Page 85 of Mrs. Pandey
And then came another sound, gunfire, but not it was not theirs.
Bullets tore through the room, making plaster rain from the ceiling. I heard the pounds of boots in the alley. Then, a voice came. A sharp order in Hindi. A voice I hadn't heard in months and I had been dying to hear. It sliced through the fog of pain and adrenaline like a shaft of light.
My vision blurred. A halo of dust and blood filled the doorway, but I recognized the uniform.
Indian Army.
They shot the last terrorist before he could aim at me. My body sagged, the strength I'd borrowed finally spent but strong arms caught me before I hit the floor. The cell door was ripped from its hinges, and a blinding light poured in for the first time in what felt like forever.
It stung my eyes, made my head spin from the sudden change. And in that light, I saw them, the body bags. They were black and heavy, laid in a silent, grim row.
Rawat. Sharma. Qureshi. Even Major Nadeem, cold for a long time now. They were going home too, but only as folded flags and names etched into memorials.
When they carried me out, the cold night air hit me. It tasted like freedom. But I felt no joy. Only the crushing weight of survival.
I had crossed back over the line. But the war inside me, the one they had started with their mind games and their torture had only just begun. It was a war with no end in sight. A battle I would fight alone, with only the ghosts of my memories and the echoes of their screams to keep me company. ______
Chapter 40
IRA
It had been over a month since Prashant and I returned from his hometown, and in that time, he seemed to grow colder toward me with each passing day. Yes, we talked occasionally, and he even came to my quarters for dinner a couple of times, but that was all, nothing more, nothing deeper.
I had planned to tell him everything about Kabir, to seek his help in putting that bastard behind bars where he belonged. But Prashant was becoming more and more unavailable. His days were consumed by duty, sometimes sixteen hours at a stretch. He barely slept, barely ate. With Independence Day approaching, he was training soldiers for the grand parade at the Red Fort in Delhi.
I told myself it was fine. That it was okay he hadn't been able to get us a quarter yet. That it was okay he couldn't always find time for me. After all, I was in the same field; I understood how relentless the job could be.
But what hurt, what really gnawed at me was that he still hadn't told anyone we were married. I wanted my friends and colleagues to know that Prashant was my husband, but he seemed hesitant, almost resistant, to the idea.
And then there was the matter of Dr. Riddhima Kashyap. How the heck had she managed to get transferred here? She always hovered near him, her presence far too frequent to be coincidence. As if fate itself had decided to assign her to hisside, she was even officially posted with him to oversee the soldiers' health during the training period. Every time I saw them together, something inside me twisted.
Tonight, there was an officers' party at the community hall. One of our senior officers, Colonel Kunal Shukla, was retiring, and he had invited all of us for dinner. I wasn't sure whether Prashant would attend, but I had already decided I would. Mr. Shukla was a great officer-kind, wise, and respected by all. There was no way I was going to miss the chance to say goodbye.
I took extra care in getting ready. I chose a formal yet elegant outfit, a red top tucked into a flowing white skirt that brushed the tops of my high heels. My makeup was minimal, just enough to highlight my features, and I straightened my hair until it fell in sleek lines past my shoulders. A slim belt cinched at my waist added just the right touch of sophistication. I grabbed my purse, squared my shoulders, and stepped out into the night.
The walk to the community hall took only ten minutes, but with each step, my heartbeat grew faster, for reasons I couldn't quite name.
When I arrived, the first thing that welcomed me was the warm glow of golden lights spilling from tall windows. Inside, chandeliers hung like they had been borrowed from a royal palace, their crystals catching and scattering light across the polished floor. The air was perfumed with the scent of fresh lilies, layered with the mouthwatering aroma of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread.
Round tables stood neatly arranged, each dressed in crisp white tablecloths and deep maroon runners. In the center of every table sat a vase brimming with fresh roses, their petals stillglistening faintly as though they'd just been kissed by morning dew. The soft hum of conversation mingled with bursts of laughter and the gentle clink of glasses, a rare sound of people letting go of the weight of their duties for just one evening.
My colleagues were scattered across the room, transformed by formal attire. For a fleeting moment, it was easy to forget that we were usually soldiers, doctors, and officers in olive greens and khaki. Men stood in tailored suits, polished shoes catching the light, while women moved gracefully in flowing sarees and sleek dresses. They looked like they'd stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.
A few familiar faces caught sight of me and waved. I returned their smiles, exchanging polite nods. But my eyes, they had their own mission. They swept the room quietly, searching, always searching for him.
I moved toward the buffet, pretending to admire the display like a casual guest, though my thoughts were far from calm. Stainless steel trays gleamed under the warm lights, each holding something that could have been served at a five-star hotel-rich, golden butter chicken; deep-red mutton rogan josh shimmering with oil; perfectly grilled fish with char marks crisping the skin; vegetable lasagna layered so neatly it looked like a food stylist had been involved. And then there was the dessert row, pastries, puddings, and tiny tarts so perfect they seemed untouched by human hands.
But inside me, there was only that restless pull. Would he even come? And if he did... would she be with him?
I picked up a glass of juice, hoping it would calm the storm brewing in my chest. The cold sweetness hit my tongue, but itbarely registered. My eyes kept drifting toward the entrance half hoping, and half dreading.
And then, as if fate had decided to twist the knife, I saw him. He was tall, composed, the sharp lines of his formal uniform fitting him like it had been sewn just for him. But he wasn't alone.
Dr. Riddhima Kashyap walked beside him, her every step in rhythm with his. Her hair was tied into a low, neat bun, her lips painted in a shade of red far too bold for my liking. She tilted her head toward him, smiling at something he said, and the sight made my chest tighten so sharply it almost hurt to breathe.
I didn't let it show. My face stayed smooth, polite, just another guest enjoying the evening. I sipped my juice slowly, forcing myself to look like part of the happy, glittering crowd, while my eyes burned with questions I wasn't sure I wanted answered.
I had texted him. I had called him. He hadn't replied. Yet here he was, smiling easily beside another woman as if she were the one who belonged at his side.
