
The cab hadn't even stopped before I saw the tension in his jaw. Priya was the first to step out, her eyes narrowing the moment she caught sight of the freshly painted gate. Pari stood beside me on the steps, shrinking slightly. Her nervousness mirrored mine.
Then his mother emerged from the car. The moment her eyes landed on the verandah, where the old carved swing once sat, now replaced by a wooden bench nestled between potted plants, she froze. She didn't even make it to the threshold. A sharp gaspescaped her lips as her knees buckled. Prashant caught her just in time.
"Maa?" he said sharply, holding her upright. "Maa, are you okay?"
She clutched the end of her dupatta like it could anchor her to something real.
"Where... where is it?" she whispered, scanning the porch like something sacred had been stolen. She turned her head in every direction, searching for the swing but it was gone.
"Oh God!" she cried, clutching her chest like she was suffering a heart attack.
Old dramatic woman, I thought, rolling my eyes. If she ever applied for a villain role, she'd get it without a second thought.
"What the hell!" Priya snapped, turning toward me, her teeth grinding. "Where is Baba's chair, Bhabhi? The rosewood one? And what the hell did you do to this house?"
"I donated it. It was falling apart. Termite-ridden. The carpenter said..."
"You donated our grandfather's chair?" Priya's voice trembled with something beyond anger, her eyes wide in disbelief. "It's not just a chair, it was him. Do you even understand what you've done? And please don't tell me you did the same thing with the rest of the furniture in this house?"
"They were old, Priya..." Pari stepped forward, trying to support me. I sighed in relief.
"Old?" my mother-in-law screeched, turning her fury on her daughter. "How dare you call our ancestral furniture old? That furniture has been used by generations! And now this woman..." She pointed at me, her finger trembling with rage. "...sold everything without even asking us once?"
"Maa..." I began, but she raised her hand sharply and silenced me.
"I know women like you," she spat. Then she turned to her son. "You married this woman against my wishes, Prashant. You chose her over your own mother, over your family's legacy. And now look at what she's done! She's destroyed everything...our memories, our history. She's sold it all for her modern tastes!"
Her voice cracked, rising into a dramatic wail.
Prashant stood frozen, still holding his mother. His gaze shifted from her trembling form, to me, then to the unfamiliar verandah. The easy surprise I had imagined was replaced by something else entirely: a hardening in his eyes, a familiar tension tightening around his mouth. It was the look he wore when faced with an impossible choice, one he couldn't resolve without someone getting hurt.
"Maa, please, calm down," he said, his voice strained. "Let's go inside. We can talk about this."
"Talk?" Priya scoffed, stepping closer. "There's nothing to talk about, Bhaiyya! She's clearly lost her mind! Our entire house...our inheritance...just... gone!" She gestured wildly around the property, as if the new paint and potted plants were an affront to their very existence.
Pari, usually timid, found a sudden burst of courage. "It was falling apart! The wood was rotten, the paint was peeling. It needed repairs, a lot of them. Bhabhi just made it beautiful again!"
"Beautiful?" my mother-in-law shrieked, pulling away from Prashant. Her finger shot toward Pari, trembling with accusation. "You dare defend her, child? You think this... this newness... is better than what generations built? This house, every piece of furniture in it, told a story. Our story! And she erased it!"
Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, locked onto mine. And for the first time, behind all the melodrama and bitterness, I saw something else: grief. Genuine grief.
"This is what happens when you bring an outsider into a family, Prashant. They don't understand. They don't respect. They just destroy."
Prashant didn't say a word.
He looked around again. His eyes traveled across the fresh paint, the polished woodwork, the new kitchen tiles. The blue backsplash that I had chosen, thinking it would make the room brighter suddenly looked garish under the weight of his silence.
And then, he looked at me. I'd waited for that look for days. I thought it would hold a flicker of softness, something warm. Something resembling love. But this look cut through me like a blade.
"Come inside," I said quietly, unsure where the hope in my chest was still coming from. "Please. At least see it properly."
He walked in stiffly. Each step echoed through the hallway like a judgment.
I followed, my voice gentle, tentative. "This used to be the guest room," I said. "I turned it into a reading nook for Maa. With natural light. I thought she'd like that. And the kitchen I kept the layout almost the same, just made it safer, more accessible..."
He stopped abruptly and turned. I nearly bumped into him. His eyes burned.
