Chapter 4: Fractures in the Lobby

On the day I was discharged from the hospital, Rohan came to pick me up himself.

He arrived early, hair still damp from a hurried shower, his white shirt sleeves rolled. The nurse peeked in, star-struck—Rohan’s reputation followed him everywhere.

The hospital room was piled with fruit baskets, lilies, and antiseptic. Ma had sent my favourite snacks, but I barely touched them.

He carefully packed everything, then went to handle the discharge procedures.

He moved with methodical calm, folding my shawl, double-checking my prescription, tucking a note from Dadi into my handbag: "Come home soon, beta."

When we went downstairs, he carried all the bags, leaving my hands empty. He insisted, in his usual quiet way. An old nurse smiled, "Such a caring husband, na?"

The lift was crowded. He stood next to me, body angled to shield me. Mumbai lifts are never empty, but with him there, I felt both safe and distant.

Even at times like this, he was composed.

His posture was ramrod straight, his expression unreadable. Not a trace of panic.

He waited patiently, offering a polite nod to the old lady who kept staring at us. The lift seemed to crawl down, one floor at a time.

After leaving the lift, I sincerely thanked him.

"Thank you, Rohan," I said quietly, trying to meet his eyes. The words felt too formal, but they were all I had.

Rohan glanced sideways at me. "No need to be so formal, after all…"

He trailed off, lips pressed into a thin line, searching for words he couldn’t find.

At this point, he paused.

His eyes flickered with something unspoken—maybe regret, maybe frustration. The silence stretched again.

He didn’t finish his sentence.

Instead, he looked away, shoulders stiffening.

His gaze drifted past me, looking elsewhere.

I followed his line of sight—and saw Priya.

She was standing near the pharmacy, her simple kurta clashing with the expensive hospital tiles. She was helping a woman—her mother, I realized—navigate the busy lobby.

She was dressed simply, still holding a bag of medicine, supporting a middle-aged woman as they walked out.

The woman’s face was drawn with pain, her dupatta slipping off one shoulder as Priya gently steadied her.

I noticed that the middle-aged woman’s left leg was slightly lame, making it difficult for her to walk.

The woman paused every few steps, wincing as she moved. Priya’s patience was visible in the way she adjusted her mother’s grip, never once complaining.

I withdrew my gaze and turned back—Rohan was already gone.

He’d slipped away without a word, vanishing into the crowd like he’d done so many times before. I felt a strange emptiness, as if I’d been left behind.

He walked away quickly.

He didn’t look back, his steps brisk and determined.

I hurried to catch up, not sure if I wanted to talk to him or was just curious, but I blurted out without thinking, "Aren’t you going over to check on them? I can go home by myself."

The words escaped before I could stop them. My voice was softer than I intended, tinged with something like jealousy.

As soon as I said it, Rohan suddenly stopped.

He froze, back straightening, almost as if he’d expected me to say something.

I bumped right into his back.

The impact jolted me. I quickly stepped back, embarrassed.

He lowered his head, his expression very calm. "No need, let’s go."

His voice was flat, the kind you use with strangers. Still, there was an undercurrent of tension.

I nodded blankly, then heard his voice again—light, with a hint of warning.

He didn’t raise his voice, but the message was clear. In his world, boundaries were sacred.

"Sneha."

His tone was clipped, each syllable heavy with meaning.

"I told you about her and me because I don’t want any more trouble."

He looked me in the eye, daring me to argue.

"But if you think that means you can meddle in our affairs—"

"Then you’re mistaken."

His words landed like a slap, but he didn’t flinch. In that moment, I understood how fiercely he guarded his heart.

The hospital lobby was bustling. I quickly lowered my eyes. I stared at the floor tiles, twisting the edge of my dupatta, wishing I could disappear.

"Sorry, I spoke out of turn."

I kept my voice small, hoping he’d let it go.

He cherishes Priya so much; of course, he doesn’t want outsiders to see her down and out, or look down on her.

I understood, even if it hurt. In India, dignity is a fragile thing, easily bruised by the wrong glance or careless word.