Page 70 of Mrs. Pandey
Day 10
Prison Cell - Location Unknown
Major Nadeem died two days ago.
They took him out, and when they brought him back, his body was cold, his face was untouched, but his eyes were wide open, staring upward, a look of profound peace on his face. He had lasted longer than any of us. Until the very end, he refused tospeak, his silence a final act of defiance. And he was a true warrior, a man who chose honor over life.
I whispered a prayer for him, a silent tribute to a fallen brother.
Now it was just me. Sharma hadn't made it either. Qureshi, I hadn't heard for days. Maybe he broke. Maybe he died too.
They hadn't given me anything in days, just water, once a day, a cruel mockery of sustenance. My wounds had crusted; some were infected, a sickly green and yellow. The air in the cell smelled of iron and rot, the stench of decay. My mind drifted. I saw my mother. My sisters' anklets as they ran on the porch, the sound a faint jingle in my memory. I remembered everything, even things I thought I had forgotten.
They came again and followed the same routine. They asked me more questions, their voices a monotonous drone. They gave more blows, each one a fresh wave of pain.
Still, I said nothing. I would never say anything, even if they buried me ten feet in the earth alive. Because I knew I wasn't just Prashant. I wasn't even just a soldier. I was a message for them, a final whisper in the ears of cowards who thought pain could buy loyalty. My silence was a roar.
If I died here, I would die unchanged. I would die whole. My name would still mean something. Maybe not to her. But to my flag. To the ashes of Rawat, Major Nadeem, Sharma and Qureshi.
And maybe someday, if someone told Ira what happened, if the story of a soldier's sacrifice reached her, maybe just then herfingers would freeze around a coffee mug. Maybe her eyes would flicker, a ghost of a memory.
Maybe she would whisper my name, not out of love, but out of the ache of a story that ended too soon. And that would be enough.
_______
Chapter 32
IRA
I stood in the kitchen, staring blankly at the strange, wrinkled vegetable lying on the chopping board. Bitter gourd, I thought. Karela. I had never cooked it before. Its bumpy skin looked unwelcoming, almost warning me not to try. But my mother-in-law wanted it for lunch, and saying no wasn't an option in this house. I glanced through the doorway, where she sat in her high-backed armchair like a quiet monarch, flipping through a book, perhaps the Ramayana again. She read it every day, lips moving silently, her fingers rhythmically rolling prayer beads. Her devotion was tireless.
It had been three weeks since our marriage. Three weeks of observing, adjusting, and sometimes just enduring. What I had learned about this new family I had married into was both revealing and suffocating. Prashant's family was traditional in the strictest sense. Pure Brahmins. No onion, no garlic, certainly no meat. The kitchen was a temple, and my mother-in-law was its high priestess. She worshipped every deity under the sun, Shiva, Vishnu, Durga, even the obscure village gods. There was no room for irreverence here. Even the act of cutting vegetables had to follow her unspoken rituals.
Pari and Priya, my sisters-in-law, were obedient to a fault. They hovered around their mother like loyal puppies, eager to please, never defiant. They didn't step out of the house without her permission. Sometimes I wondered if they even went to the bathroom without checking in first. Their submission was total,almost programmed. And yet, there was no resentment in them, only devotion, the kind I couldn't quite understand.
Prashant, meanwhile, lived mostly outside these walls. His days were a whirlwind of bank visits, loan paperwork, ration store negotiations, and field inspections. He carried the weight of this household, his father's long-passed responsibilities now settled squarely on his shoulders. The house itself, I learned, was mortgaged. Prashant had taken out multiple loans-one for Pari where she was about to begin her MBBS, and another to support Priya's fashion design course in the city. The girls' dreams were expensive, and the family income could barely keep up.
At twenty-seven, my husband bore the burdens of a man twice his age. It made him quiet, reserved, serious in a way that didn't quite match the boyish grin I had loved years ago.
When I met Prashant seven years ago, he wasn't this man. He was vibrant then, always laughing, always ready to help, generous to a fault. I never once thought of him as broke. He had a way of making things seem okay, even when they weren't. He never hesitated to spend money when it was needed, and he never let on how tightly he was stretched.
After our marriage, I saw the truth. The house was crumbling, physically and financially. I took the initiative to renovate it, trying to create some space, some comfort, some dignity. But every nail I hammered in, every old chair I replaced, seemed to bruise his ego. He watched his wife do what he had long wished to do but couldn't afford. I saw it in his eyes, the shame, the helplessness, the quiet frustration. And he let out all his irritation by breaking furniture I bought for this house.
I liked him not for what he gave me, but for what he tried to be. For how tirelessly he worked to keep his family afloat. For the selflessness that shaped his every decision. But in all this, I often wondered, did he ever stop to think about himself? Did he ever buy himself something without guilt? A shirt? A good pair of shoes? I only ever saw him in the same three shirts and a pair of jeans that had faded from years of wear. His sneakers were torn at the seams. He never complained, never demanded, never even hinted at wanting more.
I wanted to do something for him, not out of pity, but out of deep, quiet love or maybe something. I wanted to lift that invisible weight off his back. I wanted him to breathe, to smile freely, to feel if only for a moment that he wasn't alone in carrying this mountain.
So I started paying attention. I became a silent observer in this house. I watched where he kept the loan papers, how he signed documents, where he stored passwords and account numbers. I noticed the quiet way he always checked the mail before anyone else, the sigh he let out after each call from the bank.
It took me a week to gather everything I needed: account details, loan statements, and property documents. I knew he would be furious if he found out. Pride can be a fragile thing, especially in men like him. But I didn't care. I would brace myself for anger, for raised voices, and for wounded pride.
Back in the kitchen, the karela still stared at me like a challenge. I picked it up, sliced it open, and began to cook. God, please save me from my mother in law.
______
I waited for the perfect afternoon. One of those hot, lazy ones where everyone naps after lunch. Pari had gone to the tailor, Priya was locked in her room sketching out some blouse design, and my mother in law had dozed off with the beads still looped around her fingers, book open across her chest. Probably still Ramayana.
Prashant wasn't home either. He had gone to meet someone, maybe his relatives. I watched him leave from the balcony. His walk was the same as he was used to carrying weight on his shoulders. His shirt had a faded collar. I could tell which one it was without even seeing the front. That same dull grey-blue one he always wore on "important" days.
