16-10-2025, 01:24 AM
CHAPTER – 67
It was a quiet afternoon, the sky a soft gray with the promise of rain, the haveli bathed in the warm glow of brass lamps. Danish was at a friend’s house, and Feroz was in the courtyard, tending to the jasmine vines, his kurta sleeves rolled up as he worked with careful precision. Kavya sat in the living room, her sleeveless kurti dbangd beneath a sheer dupatta, her hair loose as she sorted through a box of old photographs. She reached up to adjust her dupatta, the fabric slipping slightly to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulder, the lamplight catching her skin as she sifted through the images.
Her phone buzzed on the divan, the screen lighting up with a name she hadn’t seen in years: Ma. Kavya froze, her heart clenching with shock and unease. Her parents had disowned her when she married Danish, a '., their rejection a wound that had never healed. She hesitated, her fingers trembling, before answering. “Ma?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the word heavy after years of silence.
“Kavya,” her mother’s voice came through, raw with tears, a sound that struck Kavya like a blow. “It’s your father… he’s not well.” Her mother’s words broke, a sob escaping as she explained—her father had suffered a stroke, his condition critical, the hospital bills mounting, and the family fractured without Kavya. “I know we hurt you,” her mother choked out, “but I didn’t know who else to call. He’s asking for you.”
Kavya’s hand tightened around the phone, her eyes stinging as the weight of years of estrangement crashed over her. The living room, once warm and familiar, felt overwhelming, the photographs forgotten on her lap. Her mother’s tears stirred a storm of emotions—guilt, anger, longing for the family she’d lost when she chose Danish. She didn’t notice Feroz entering the room, his steps quiet as he sensed her distress, his presence a steady anchor in her turmoil.
“Kavya?” Feroz’s voice was gentle, concerned, as he crossed to the divan, standing a respectful distance away. “Is everything alright?”
She looked up, her eyes glistening, her dupatta still slipped, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the vulnerability of her expression mirroring the rawness in her chest. “It’s my mother,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “She called… after all this time. My father’s sick, really sick.” The words spilled out, her voice breaking as she recounted her mother’s call, the hospital, her father’s condition.
Feroz nodded, his expression softening with empathy as he sat on a chair nearby, giving her space but offering his presence. “That must be hard to hear,” he said quietly, his voice a steady balm. “After so long.”
Kavya’s breath hitched, the weight of her mother’s words pressing down on her. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, her voice raw, the photographs slipping from her hands to the divan. “They didn’t want me when I chose Danish, and now… he’s asking for me.”
Feroz leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped, his gaze steady but kind. “You don’t have to decide today,” he said, his tone calm, reassuring. “Take your time. Whatever you choose, it’s your decision.”
A soft rumble of thunder rolled outside, and Kavya’s shoulders tensed, the approaching storm echoing the turmoil within her. Her dupatta slipped further, baring more of her shoulder, but she barely noticed, her mind consumed by her mother’s call. Feroz’s presence was a quiet anchor, his care genuine, though the unspoken tension between them lingered, a subtle undercurrent in the air. “I just… I thought that door was closed forever,” she said, her voice breaking, the weight of her family’s rejection mingling with the uncertainty of her father’s illness.
“You’ll find your way through this,” Feroz said, his voice steady, his eyes holding hers with a warmth that spoke of their shared months of connection. “You’re stronger than you know.”
Kavya’s heart pounded, torn between the care that had grown between them, the pain of her mother’s call, and the weight of her past choices. She was Danish’s wife, yet here, in the haveli’s warm glow, with the world outside fading into the hum of the approaching storm, she felt the strength of Feroz’s support, a quiet reassurance amidst the chaos. Her hand rested on the divan, the photographs scattered around her, a fragile tether to the present. The storm drew closer, the thunder a low rumble, holding the haveli in its quiet grip as Kavya sat, grappling with the past and the uncertain path ahead.
As kavya is crying she doesn’t understand how to react and without thinking, she stood and stepped toward Feroz, her body seeking comfort instinctively. She hugged him, her arms wrapping around him as she buried her face against his chest, her tears falling softly.
Feroz hesitated for a moment, then hugged her back, his hands resting gently on her lower back, his touch warm and reassuring. “It’s alright, Kavya,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You’re not alone in this.” His words were a quiet anchor, his hands steady as he held her, offering solace in her grief. Kavya’s tears fell silently, her body trembling against his, the weight of her mother’s call overwhelming her.
As he consoled her, Feroz’s arms tightened slightly, a subtle shift that drew her closer, his hands pressing more firmly against her lower back. Kavya felt the change, the warmth of his embrace intensifying, and her body responded instinctively, rising onto her toes to hug him back tighter, her arms clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in her storm of emotions. Her dupatta slipped further, baring more of her shoulder, but she barely noticed, her tears and the weight of her family’s call consuming her. Feroz’s voice remained steady, “You’ll get through this, Kavya. Take it one step at a time.” His hands stayed on her lower back, a quiet strength in his hold, his breath warm against her hair as he spoke.
Kavya pulled back slightly, her tears slowing, and reached for her phone, her hands still trembling. “I need to call Danish,” she said, her voice shaky but resolute. She dialed his number, her heart heavy as she waited for him to pick up. When he answered, his voice was warm but tinged with concern at her tone. “Kavya? What’s wrong?”
“It’s my father,” she said, her voice breaking as she recounted her mother’s call—the stroke, his critical condition, the years of silence broken by this desperate plea. “Ma called… he’s asking for me.” Her words were halting, the pain raw in her voice.
Danish’s voice softened, steady and reassuring. “Don’t worry, Kavya. I’m coming home right now. We’ll go to Delhi together to see your father. We’ll figure this out.” His words were a lifeline, grounding her in the midst of her turmoil.
Kavya nodded, though he couldn’t see her, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as she whispered, “Thank you.” She hung up, her hands still clutching the phone, her eyes meeting Feroz’s. He stood nearby, his expression one of quiet support, his presence a steady anchor. “Danish is coming home,” she said softly, her voice still raw. “We’re going to Delhi.”
Feroz nodded, his eyes warm with understanding. “You’ll be there for your father,” he said gently. “And you’ve got Danish with you. You’re not alone.” A soft rumble of thunder rolled outside, the storm drawing closer, echoing the turmoil within her. The photographs lay scattered on the divan, a fragile tether to the present, as the haveli held them in its quiet grip, the weight of her family’s call and the promise of Danish’s support anchoring her in the moment.
It was a quiet afternoon, the sky a soft gray with the promise of rain, the haveli bathed in the warm glow of brass lamps. Danish was at a friend’s house, and Feroz was in the courtyard, tending to the jasmine vines, his kurta sleeves rolled up as he worked with careful precision. Kavya sat in the living room, her sleeveless kurti dbangd beneath a sheer dupatta, her hair loose as she sorted through a box of old photographs. She reached up to adjust her dupatta, the fabric slipping slightly to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulder, the lamplight catching her skin as she sifted through the images.
Her phone buzzed on the divan, the screen lighting up with a name she hadn’t seen in years: Ma. Kavya froze, her heart clenching with shock and unease. Her parents had disowned her when she married Danish, a '., their rejection a wound that had never healed. She hesitated, her fingers trembling, before answering. “Ma?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the word heavy after years of silence.
“Kavya,” her mother’s voice came through, raw with tears, a sound that struck Kavya like a blow. “It’s your father… he’s not well.” Her mother’s words broke, a sob escaping as she explained—her father had suffered a stroke, his condition critical, the hospital bills mounting, and the family fractured without Kavya. “I know we hurt you,” her mother choked out, “but I didn’t know who else to call. He’s asking for you.”
Kavya’s hand tightened around the phone, her eyes stinging as the weight of years of estrangement crashed over her. The living room, once warm and familiar, felt overwhelming, the photographs forgotten on her lap. Her mother’s tears stirred a storm of emotions—guilt, anger, longing for the family she’d lost when she chose Danish. She didn’t notice Feroz entering the room, his steps quiet as he sensed her distress, his presence a steady anchor in her turmoil.
“Kavya?” Feroz’s voice was gentle, concerned, as he crossed to the divan, standing a respectful distance away. “Is everything alright?”
She looked up, her eyes glistening, her dupatta still slipped, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the vulnerability of her expression mirroring the rawness in her chest. “It’s my mother,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “She called… after all this time. My father’s sick, really sick.” The words spilled out, her voice breaking as she recounted her mother’s call, the hospital, her father’s condition.
Feroz nodded, his expression softening with empathy as he sat on a chair nearby, giving her space but offering his presence. “That must be hard to hear,” he said quietly, his voice a steady balm. “After so long.”
Kavya’s breath hitched, the weight of her mother’s words pressing down on her. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, her voice raw, the photographs slipping from her hands to the divan. “They didn’t want me when I chose Danish, and now… he’s asking for me.”
Feroz leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped, his gaze steady but kind. “You don’t have to decide today,” he said, his tone calm, reassuring. “Take your time. Whatever you choose, it’s your decision.”
A soft rumble of thunder rolled outside, and Kavya’s shoulders tensed, the approaching storm echoing the turmoil within her. Her dupatta slipped further, baring more of her shoulder, but she barely noticed, her mind consumed by her mother’s call. Feroz’s presence was a quiet anchor, his care genuine, though the unspoken tension between them lingered, a subtle undercurrent in the air. “I just… I thought that door was closed forever,” she said, her voice breaking, the weight of her family’s rejection mingling with the uncertainty of her father’s illness.
“You’ll find your way through this,” Feroz said, his voice steady, his eyes holding hers with a warmth that spoke of their shared months of connection. “You’re stronger than you know.”
Kavya’s heart pounded, torn between the care that had grown between them, the pain of her mother’s call, and the weight of her past choices. She was Danish’s wife, yet here, in the haveli’s warm glow, with the world outside fading into the hum of the approaching storm, she felt the strength of Feroz’s support, a quiet reassurance amidst the chaos. Her hand rested on the divan, the photographs scattered around her, a fragile tether to the present. The storm drew closer, the thunder a low rumble, holding the haveli in its quiet grip as Kavya sat, grappling with the past and the uncertain path ahead.
As kavya is crying she doesn’t understand how to react and without thinking, she stood and stepped toward Feroz, her body seeking comfort instinctively. She hugged him, her arms wrapping around him as she buried her face against his chest, her tears falling softly.
Feroz hesitated for a moment, then hugged her back, his hands resting gently on her lower back, his touch warm and reassuring. “It’s alright, Kavya,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You’re not alone in this.” His words were a quiet anchor, his hands steady as he held her, offering solace in her grief. Kavya’s tears fell silently, her body trembling against his, the weight of her mother’s call overwhelming her.
As he consoled her, Feroz’s arms tightened slightly, a subtle shift that drew her closer, his hands pressing more firmly against her lower back. Kavya felt the change, the warmth of his embrace intensifying, and her body responded instinctively, rising onto her toes to hug him back tighter, her arms clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in her storm of emotions. Her dupatta slipped further, baring more of her shoulder, but she barely noticed, her tears and the weight of her family’s call consuming her. Feroz’s voice remained steady, “You’ll get through this, Kavya. Take it one step at a time.” His hands stayed on her lower back, a quiet strength in his hold, his breath warm against her hair as he spoke.
Kavya pulled back slightly, her tears slowing, and reached for her phone, her hands still trembling. “I need to call Danish,” she said, her voice shaky but resolute. She dialed his number, her heart heavy as she waited for him to pick up. When he answered, his voice was warm but tinged with concern at her tone. “Kavya? What’s wrong?”
“It’s my father,” she said, her voice breaking as she recounted her mother’s call—the stroke, his critical condition, the years of silence broken by this desperate plea. “Ma called… he’s asking for me.” Her words were halting, the pain raw in her voice.
Danish’s voice softened, steady and reassuring. “Don’t worry, Kavya. I’m coming home right now. We’ll go to Delhi together to see your father. We’ll figure this out.” His words were a lifeline, grounding her in the midst of her turmoil.
Kavya nodded, though he couldn’t see her, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as she whispered, “Thank you.” She hung up, her hands still clutching the phone, her eyes meeting Feroz’s. He stood nearby, his expression one of quiet support, his presence a steady anchor. “Danish is coming home,” she said softly, her voice still raw. “We’re going to Delhi.”
Feroz nodded, his eyes warm with understanding. “You’ll be there for your father,” he said gently. “And you’ve got Danish with you. You’re not alone.” A soft rumble of thunder rolled outside, the storm drawing closer, echoing the turmoil within her. The photographs lay scattered on the divan, a fragile tether to the present, as the haveli held them in its quiet grip, the weight of her family’s call and the promise of Danish’s support anchoring her in the moment.
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