Chapter 4: Drawing the Line

"Didi, are we going home?" Meera sighed softly, understanding my intent.

She gathered my shawl, her eyes brimming with silent questions. She knew, as only a sister-friend could, that I’d made my decision.

"I miss Papa." Wiping the blood from my lips, I asked Meera to prepare paper and pen.

The sight of my old writing desk brought back memories of childhood—ink-stained fingers, Papa’s soft humming from the verandah.

I didn’t want to entangle or fight. A side character could never compare to the heroine.

There was dignity in retreat, in choosing silence over spectacle. I pressed the pen to the paper, my hand steady.

When I reached Kabir’s bungalow, two new guards stood at the door, the bright "Singh" badge on their uniforms marking them as Riya’s people.

They stood ramrod straight, expressions blank. The air was heavy with the scent of gun oil and power—a different world from my own.

Before I could react, a sharp sword pressed against my neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

The metal was cold, the pain sharp. For a moment, everything seemed to slow—my own heartbeat loud in my ears.

"Didi!" Meera glared at the guard, about to rush forward, but I held her back.

She would have thrown herself in front of a train for me. I squeezed her hand, silently begging her not to make things worse.

"Kabir is my husband." At my words, the sword was withdrawn, but they still blocked the entrance, their voices icy.

One guard met my eyes, face expressionless. "Orders are orders, madam."

"Doctor Kabir does not allow anyone to enter."

The finality of it stung more than the cut. I stumbled back, clutching my dupatta to my throat.

I froze, bitterness welling up. In the past, I could come and go as I pleased.

Even the servants used to greet me with smiles, asking after my health. Now, their faces were turned away, eyes averted.

Many politicians and businessmen visited, and there were always guards, but he always said, "My wife need not be stopped."

His pride in me had been quiet, but fierce. I remembered the first time he’d said it—his voice ringing through the hall, making me blush.

He promised that no matter when or where, I could enter if I wished.

Even when I woke him at odd hours, he never complained. "For you, the doors are always open, Ananya."

But now, "anyone" included me.

It was as if the story had closed its doors, leaving me outside with nothing but memories.

Three years of affection—not shallow, but deep—the contrast was too much. My heart ached.

It ached with every beat, each memory a fresh wound. I pressed a hand to my chest, willing myself not to cry.

Yet facing the guards’ cold stares, I swallowed my tears, stepped back, and said, "Sorry to disturb you."

I drew my shawl tighter, head high, refusing to let them see my pain. For a moment, I remembered the first time Kabir called me his pride in front of everyone. Now, even the gate seemed to flinch away from me. Meera hovered behind me, her anger barely contained.

Meera had grown up with me and knew what I meant. Even if she was unwilling, she could only wait with me outside the bungalow.

She muttered prayers under her breath, fingers twisting the end of her pallu. I could feel her eyes on me, full of unspoken worries.

The sun beat down; I was close to collapse, but I couldn’t leave. I feared that if I left, I’d hesitate and stay.

Sweat trickled down my back, my head spun. But I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms. I would not be weak, not now.

Though my vision blurred, I stood firm.

Every time my knees buckled, I remembered Papa’s face, remembered every sacrifice made for me. I owed it to myself to stay upright.

I don’t know how long I waited—perhaps until dusk—before I saw Kabir’s figure.

The sky had turned orange, crows calling as they returned home. Kabir’s figure appeared against the fading light, shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

He walked toward me against the dying light, his once-gentle face now tired, his usual meticulous appearance now dishevelled.

His kurta was wrinkled, hair uncombed. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were pressed tight.

I’d only seen him so haggard when I was ill. I thought that side of him was reserved for me alone.

Even Meera gasped softly, shocked at the change in him. My heart twisted—half pity, half anger.

But seeing him like this now, I could only find it ironic. All those vows to love me, to never let me down—they were all lies.

I bit my tongue, tasting the metallic tang of blood. I would not let him see my tears.

"Why are you waiting here? Have you eaten dinner?" Kabir seemed surprised, wanting to put his arm around my shoulders as usual.

He reached for me, but I stepped back, drawing myself up to my full height.

I dodged, blood trickling from my lips, the wound on my neck throbbing.

He froze, eyes wide in shock. The crimson stain on my lips was impossible to ignore.

"Who hurt you? Why is there blood..." Kabir seemed stunned, as if he hadn’t seen me this ill in a long time.

He looked genuinely shaken, his hands hovering helplessly in the air. For a moment, he was the old Kabir—the one who would have given anything to heal me.

I didn’t answer, just handed him a letter.

The paper shook in my hand, but I forced myself to meet his eyes.

He frowned and opened it. In the next moment, his face turned pale.

His lips moved, but no words came. His hands trembled as he read.

"Ananya, you want to divorce me?" He seemed unable to believe it, a rare light flashing in his usually calm eyes.

His voice cracked, softer than I’d ever heard it. Even Meera flinched at the raw pain in his tone.

"Yes." I calmly wiped the blood from my lips, holding back Meera, who wanted to question him. When it’s time to cut ties, I do so without hesitation—that’s my way as Ananya.

I straightened my shoulders, speaking as if reciting a lesson. No tears, no pleading. Only resolve.

All that talk of suffering for love is nonsense. I have never been willing to wrong myself.

Nani used to say, "A woman’s dignity is her own. Don’t let anyone take it from you." I remembered those words now, letting them steady me.

Men—there are plenty in the world. Am I really going to hang myself on a single tree?

The world is wide, my life is my own. I would not be a woman who waited for scraps of affection.

"Why? Didn’t you promise..." He started to say something about my promise that night, but then seemed to remember he’d left on the day of my illness.

The words died on his lips. The silence between us was heavier than any argument.

"I’m sorry, Ananya. The Maharani was at death’s door—I had no choice but to go." He looked at me, love shining through his regret.

He looked desperate, but the words rang hollow. His priorities were clear.

I avoided his gaze and reminded him, "Sign the paper, and we’ll go our separate ways."

My voice was steady, as cold and final as a judge’s gavel in the old district court. Meera squeezed my hand in silent support.

He is the second male lead, and his feelings run deep.

Perhaps in another story, another world, he would have loved me. But not in this one.

But I know very well: the one he loves so deeply is not me.

I let that knowledge settle over me like a shroud, heavy but certain.