Chapter 7: Raat Ki Tanhai
The oily smell of camphor clung to her skin, even after she’d scrubbed her hands raw with soap at the small, cracked basin in the corner. It was in her nose, a permanent, sickly perfume. She changed into a nightdress, a soft, old cotton one that Vishal usually loved, but now felt as thin as paper. Across the room, he was already in bed, his back to her, a lump under the single sheet.
Adi was fed, burped, sleeping in the makeshift crib beside their bed. The domestic routine was complete, but the air was charged, brittle.
Priyanka switched off the lone bulb, plunging the room into a deep, woolly darkness. The fan whirred above, pushing the hot, stagnant air around. It didn’t cool anything; it just moved the heat from one place to another. She could hear the low, rhythmic saw of Arvind Chacha’s snore from the adjacent room, a sound that normally annoyed her but now felt like a marker of time passing, of a world continuing while hers had stalled.
She slipped into bed beside Vishal. The space between them was a canyon. She lay on her back, staring at the invisible ceiling, listening to his breathing. It was too even. The fake, measured rhythm of someone pretending to be asleep.
The memory of Dibendo’s hand clamping over hers, the heat of his skin, the look in Gopal’s eyes—it all swirled into a hard knot in her throat. She needed an anchor. She needed her husband.
“Vishal?” Her voice was a scratch in the dark.
He didn’t move. A beat too long passed. “Hmm?”
“Aaj raat tum mere paas kyun nahi aaye?” The question hung there, blunt and heavy.
He shifted, the sheet rustling. “Kya matlab? Main toh hoon na yahin.”
“Yahin matlab do foot door,” she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended. She turned on her side, facing his rigid back. “Pichle do raaton se. Jaise tum dar rahe ho mere chhuone se bhi.”
He went still again. “Pagal hai kya? Main thak gaya hoon bas. Driving, garmi, yeh sab. Neend aa rahi hai.”
She reached out in the dark. Her fingers found the tense cord of muscle along his shoulder. He flinched. The tiny recoil was a physical blow.
She pulled her hand back as if burned. “Jhuth,” she whispered, the ache in her chest splitting open. “Tum bilkul jhuth bol rahe ho. Pehle kabhi aisa nahi tha. Hotel mein bhi tum door mudh ke soye. Yahan bhi wahi. Kya hua? Seriously, tell me. Kya maine kuch galat kiya?”
He rolled onto his back suddenly, a dark shape exhaling in frustration. “Nahi, Priyanka! Kuch nahi. Bas… bas aise hi.”
“Aise hi nahi hota.” Tears were hot in her eyes now, spilling over into the pillows. The vulnerability from earlier, the shame, curdled into a desperate anger. “Tum mujhse baat tak nahi karna chahte. Jab main temple se aayi, tumne pucha tak nahi kaisi lagi. Jab Papa-ji ne…” She choked, unable to voice the oil, the hand. “Tab bhi tum kuch nahi bole. Ab tum door ho. Kya… kya tumhe ab meri body pasand nahi? Isliye? Kyunki main moti ho gayi hoon? Kyunki yeh…” Her hand gestured futilely at her own curves in the dark, the ones that now felt like grotesque liabilities.
“Are wah, bas karo!” he hissed, sitting up now, his silhouette a storm cloud against the faint window light. “Aise bakwaas mat kaho. Tum jaanti ho main tumse kitna pyaar karta hoon. Hamesha se.”
“To phir batao!” she pleaded, sitting up too, facing him. The sheet fell between them. “Kya hai? Dikhao na pyaar. Chhuko na mujhe. Tum toh pata hai Papa-ji ne aaj…”
She stopped herself. Throwing that into the room felt dangerous, like striking a match near petrol. But the silence after her truncated sentence was worse.
Vishal dragged a hand over his face. In the gloom, she could see the weariness in the slump of his shoulders. It wasn’t the tiredness from a long drive. It was a deeper exhaustion.
“Wohi toh baat hai,” he said, his voice dropping so low she had to strain to hear it over the fan.
“Kya wohi baat?”
He was silent for a long moment. A dog barked somewhere far off in the fields. “Tumhare aas-paas… har waqt… unki nazar rehti hai.” The words were mumbled, shamed.
Priyanka’s blood ran cold. “Kiski?”
“Papa ki. Arvind Chacha ki.” He spat the titles out like something bitter. “Hotel mein dinner table pe. Car mein baithe hue. Temple mein sindoor lagate hue. Aaj raat… jab tum unke room se bahar aayi, tumhare haath…” He trailed off, his jaw working. “Maine dekha. Tumhari aankhein bhi dekhi. Tum ghabrai hui thi.”
She couldn’t breathe. He had seen. He had known. And he had done nothing.
“Tum… tum ko pata tha?” she stammered.
“Pata nahi tha kya ho raha tha andar,” he said quickly, defensively. “Lekin tum bahar aaye, toh woh look… main samajh gaya kuch toh hua hai jo tumhe pasand nahi aaya.” He let out a shaky breath. “Aur phir main sochne laga… har jagah. Har waqt. Unki nazar tumhare upar hai. Aise… aise dekte hain. Jaise… jaise main nahi hoon. Jaise tum sirf… ek cheez ho.”
The confession hung in the hot, dark air, ugly and real. It wasn’t her body he was rejecting. It was their eyes on it. Their constant, silent claim staking. He felt erased. And in his shame and confusion, he was pulling away from the very thing they coveted.
Priyanka felt a bizarre, hysterical laugh bubble up. It died in her throat. Her pain, her violation, was now also his humiliation. They were trapped in the same cage, but on opposite sides, unable to touch each other through the bars.
“To tumne socha distance bana lo?” she asked, her voice hollow. “Woh dekhenge nahi toh? Woh maan jayenge?”
“I don’t know!” he whispered, agony in the crack of his voice. “Maine socha… agar main… agar hamare beech… kuch kam ho, toh shayad woh… shayad woh thoda…” He had no words. There was no logic, only a raw, instinctive retreat.
She reached for him then, not in desire, but in a need for alliance. Her hand found his cheek. It was wet. He was crying. Her strong, simple Vishal was crying silent, frustrated tears in the dark because the world he trusted had suddenly become a room full of wolves, and he didn’t know how to be the hunter.
“Vishal,” she said, her own tears merging with his. “Unki nazaron se tum mujhe bachane ki jagah, khud door ho gaye. Mujhe chhod diya. Akela chhod diya.”
The truth of it, spoken aloud, seemed to shatter something in him. A sob broke from his chest, harsh and ragged. He turned his face into her palm, his shoulders shaking.
Outside their door, in the deep silence of the farmhouse hallway, a floorboard creaked.
It was a soft, deliberate sound. Not the settling of an old house. The slow compression of weight.
Then another. Closer.
Someone was standing just outside their room. Listening.
Priyanka’s hand froze on Vishal’s face. His crying stopped instantly, held in a gasp. They both stared into the darkness, towards the thin line of light under the door.
The shadow of two feet blocked the light.
They waited, motionless, barely breathing. The fan whirred. The snoring next door continued.
After an eternity, the shadows shifted. The feet turned. The faint, deliberate footsteps retreated, fading down the stone corridor.
Priyanka’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. The momentary connection with Vishal was severed, frozen under a new layer of ice-cold fear. Their private grief was not private at all. Their sanctuary had ears. And walls.
And outside, the long, watchful night wore on.