Page 63 of Mrs. Rathore

I looked down, my hands curling into fists beneath the table. I wanted to scream, “You don’t have to keep reminding me.” But I stayed silent.

“But still,” Grandma said, her voice soft but persistent, “I want you two to spend some time alone for a few days before your leave ends. After that, who knows when you’ll be back? You’ll be gone for a year or two, maybe more. It’s hard to get leave when you’re such an honorable officer. You’re newly married, Aryan. You should spend time with your wife instead of…”

“Ira is my best friend, Grandma,” Aryan cut her off sharply, his jaw clenched. “She got into an accident. How can you talk like nothing happened to her? How can I leave her like that?” His tone was tight, coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Grandma narrowed her eyes, not backing down. “You sound more like her husband than Avni’s,” she said, her voice rising just enough to silence her grandson.

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Aryan didn’t reply; his lips were pressed into a thin line, fists clenched on the table. The silence between them thickened, heavy with unspoken truths and growing resentment.

I sat between them like a ghost, feeling invisible and in the way. Mrs. Rathore sighed audibly from the other end of the table, her eyes flickering between her son and her mother-in-law, clearly exhausted by yet another argument. Rhea, however, continued to eat as if none of this was out of the ordinary as if the tension had become a flavor of its own in this house.

Should I say something?

Should I interrupt?

Would it even help?

I didn’t want Aryan and his grandmother fighting because of me. He had already started to drift from his family, and I couldn’t be the wedge that widened the distance. I wasn’t even sure where he stood with Ira anymore, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I just hoped she was respecting his time and efforts.

Unlike me, whose mere presence seemed to offend him, Aryan had a way of reminding me—directly or indirectly—of the mistake I had made. Whether through a cold look, an offhand comment, or simply his absence, the message was always the same: You don’t belong here.

Clearing my throat softly, I attempted to ease the tension. “The doctor said I should take at least a couple more months of rest. There’s no way I can travel with my legs like this, so Aryan is right… We shouldn’t—”

“I just booked one of the finest hotels in Udaipur for the two of you,” Grandma interjected suddenly, cutting me off with the calm finality of a general declaring victory.

“What?” Aryan’s head snapped up, his voice cracking in disbelief. “Grandma…”

His fingers curled into tighter fists, knuckles whitening as though he were restraining himself from slamming them on the table.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly, but there was an edge to his voice.

“Because I want to see you happy,” she replied simply as if that alone justified her actions. She returned to her porridge, stirring it delicately, unfazed by the emotional landmine she had just set off. “You’ve spent your life being a soldier, a son, a grandson. But now you have a wife. You deserve happiness, Aryan. Maybe time alone with Avni will help you see what you already have… before it slips through your fingers.”

Aryan looked like he wanted to scream. His throat moved as he swallowed hard, trying to suppress whatever was threatening to escape his mouth. His eyes remained fixed on his grandmother, but the storm inside him was evident. His expression conveyed everything: There’s nothing here to lose.

Because there never was.

His gaze shifted toward me—cold, bitter, and accusing as if I were the chain tied to his ankle, dragging him down into a life he didn’t want.

Yes, I did find satisfaction in his pain.

“I don’t think it’s necessary…” he began, his tone dismissive.

“No more excuses, Aryan,” Grandma said firmly. She set her spoon down, finally giving him her full attention. “You’ve always honored your duty to your nation, your name, and this family. But marriage is not just another item on your checklist. It’s not a burden; it’s a promise. I won’t sit back and let you treat this marriage like a passing obligation.”

God, did Grandma suspect that this marriage was just a sham?

Aryan looked as though he was teetering on the edge of an explosion. He leaned back in his chair, dragged a hand down his face, and exhaled slowly through his teeth. It was the breath of a man being pushed too far.

“Fine,” he finally said, his voice laced with bitter surrender. “If that’s what you want.”

Grandma’s eyes softened. “I want you to want it.”

But Aryan didn’t respond. He rose abruptly from the table, grabbed his phone, and walked out without another word. The silence he left behind hung in the air like smoke.

I sat there, motionless, staring at the doorway he had vanished through.