Chapter 5: Home and Reckoning

"Sign it!" My legs were numb; I didn’t want to hear his explanations.

The ache in my bones was worse than any fever. My eyes stung, but I blinked away the tears.

"Ananya, don’t be stubborn."

His voice was pleading, but I heard only impatience beneath the surface.

"Your body can’t take this torment. It was my fault this time. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to cure you."

His words were gentle, almost fatherly. But I didn’t want a healer—I wanted a partner.

Kabir sighed, guilt in his eyes. He was apologising, but I didn’t want his apology.

I wanted honesty, I wanted to be seen—not pitied.

"Kabir." My tone was icy. He stared at me, suddenly looking a little afraid.

For a moment, I saw the uncertainty in his eyes—the fear of losing something he’d taken for granted.

"Ananya, let me check your pulse, all right?" He reached for my wrist, but I stepped back, my face even paler.

His hand hovered in the air, awkward and lost. Meera drew closer, her eyes flashing with protective fire.

His expression shifted, and he tried to embrace me, but a gentle female voice called from behind him: "Kabir, it hurts so much."

The moment shattered, the world snapping back into place. The green saree shimmered in the doorway, her voice soft as silk.

With just that one line, Kabir immediately turned and rushed into the bungalow.

He didn’t look back, didn’t hesitate. I watched him go, every step tearing at the last of my hope.

"Where does it hurt? I’ll reapply the medicine for you." He supported her, his eyes full of worry and anxiety.

He became the healer again—focused, gentle, attentive. The very Kabir I’d once believed was mine.

I looked up and met her gaze.

Her eyes glinted, lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. Her nose ring sparkled in the fading light, a tiny crown for the story’s true queen.

Her features were soft yet sharp—the very image of a palace drama’s heroine.

She radiated confidence, the kind that comes from being loved without question.

And when she looked at me, there was a faint hostility and disdain, as if to say she was the only one who mattered to Kabir.

The message was clear: I was a guest in my own story, and the party was over.

Meera didn’t rush forward to question him, but quietly picked up the divorce letter from the ground, wrote Kabir’s name, and pulled me away.

Her hands were steady as she signed for him, a small act of rebellion on my behalf.

"Didi, let’s go home!" She tugged me along, though her steps were slow. I laughed, suddenly feeling lighter.

The laughter was thin, shaky—half relief, half despair. The weight on my shoulders eased, if only for a moment.

I should have known—the second male lead loving the heroine is the default. The story may be over, but people don’t change.

I let the truth settle in my bones. Some endings cannot be rewritten, no matter how hard you try.

Loving a man entangled with the heroine is like trying to fill a leaky bucket—if you don’t let go in time, all you’ll get is heartbreak.

Amma used to say, "You can water a cactus, but it won’t become a rose." I finally understood her meaning.

"Do you want to pack anything?" Only when we reached the gate did Meera remember. I took her hand and walked out of the Doctor’s Bungalow.

I shook my head, the wind tangling my hair. There was nothing left here worth clinging to—not even memories.

There was never anything here worth clinging to.

As the gate creaked shut behind us, I felt a strange sense of freedom—like the first monsoon rain washing away the heat of summer.

By the time we got home, night had fallen.

The streetlights cast golden pools on the cracked pavement, the smell of frying pakoras drifting through the air. The world felt softer, kinder here.

Papa hurried over as soon as he heard, his eyes red-rimmed.

His voice echoed from the verandah, heavy with worry. He dropped everything—his newspaper, his tea—to reach me.

"Why have you come back?" He was filled with worry, and when he saw my pallor, he was momentarily speechless.

He took my face in his hands, his touch rough but loving. I could see the fear in his eyes—fear for me, his only child.

He hadn’t seen me this sick in a long time; now that he did, tears welled in his eyes.

He turned away, wiping his face with the edge of his kurta. His shoulders shook, but he pretended to cough, saving his dignity.

"Let’s go inside first." Papa choked up, turning away to wipe his tears. I pretended not to notice, but my heart ached for him.

I leaned into his side, letting his presence calm me. The house was filled with the comforting smell of old books and sandalwood. From the kitchen, I caught the faint crackle of mustard seeds popping in hot oil—home.

Papa has always treated me well. My mother died early, leaving only me—weak and sickly. Everyone said I wouldn’t survive, but Papa insisted on raising me.

He gave up dreams for my sake, braved taunts from relatives, and poured all his hope into my fragile life. His love was quiet, but endless.

No one knows better than I how much he wanted me to live, so he had me marry Kabir, hoping I could have a good life.

He watched every decision I made with anxious hope, trusting Kabir to heal what he could not. My happiness was his only prayer.

But now, I have returned. He didn’t even need to ask to know something had happened.

He squeezed my shoulder, a silent promise that he would stand by me, no matter what story the world wrote.

"Papa, rest early." When I returned, I found my room had been kept just as it was before I married.

The bedspread was still my favourite colour, the dolls lined up on the shelf. Even my old schoolbooks were stacked neatly on the desk.

Looking at Papa’s loving eyes, I suddenly felt there was nothing left to grieve.

His eyes were red, but his smile was gentle. For the first time in days, I felt safe.

What does the second male lead matter? That’s out of my hands. But Papa is mine alone, not bound by the plot, never loving any other child.

I tucked myself into bed, the sheet cool against my skin. The world felt smaller, but also kinder.

"Whatever it is, talk about it tomorrow. Ananya, rest well. No matter what, you have your Papa." With just those words, all my grievances surged up.

I pressed my face into the pillow, fighting back tears. Meera hovered in the doorway, silent as a shadow.

"Okay." I held back my tears and went inside. I was no longer a child—how could I let Papa worry about me again?

I straightened my back, promising myself to be stronger tomorrow.

Meera understood and said nothing.

She sat at my bedside, her hand on mine, offering silent comfort. Her presence was as steady as ever.

Only after returning to my room did my tears finally fall. My chest churned, that mouthful of blood stuck inside.

The moonlight slanted across the floor, soft and forgiving. I let myself cry until the world faded away.

In the end, I still fell asleep. But as soon as I opened my eyes, Meera said, "Kabir is here."

Her voice was tight, wary. The world rushed back in—memories, regrets, all jumbled together.