Page 98 of Mrs. Rathore

“I’m…” I looked down at my half-eaten sandwich as if it might rescue me, then shifted my gaze back to her. “Yes, I want to...” The words tumbled out involuntarily, forced and false. In truth, I had never really thought about pursuing more studies. I hadn’t wanted to.

“Rhea will help you choose subjects in your field,” she said, glancing at her daughter who looked almost as cornered as I felt. “Will you, Rhea?”

“Yeah, sure, Mom,” Rhea replied, offering a nervous smile. “I’ll help bhabhi choose her subjects and fill out her admission form.”

“And will you please help her with her studies if she needs support?” Mrs. Rathore continued in her composed, icy voice.

Now I was feeling small, embarrassed, and humiliated. Rhea was six years younger than I and already preparing for her medical college entrance exams. And here was her mother, asking her to teach me. It wasn’t even subtle. It was another of Mrs. Rathore’s refined ways of reminding me of my inadequacy. No matter how civil she appeared, she was carving out my flaws with surgical precision. No matter how much I tried to fit in, a mother-in-law would always remain a mother-in-law she would never be a mother.

Dadi had returned to her daughter’s home, leaving the house cloaked in a heavy silence. It was a gloomy departure. Rhea and I had grown so used to her comforting presence. She had filled the corners of this house with warmth. Once she left, it felt like a piece of it was missing.

It had also been twenty-two days without Aryan.

And still not a single message or phone call.

Rhea kept assuring me that he was doing fine, that he was adapting to the cold terrain and high altitudes where they were stationed. He was living in a bunk, she said, tucked somewhere in the snow-covered mountains. I couldn’t help but wonder how they managed in that climate: how they ate, bathed, and slept. I shivered involuntarily just thinking about it. They didn’t just exist there but they survived, keeping guard over our country, often staying awake for twenty hours straight. I was in awe, yet anxious.

“So today we’ll visit the university,” Mrs. Rathore said with her usual calm decisiveness. “We’ll collect a form, fill it out, and submit it. Once the process is complete, you’ll start attending classes. If you prefer, you can opt for online classes. I'll arrange a laptop.”

She paused before adding, “Do you know how to use a laptop?”

Her tone didn’t imply curiosity. It was edged with judgment. It was another sting and another slap of shame.

I hesitated, glancing at Rhea and then back at my mother-in-law. I felt like a child again scolded by a strict teacher for not doing her homework.

I slowly shook my head.

The flicker of disappointment on her otherwise beautiful face was unmistakable. For someone likely in her fifties, Mrs. Rathore carried herself like a woman untouched by time. Her skin glowed, not a single wrinkle in sight. Her thick, dark hair shone with youth, and she always looked impeccably groomed. Her days were spent either attending social gatherings or pampering herself at high-end salons.

I tried, briefly, to put myself in her shoes.

How would I respond if someone asked me—

What does your daughter-in-law do?

What is her education level?

Wasn’t she the one who walked with crutches?

Yes, she would likely beam with pride if her daughter-in-law were someone like Ira, a lieutenant in the Indian Army, beautiful, elegant, from a well-off family. Unlike me, Ira didn’t hobble on crutches. Maybe Mrs. Rathore wasn’t entirely wrong to push me toward further education. It was perhaps less about control and more about salvaging whatever dignity I brought to this family. Saying, “My daughter-in-law is pursuing higher studies,” sounded infinitely better than, “She’s just passed twelfth.”

Later that evening, the doorbell rang.

I was sitting in the living room, half-heartedly watching a dance reality show. Mrs. Rathore had gone out, and Rhea was upstairs immersed in her books.

The housekeeper entered and spoke with polite precision. “Miss Ira Solanki is here. She says she wants to speak with you.”

My brows knitted together. “She must’ve meant Mrs. Rathore. She’s not home right now.”

“No, ma’am. She clearly asked for you.”

A jolt of nervousness pulsed through me.

“Let her in,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. I straightened up, brushing imaginary creases off my clothes.

My thoughts spiraled. Did she come to confront me? Slap me, maybe? Demand Aryan back? My eyes drifted to my crutches. Oh, come on, Avni. Get a grip. She’s not going to murder you.

“Ira Rathore,” a crisp voice called.