Saachi POV

I kept holding him.

The way where you are not ready to check if it was real yet. Where loosening your grip even slightly feels like a risk you cannot take.

All those flashes from before.... the dark room, the door that kept moving away from my hands, the nightmare of being back inside that time.... all of it had stopped here, in his arms, like a clock that finally found its right hour. My face was pressed against his chest and I was sobbing badly enough that I could not have strung a sentence together even if I had tried.

His arms were tight around me.

"Saachi."

His voice, low and close.

"Don't... don't leave me, Sahir." The words came out in pieces, broken by breath.

"How can I ever think of leaving you." He said it like he meant it. "Calm down, Saachi."

His hand moved from my shoulder up to the back of my head, slow and steady.

"Mujhe bahut darr lag gaya tha... light nahi thi, badal aur baarish, phir bijli girne ki awaaz... maine bahut call kiye..." I could not speak properly. My face was still against his chest, the words going into the fabric of his shirt.

"Calm down. Calm down, Saachi... royiye mat, please."

"Main akeli thi... phir mujhe... mujhe bahut bure khayal aa rahe the aap—"

"Saachi." he said  "Saachu, saachu... baat suno meri, please."

I looked up at him, just slightly, eyes swollen, breath still unsteady.

We were still holding each other. He brought both hands up and cupped my face, and his eyes moved across my face the way you look at something you were worried about.

"I am sorry. I really am."

I looked at him with eyes too full to say anything back.

"Andar chalein, haan?"

I nodded. Wiped my face with the back of my hand.

I pulled back slowly, loosening my hold. He took one quick look at my face, the kind that takes in more than it shows, and then before I could take a step, he had picked me up. My feet left the ground and something about that, I don't know why, made the tears start again. I turned my face into his chest.

He walked to the room and set me down on the bed gently. Then went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water, sitting in front of me, feet on the ground, close enough that I could see his face clearly.

He brought the glass to my lips himself. I drank half, then pushed it slightly toward him. He drank the rest without saying anything about it.

I wiped my face. Took one long breath. Then another.

He set the glass aside and moved to sit right beside me on the bed, shoulder close to mine, his feet on the floor. He took my hands in both of his and looked at me.

"I am sorry. Really sorry, Saachu. This will never happen again."

"It's okay," I said.

He let out a soft sound, almost a laugh. "Gussa nahi hongi aap?"

I shook my head. Then I laughed a little, watery and small. "Pakka koi zaroori baat hogi. Varna aap aise nahi karte."

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Shook his head with a faint smile.

Then he told me.

He had been done with work, about to leave, when Pandey sir called. His senior colleague, a man who had quietly looked out for him during his early posting days. A sudden situation had come up at a resettlement site on the edge of the city, some dispute over land documents that needed an officer present before it turned into something worse. Pandey sir's vehicle had broken down halfway. He had asked if Sahir was still around.

He had gone.

On site, his phone had died within the first hour. The charging cable he kept in his bag had stopped working two days ago and he had not replaced it yet. And in the middle of handling four different groups of people all talking at once and two constables with conflicting information... the only number he could remember was the office landline.

He had not memorised mine.

He said that last part quietly, and something in his expression while he said it told me that this particular fact had sat with him the entire evening.

He held my hand a little tighter.

"Yaqeen maniye, maine socha nahi tha aap yeh haal bana lengi apna." He reached out and moved the hair away from my face. "Kya hua tha... mujhe batayiye, please."

His thumb moved across my cheek, once.

I shivered slightly.

And then he closed the distance and hugged me again, and this time I put one hand around his neck and the other across his back, and I straightened a little to settle properly and a sob left my mouth before I could stop it.

"Main darr gayi thi. Mujhe laga aap mujhe chhod—"

"Aur kahan jaata main aapko chhod kar, haan." His voice near my ear, low and unhurried. "Akhir wapas toh ghar hi aana hota hai. Aur mera ghar aap ho. Kahin bhi jaaun... shaam ko laut ke aapke paas hi aata hoon na."

My eyes filled again. I did not try to stop them this time.

"Main... main 21 saal ki thi." I did not plan to say it. It came out on its own, the way things do when you have been holding them for too long. "Pehli baar Rahul se mili thi, kisi shaadi mein. Degree ke last year mein thi. Aur zindagi mein pehli baar kisi ladke se pyaar hua tha."

He did not move. Did not stiffen. Did not change a single thing about how he was holding me.

I kept going.

"Abhi degree finish ki hi thi ki Rahul ne shaadi ki zid pakad li. Poori raat ro kar Papa ko manaya. Sabne roka, abhi shaadi mat karo, tumne apna career bhi shuru nahi kiya. Par main toh pyaar mein thi na. Us time woh sab mere liye pyaar ki pariksha lag raha tha mujhe." A small, quiet laugh left my throat. Then it faded. "Aur shaadi ke baad mujhe ek band, andhere kamre mein ghutan hone jaisa mehsoos hone laga. Ek aisa andhera jahan se shayad kabhi nikal na paun."

His arms tightened slightly.

"Aur aaj jab aap wapas nahi aaye, mujhe laga main usi andhere mein wapas chali gayi. Jahan se nikalne ka koi rasta nahi."

Outside, the rain had softened to something gentler. A steady, low sound against the windows.

"Uss andhere se aap khud nikli hain, Saachi." His hand moved through my hair, slow and even. "Aap mujhe muskurati hui subah jaisi mili hain, aur woh muskurati subah aap khud bani hain. Apni himmat se. Maine uss mein kuch nahi kiya."

My chest opened at that.

"Aap utni hi mazboot hain mere bina bhi aur mere saath bhi. Par ab jab main hoon aapke saath, ab main yeh zaroor karunga ki aap kisi bhi dukh se akele na guzrein. Agar main takleef door nahi kar sakta, toh as a husband meri duty hai hamesha har dukh mein aapka saath nibhane ki."

Duty.

The word landed differently than he meant it to.

My hands, which had been holding his back, moved down to his arms. I pressed my fingers around his bicep. He kept talking about his emergency situation, kept moving his hand through my hair, completely unaware.

I slipped my hand from his neck to his biceps.
I held them, then tighter.
I was calm at this point and my whole focus was on feeling his biceps.

He paused. "Saachi?"

I said nothing. Just kept my grip exactly where it was, face completely neutral, eyes suspiciously calm.

He looked down at my hand. Then at my face. Something shifted behind his eyes, somewhere between confused and cautious.

I squeezed harder.

"...Saachi, theek hain aap?"

"Hmm," I said.

He didn't say anything further.
I slowly, generously, released my grip.

He resumed caressing my hair.

I settled back against him.

⋆｡°✩

When I had calmed down fully and we had separated, I got up from the bed.

"Aapne khaana nahi khaya hoga. Main le aati hoon."

"Main kha lunga. Aap rest kijiye."

"Nahi, main—"

"Wait." He looked at me. His expression shifted into something more serious. "Aapne khaana khaya?"

I shook my head.

He was on his feet and out of the room before I finished the movement.

He came back with a plate, aloo gobhi, soft and fragrant, dahi cool beside it, chutney on the side, and chapatis still warm enough to fold without cracking. He set it between us on the bed and sat across from me.

"Aap khaiye. Mujhe ab bhook nahi—"

He had already torn off a piece of chapati, pressed it into the sabzi, and brought it near my mouth.

I ate it.

He fed me quietly,  eating himself in between. Two people sharing a plate at midnight with the rain still going outside and the side lamp throwing soft light across the room. There was no particular conversation. Just this.

Afterwards he washed the dishes and came back to the room.

He turned off the main light. The side lamp stayed on.

We settled into our sides of the bed, the usual quiet distance between us, not cold, just the careful space of two people who are still learning the geography of being this close to another person. But there is something about having him on the other side of that space. Something I feel every night that I do not have a clean word for yet. A warmth that is not about touch. A steadiness that makes the dark feel smaller.

"Aap theek hain, Saachi?"

"Ji."

He did not turn off the lamp.

⋆｡°✩

I woke up at half past six.

His side was empty, he must have gone to the gym, probably. The morning light was coming in pale and quiet through the curtains.

I lay there for a moment, looking at the ceiling. Then I got up, bathed, and stood in front of the mirror.

Today I wanted to be seen.

I pulled out the red suit, heavy fabric, good embroidery, the kind of outfit that does not ask permission before it enters a room. I wore full chooda, all of it, every bangle back in its place. put Sindoor and did my makeup. I looked at myself in the mirror for a moment and felt, simply, like myself.

I went to the kitchen and put chai on one burner and chhole on the other, then carried two cups out to the garden.

Sahir was there, already changed out of gym clothes and into his office formals, pressed shirt, trousers, the version of him that belongs to the day ahead. He was on a call, walking slow circles near the far end of the garden, back toward me, too focused to notice I had come out.

I set his cup on the table.

Then I went toward him. Kind of excited, hoping he would notice my look.

"Sahir—"

One hand came up behind him without turning around. A flat, distracted gesture asking me to wait.

I stopped. A little disappointed.

I turned to go back.

His hand caught my wrist.

One smooth pull and suddenly I was close, facing him, my hand pressed against his chest, both of us looking at each other while he was still on the phone. He held my wrist lightly and looked at my face with the focused attention of someone who had just understood something.

He cut the call.

"You are looking so beautiful, Saachu."

The way he said it, like he knew what I was going to ask him. And he again called me Saachu. I took a deep breath.
"Thank you," I said.

I kept looking at him. He kept looking at me.

"Happy first month wedding anniversary," I said.

His expression did something interesting, a flash of realisation, then something that looked almost like embarrassment, which on his face is a very rare and therefore very visible thing.

He pulled me into a hug.

I wrapped my arms around his middle and he held me with one arm around my shoulders and his face resting on my head.

"Happy anniversary, wifey." He paused and then said, "And I am sorry for forgetting. I don't know how I can be so dumb. Work has kept me... no. That is not an excuse. I'm sorry. Also, thank you. For being my wife. And for enduring me."

My eyes filled for the second time in less than twelve hours.

This man.

"Chai pilijiye," I said into his shoulder.

"Pila dijiye," he said, not moving.

"Table par hai. Chaliye."

I detached myself from him carefully, and we went and sat.

He picked up his cup. Looked at me over the rim. "Red suits you."

"No, say everything suits you."

"I don't think that needs to be said," he said, looking into my eyes.

I looked at the garden very intently for a moment.

Not the right time for butterflies. Absolutely not.

"Maine chhole banaye hain. Puri bana deti hoon. Chaliye andar."

"Main help karun—"

"Nahi. Bas aa jaiye."

We had breakfast at the table, puri chhole, the kind that fills a morning properly.

"Shaam ko mandir chalenge. Thoda jaldi aa sakte hain?"

"Hanji, aa jaunga."

He left in his official car. I took ours.

⋆｡°✩

I wore a saree in the evening. Second outfit. Special day... two changes is perfectly reasonable and I will not be explaining this to anyone.

Sahir came home around six, got ready in the efficient way he always does, fifteen minutes, no deliberation, and we left.

First, the mandir. The evening aarti was already going when we arrived, the smell of incense and ghee lamps thick in the air, the sound of the bells overlapping. I folded my hands and closed my eyes and felt, simply and completely, grateful.

Then we got back in the car and he drove somewhere I did not know.

We reached a large, well-lit venue set up for a ticketed cultural show, rows of chairs arranged in a wide arc facing a stage.

"Sahir, yeh tickets toh bahut mushkil se milte hain. Kitne pehle book kiye?"

He looked at the windshield. A small pause. "Actually maine unhe yahan show karne ki permission di. Toh shayad isliye mujhe allow kar diya."

I stared at him.

He kept his eyes on the road ahead with the particular expression of someone who has said something and has decided to remain calm about it.

He permitted the qawwali singer to perform in the city. And that is why we have seats.

Just because he does not walk around announcing it does not mean my husband is not one of the most powerful people in this city. I keep forgetting. He makes it very easy to forget.

We were escorted in by two constables who appeared the moment Sahir stepped out of the car, quiet and efficient, parting the crowd at the entrance without any fuss. We were taken to a private section at the side, a sofa, dim lighting, the kind of position where you can see everything and everything does not need to see you.

We sat.

And then the music started.

The sufi singer's voice rose from the stage and I felt it in my chest immediately, the kind of voice that does not ask you to listen to it, it simply reaches inside and takes what it finds there. The alap, slow and searching, and then the tabla joining in, and then the full swell of it.
I was completely lost.

At some point I tucked my feet underneath me on the sofa and then, without thinking about it much, rested them sideways across Sahir's lap. The lights in our section were dim. He said nothing. His hand came to rest on my feet, pressing gently, and I looked back at the stage and felt entirely, quietly content.

The singer paused between pieces. Let his gaze move across the audience. Then, with a small smile toward our section:

"NA HI boleya te nahi metho russeya
ALLAH jaane mahi mera kiwen metho russeya"

"Aur agli line humare ADM sahab aur unki Madam ke liye hai."

A spotlight swung toward us.

I startled and tried to pull my feet back in pure reflex and sat up properly, blinking in the sudden attention, but Sahir didn't let me, like he had no problem with the whole crowd seeing him holding his wife. The audience had turned to look. Sahir beside me, perfectly composed, as though spotlights found him at qawwali shows every other evening.

The singer's voice lifted again, warm and pointed:

"Ohde pairan di dhoor ban jaawan, je kade mera yaar mil jaaye—"

He sang it with one hand extended toward us.

I put my face down and shook my head, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. From around us came hooting and clapping, the good-natured, delighted kind.

Sahir, I noticed from the corner of my lowered eyes, was clapping along with complete composure and zero visible embarrassment.

I shook my head again.

This man.

⋆｡°✩

Dinner was at the same restaurant where we had eaten on our first proper evening together. He had remembered. Of course he had.

We sat across from each other at the same table and ate and talked the way we have slowly learned to. About nothing important. About everything.

Driving home, the city quiet around us, I watched the streetlights pass and thought about how strange it is, that I said yes to this marriage because my parents thought he was a good match, because it was time, because I was willing to try again even when trying again felt like the most terrifying thing in the world.

I had been so afraid going in.

And the morning before the wedding he had said quietly, "Main apni taraf se poori koshish karunga."

I had believed him. I had not known why. I just had.

If God asked me now, go back, start again, and this time you have no reason to say yes, no family pressure, no timing, nothing, would you still?

I looked at his profile. The easy grip on the steering wheel. The quiet.

Yes.

Without a single other reason, yes.

⋆｡°✩

Life settled back into its rhythm after that. Morning tea in the garden, work, the noon call to check if he had eaten, the evening walk where we talked about our days slowly, neither of us in any hurry.

These things had stopped feeling like gestures somewhere along the way. They had become simply how our days were shaped. The structure of us.

⋆｡°✩

One afternoon at the studio, I called him before leaving.

"Hello."

"Hanji, Saachi. Theek hain aap?"

"Hanji. Actually mujhe aaj shaam apne ghar jaana padega."

"Koi baat nahi, Saachi. Aapko mujhse poochne ki zarurat nahi hai."

"Nahi... main pooch nahi rahi thi. Aapko bata rahi thi."

A brief pause on the line. "Aap ghar aayengi na?"

"Ji. Jab tak aap aayenge, shayad tab tak Papa mujhe le jaayenge. Main khaana bana kar rakh dungi."

"Aap mujhse... mera matlab hai, mere aane ke baad chali jaana. Ya main drop kar dunga."

"Nahi, actually Nani aa rahi hain. Mama ji bhi aayenge unhe chhodne aur unhe wapas jaana hai, toh unse mil bhi lungi, varna late ho jaayega."

"Okay." His voice, quieter than usual, just that one word.

⋆｡°✩

I made dinner and extra sabzi for the next day and left for home.

Nani was already there when I arrived, small and slow-moving now, wrapped in a shawl despite the weather, her eyes still sharp in the way they have always been. She travels rarely. The fact that she had come meant something.

She pulled me into her arms the moment she saw me.

"Kitni khushi ho rahi hai tujhe khush dekhkar, meri phool jaisi bachi. Kitni ghumsum rehti thi, ab kitna chehk rahi hai."

I held her tighter than I meant to.

"Pati kaisa hai tera?"

"Theek hai."

"Swabhaav pooch rahi hoon," she said, adjusting my head in her lap when I settled beside her.

"Bahut ache hain."

She made a small sound of satisfaction. "Pati kitna acha hai, yeh uski patni ka chehra dekh kar hi pata lagta hai. Tere chehre ki khushi se saaf dikh raha hai, acha hi hoga tera pati."

I did not answer. Just smiled, looking at my hands.

⋆｡°✩

At eight, I went up to the terrace and called him. He picked up on the first ring.

"Lag raha tha phone hi chala rahe the," I said, walking slowly along the terrace edge, the city spread quietly below.

"Aapke call ka hi wait kar raha tha. Mujhe laga busy hongi, toh maine call nahi kiya."

"Bas terrace par walk kar rahi thi."

"Main bhi."

I stopped. "Aap terrace par kya kar rahe hain? Aap toh garden mein walk karte hain."

"Aapke saath karta hoon. Par aaj aap saath nahi thi, toh main terrace par aa gaya."

The smile that came to my face was immediate and completely out of my control.

I controlled the urge to ask him if he was missing me. Barely.

"Khaana khaya?"

"Ji."

"Subah ke liye sabzi hogi. Aap bas roti bana lena."

"Aapko pata hai na, aapke aane se pehle kuch mahine main iss ghar mein akela raha hoon. Woh baat alag hai ki Ab raha nahi jaata."

"Hanji?" I asked, to understand the context behind what he said.

"Kuch nahi. Aap apna aur sabka dhyaan rakhna."

"Machhar rehte hain chhat par humari. Neeche jaiye aur so jaiye," I said, and cut the call.

I stood on the terrace for a moment after, phone in my hand, looking at nothing in particular.

Nani was right. It was visible on my face. I knew because I could feel it, the way happiness sits differently in your body when it is real. Not performed. Not hoped for. Just present, warm and unannounced, the way good light comes in on a winter morning.

⋆｡°✩

The next morning I went to the studio early, gave Nikhil his instructions for the day, and came back before noon.

We all went to the amusement park, Di and Anaya, Maa, and Nani, who sat in the shade near the entry gate and watched us with the satisfied expression of a woman who has earned the right to simply observe the happiness she helped build.

Anaya screamed on every ride. Di screamed louder. I laughed the whole afternoon.

We came home at nine, everyone tired in the good way, the way you are when a day has been fully used.
I couldn't get time to call Sahir the whole day, I just managed to text him once. I went to the terrace to talk to him.

"Hello."

"Hi. Kaise hain aap."

"Theek hoon. Aap?"

"Sorry aapse baat nahi kar paayi aaj. Kaisa raha aapka din, khaana—"

"Itni raat ko phir chhat par ghoom rahi hain aap."

I went still. "Aapko kaise pata?"

"Zara bahar dekhiye."

I turned and looked toward the gate.

His car was parked outside on the street, engine off, and he was standing beside it looking up at the terrace with his phone at his ear.

"Sahir, yeh kya kar rahe hain aap? Aadhi raat ko yahan—" I said, totally surprised at his act.

"Aapko dekhne aaya tha."

"Aadhi raat ko—"

"Apni hi patni se milne aaya hoon."

I pressed my hand to my forehead.

"Main chala jaata hoon agar—"

"Rukiye."

I went down the stairs carefully, slowly, without making any sound that might wake anyone, what would they think, one day apart and here he is on the street at midnight, slipped out the front door, walked to the gate, and got into the car.

He was sitting in the driver's seat smiling at me like he had done nothing unusual.

"Yeh kya kar rahe hain aap."

The smile faded into something more careful. "Arre yaar, na hello, na kuch... seedha daant."

"Sorry. Hi."

"Hello, wifey."

"Yahan kyun aaye?"

"Nahi aa sakta kya?"

"Iss time—"

"Poora din call nahi uthaya. Fikr ho gayi."

"Aap bas bahane laga rahe hain." I shook my head.

He started the car without answering.

⋆｡°✩

We drove for fifteen minutes through streets that belonged mostly to us at that hour, the city in its late-night version, slower and softer, the shops shuttered, just the streetlights and the occasional autorickshaw and the road opening up ahead of us.

He stopped at a stretch of road that had a row of lights strung between trees and almost no one around. A small cart nearby, a man with a cooler and ice cream cones, looking unsurprised at customers at this hour.

Sahir came back with two.

He sat on the bonnet of the car. I sat beside him.

We licked our ice creams in companionable silence. Above us the lights in the trees moved slightly in the breeze. The road was quiet. The night was the right temperature, not cold, not warm, the kind that needs no adjustment.

"Aap kab se meetha khaane lage?" I asked, watching him.

He thought about this with genuine consideration. "Bas abhi se."

I smiled and looked at the road.

He looked at me.

I kept looking at the road.

⋆｡°✩

He drove me back and parked in front of my home.

As I reached for the door handle, his hand closed around my wrist.

"Kitne din aur rahengi aap?"

"Kyun... khaana banana pad raha hai roz?"

"Aap wapas toh aayiye... aapke liye bhi teen time bana dunga."

He said it with a completely straight face. A slight pull at the corner of his mouth that he did not let become anything more.

I felt the heat go straight to my face.

I got out of the car. Walked to the door without looking back. Went inside. Locked it quietly. Pressed my back against it for three full seconds in the dark of the corridor.

Then I went to my room.

Lay down. Looked at the ceiling.

There is one thing I know for certain now, one thing I am no longer pretending is not true.

I have started liking this man.

A lot.

⋆｡°✩

honestly, I've never given any target for votes or comments — I always found it a little funny
But now I understand why authors say it.

I need to know if you're liking the story through your comments and votes. That's how I understand what you feel.