Page 92 of Mrs. Pandey
The word hit me like a slap.
I didn't wait to hear more. My legs moved on instinct, carrying me backward. I closed the door as quietly as I could and slipped into the corridor.
I walked until I reached the verandah, where the air was marginally cooler, and sharper. I gripped the railing so tightly my knuckles turned white, trying to draw strength from the solid metal beneath my fingers.
Her words echoed in my ears.
Those were her thoughts, not Prashant's. I told myself that over and over. He didn't see me like that. He would understand. I could explain everything to him. I would tell him what Kabir had done, how he had twisted the truth.
But then another undeniable truth stabbed through me. If Kabir hadn't revealed his true face, if he had remained the man I once thought he was... I might have married him instead.
And I had to admit it, at least to myself: I hadn't married Prashant out of love. Not at first. I had married him because I needed him. I wanted his protection. I wanted someone who could help me clean up the wreckage of my past.
I had used him. Again and again.
But somewhere along the way, things had changed. I knew I loved him now. Deeply. Enough to fight for him with everything I had.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, my hands trembling. I dialed Kabir's number, my jaw set, ready to unleash every ounce of fury I'd been storing. But his phone was unreachable. I tried againand again. The same cold, mechanical voice told me the line couldn't be connected.
Two days later, I boarded a flight home. I didn't care about the rest anymore. The videos, the testimonies, the witnesses I had them all. And I was done waiting.
That day, Kabir's game would end. I would put him in jail if it was the last thing I ever did.
_______
"Are you sure, Mom?" I asked again, my voice thinner than I expected. My mind was still reeling from her words, refusing to let them settle. "You're telling me he's dead? I mean last week he was threatening me, and he hurt Pari. I came here to file a complaint against him, and now you're saying he's gone?"
The word dead felt heavy, like a stone dropped in my stomach. A hollow kind of disappointment crept in, bitter and unsatisfying. "Maybe he's faking it," I added, my tone sharpening. "Wouldn't surprise me if it was just another stunt to save his miserable ass."
"I saw him, Ira." My mother's voice was clipped, impatient. "His funeral was yesterday. His body was there, in the casket, cold, still. I looked right at his face. He died choking, they say. Food lodged in his windpipe. You know he had asthma. And living alone in Delhi didn't help. Probably eating dinner when it happened. Simple as that."
She said it without a shred of sympathy.
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I haven't even had the chance to make him suffer. Do you know how many nights I've imaginedhim rotting in a cell and how many times I've dreamed of that moment? And now he just... slips away like this?" I muttered, half to myself. "It's pathetic. He doesn't even get the ending he deserves."
The words kept spilling, jagged and unsteady. "How could he..." My voice cracked. I pressed a hand over my mouth and collapsed back onto my bed, staring at nothing.
Mom's eyes narrowed. "You think I'm lying? Haven't you seen the headlines? Read a newspaper lately?"
Before I could answer, she left the room and returned with a folded copy, shoving it into my hands.
My eyes fell instantly on the black-and-white photograph of Kabir. He was smiling in some old file picture, his expression smug even in death. That same mocking glint in his eyes, like the camera had caught him mid-sneer.
The headline screamed:
AIIMS Doctor Kabir Rajput Found Dead in Delhi Apartment. Suspected Choking Incident.
I read it once. Then again. Each word felt like it was pressing down on my chest. Choking. Food stuck in his windpipe. It was too clean. Too sudden.
Kabir was not the kind of man who died quietly. He was poison wrapped in skin, the type who clawed and fought to the last breath if only to make someone else's life worse. The idea that he had simply keeled over into his dinner plate didn't fit. Not with the Kabir I knew.
The article was thin, starved of detail. Neighbors heard nothing unusual. His door was locked from the inside. No sign of struggle. The police were calling it an accident.
They said a lot of things but none of them sounded true.
My stomach knotted. I could still hear his voice from last week, those threats, that casual cruelty toward Pari. He wasn't done with us. Not even close.
This wasn't a disappointment I was feeling, not entirely. A creeping suspicion that someone had beaten me to the ending I'd been planning or maybe something else entirely.
