“Daadi-sa and Rani-maa are asking for you at the celebration.” She laughed,“It’s really fun there. Everyone’s dancing.”
With a smile, I said,“I’ll be there soon. I’m preparing something special for Daadi-sa.” Then she walked away.
The third time I was called, I quickly finished my work in the kitchen and stepped outside to find a better place to hide.
While adjusting the dupatta on my head, I noticed some chutney had spilt on my bright yellow lehenga. It was a worn-out, faded dress. I sighed, trying to rub it off while walking through the corridor.
Suddenly, an arm wrapped around my wrist and I was dragged to the corner. My eyes widened, but the touch immediately reminded me of him, intensified by the scent of mild jasmine and spice.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he pressed me against the wall. I looked away from his green eyes and angled my shoulder against his chest when he tried to step closer and hide us behind the curtain.
“It’s been so long; everyone’s asking you to come to the celebration. What are you doing?” he asked in a low voice.
I gulped nervously, lowering my gaze.
Why did he care?
“I’m busy,” I replied softly, trying to walk away. His sudden appearance made me flustered.
“What are you wearing?” he asked after a moment’s pause. His voice was calm, full of concern.
“Clothes,” I replied, subconsciously pushing him away while consciously melting in his presence.
“Is something wrong? Why are you acting like this? Everyone was fine until the celebration. You took part in activities but didn’t make the Rangoli or come to the celebration… dance?” His last word made me lift my gaze.
“Hey,” he breathed, gently touching my chin with his fingertip to make me look at him.
A thunderous jolt surged down my spine when my eyes locked onto his. His brows knitted together, hair falling over his sweaty forehead, sharp nose, and lips curling into a nervous twitch.
“What is wrong?” he asked, voice low and soft.
“Nothing,” I retorted, pulling my chin back. He moved closer, causing me to retreat, and my left shoulder bumped against the wall.
“Then come with me to the celebration,” he said, holding my wrist. I balled my fists, stood my ground and shook my head.
“I can’t.”
He inhaled sharply as I withdrew my hand from his grip. A tear rolled down my cheek as I cast my eyes down.
“Why?” he asked, leaning closer to my ear, his voice merely a whisper.
My breathing shallowed, and my heart raced, feeling his presence so close: authoritative, consuming, yet uncomfortable.
“I just can’t,” I tried to say. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t see my situation. It wasn’t the same as before. I knew people weren’t aware that I was a widow, but I was aware of it. And I couldn’t overlook it.
“You’re hurting my Bhabhi-sa,” he said, and I gazed into his eyes.
“No, I can never hurt her,” my voice broke, feeling a lump in my throat, and my knees went weak.
“So you should be with her,” he said, pulling me out again as he held my hand.
“Kunwar-sa…” I shook my head.“Please, try to understand.”
“Make me understand,” His voice was deep and menacing.
“I’m a widow,” the words slipped out of my mouth.
“What?” he asked. The commotion of attendants running and laughing caught my attention. I looked away from him, trying to walk away.
