Page 6 of Mrs. Rathore

My father’s voice boomed across the sterile hospital corridor, sharp and scalding, echoing in my ears like a gunshot. His eyes, they were always disciplined, always in control, burned with a fury I hadn’t seen before.

“You hit a woman, Aryan! While driving drunk!” He took a step forward, and I instinctively clenched my fists, jaw tightening. His military posture towered over me even though he was shorter he had that kind of presence. The kind that demanded fear and obedience. But I wasn’t a damn soldier. I was his son.

“I didn’t see her, Father,” I said flatly, trying to stay calm. “She came out of nowhere. I just…”

He cut me off with a sharp gesture, eyes narrowing. “You were drunk,” he growled. “You don’t see anything clearly when you’re drunk, Aryan. That’s the whole point!”

“And I told you…it wasn’t intentional! I didn’t mean to…”

“You think intent matters when a girl is lying in a hospital bed because of you? You think her shattered dreams care about your guilt?” His words stabbed at me like knives. And still, beneath his rage, I saw the real reason for his fury. It wasn’t just about the accident. It was about his image.

Lieutenant General Vijay Rathore. Decorated. Respected. Unblemished. And now the tabloids would read: Son of Indian Army’s Pride Hits Woman in Drunken Driving Incident.

“What if she presses charges?” he asked, voice lowering but no less threatening. “Your wedding is in two days, Aryan. Two. Days. How do you plan to fix this mess?”

“I told you she’ll be okay…”

“Sir,” a doctor’s voice cut in, nervous and unsure. “The patient woke up… but she’s not okay.”

A cold silence fell between us. My father straightened. “Take me to her.” I followed in silence, heart pounding, guilt weighing on every step like chains.

We turned into the ward, and the sound of her voice pierced through the walls before we even entered.

“Let me go! Leave me the hell alone!” She was fighting the nurses like a caged animal, eyes wild with panic and pain. Her IV was already ripped from her arm, the sheets kicked off the bed. “Today is my dance competition!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “Please, I have to go…I have to dance!”

“Ma’am, you won’t walk if you continue. Your knees have been severely injured,” the nurse said gently, trying to calm her.

“I. Said. Let. Go. Of. Me!”

Before anyone could stop her, she threw herself off the bed with a scream and collapsed onto the floor. I took a step forward, but my father raised an arm, blocking me.

“Watch,” he said coldly.

We watched her try to crawl, the pain written in every twitch of her body. She gritted her teeth, forced herself up again, and fell with a soft, heart-wrenching thud. And then she broke, her sobs ripping through the silence like broken glass. Helpless. Defeated. Shattered.

I looked away, jaw locked, chest tightening painfully.

“She’s not just any woman,” my father said, voice low. “Her name is Avni Parmar. She’s a professional kathak dancer. Today she was supposed to perform at the state championship and win the five-lakh cash prize. She was going to use that money to treat her mother, who’s battling cancer.”

He fished a folded pamphlet from his coat and shoved it into my hands. I stared at her name printed in bold below the photo of a smiling, graceful dancer mid-performance.

“You didn’t just break a body, Aryan. You crushed a dream. And now, you can’t even admit it.”

Footsteps echoed behind us, and we turned to see a man who was older, tired, and terrified, rushing toward the room.

“Where is my daughter?” he cried, desperation shaking his voice. A boy, no older than sixteen, followed behind him, trembling like a leaf.

The doctor pointed toward Avni’s room, and they disappeared inside, their grief soaking into the walls.

“That’s her father,” my dad said, his gaze still burning into me. “I had my team find her family the moment I got her name. Do you get it now, Aryan? This isn’t about you or me. This is about her.”

I couldn’t say anything. My mouth was dry. My heart was heavy. I had never felt so hollow.

“Maybe we can offer them money,” I said calmly. “Help with her mother’s treatment.”

He turned to me slowly. “And what about her legs?” That question hit harder than anything else. I had no answer.

I stood there, swallowed by the silence of guilt and the stench of antiseptic. I didn’t mean to do this. But it didn’t matter. Because I had done it.