Chapter 4: Tantrums, Tired Hearts, and Old Wounds

5

Next morning, I woke late—7:00 already. Arjun still sat at the bedside, back stiff, stubborn as ever.

Sunlight painted gold across the floor, dust swirling. The room smelled of agarbatti and last night’s rain.

I laughed in exasperation:

"Teen mahine se sikhaya hai kapde badalna. Autism hai, buddhu nahi ho. Seekh lo!"

My words stung, but underneath, I hoped he’d meet me halfway. My hand fiddled with my saree pallu, guilt pricking at me.

He glared, brows knitted. I spotted the scabbed bite mark on his lip and couldn’t resist:

"Bhaiya, mujhe toh lagta hai tum wait kar rahe ho ki main khud tumhara kurta phaad doon, hai na?"

His eyes widened in horror, cheeks burning crimson. He bolted to the corner, hugging his knees, blue veins visible on his pale arms.

He shrank in, breathing ragged. A pang of regret hit me—I’d gone too far. I wiped my hands on my kurti, refusing to meet my own eyes in the mirror.

What a pitiful, adorable fool.

From across the room, I watched—torn between comfort and more teasing. My heart thudded with a fierce, irrational affection.

The clock’s minute hand crept toward 10. I pulled out my suit, changing right in front of him, and said coldly:

"Paach minute aur. Kapde nahi badle toh khud aake madad karungi."

The threat was half-hearted, but it did the trick. I fiddled with my blouse, watching from the corner as he scrambled to obey.

Arjun finished changing just in time. I asked, "Kya reward chahiye?"

He paused, breathless. His eyes darted to the door, then back, wide and pleading.

He pointed at the door, face red. All he wanted was space—a moment’s peace. I almost laughed at the simplicity.

6

After bullying Arjun, my mood actually improved. Going to work no longer felt like a funeral procession.

I walked past the watchman, who eyed me curiously, and the chaiwala, who called out, "Arre, Tina didi, aaj badi khush lag rahi ho!"

After wrapping up work, I planned to leave early, humming a Bollywood tune. But at the lift, my boss cornered me:

"Tina, ruk jao. Aaj raat Mr. Verma ke saath dinner hai."

His tone brooked no refusal. My heart sank, but I texted home and put on a fake smile.

At dinner, I endured cigarette smoke and watered whisky, every toast a test. The restaurant was dim, laughter muffled by velvet curtains. I sipped, counting the minutes till freedom.

When I got home, Arjun wasn’t asleep. He stared at the night lamp like a ghost.

The room was dark, shadows stretched across the walls. He curled on the bed, eyes wide, humming a Doordarshan tune under his breath, clutching his old teddy bear.

I staggered in, smiling. But as I neared, he darted for the bathroom.

Soon, the harsh sound of vomiting echoed. I hovered at the door, concern and irritation warring inside.

He looked drained, gripping the toilet, hair damp, lips cracked. I wanted to comfort him, but stayed rooted.

Sensing me, Arjun panicked—flinging a shampoo bottle, a brush, a towel at me.

Bang—bang—bang. Each sound sharper than the last, his anger clear in the set of his jaw.

I stepped closer, hands raised.

"Itna nafrat hai mujhse, Bhaiya?"

My voice cracked. I bent to kiss his ear—he vomited on me.

The warmth, the stench, the humiliation—my world tilted.

"...Nikal jao."

His voice was rough, real. My heart thudded. I stood frozen, the silence broken only by the tap’s drip.

He wasn’t mute, but his words felt miraculous. For a second, I almost smiled.

Was this the first time he’d spoken to me outside the bed?

Even if it was a rejection, I snapped. My nails dug into my palm, lips bitten bloody.

I changed out of my dirty clothes, then coaxed him into bed, covering him with the blanket. After cleaning myself and the bathroom, I returned, checking his breathing like a mother with a feverish child.

7

When I left the bathroom, I checked the time—1:00 a.m. The city outside was finally quiet, only a stray dog barking in the distance.

"Ek baje ho gaye—so jaana chahiye tha."

I tiptoed to the room, heart pounding.

"Forget group messages. Bas, aaj sirf pati ko hug kar ke sona hai."

But before I reached the bed, something hard struck my face. My phone clattered to the floor, screen lit with unread notifications.

I clutched my cheek, tears pricking my eyes. The culprit stood by the bed, arms folded, eyes blazing. His message was clear: stay away.

"Pagal ho gaye ho kya? Maine kya kiya?"

My voice rose, pulling at the injury, but I refused to back down.

Arjun was angrier than me. He kicked off the blanket, stomped his foot, and swept the framed Ganesh photo from the bedside table. Pillows, books, even Maa’s photo crashed to the floor.

The racket brought everyone running. Lights blazed on. My stepfather burst in, coat over pajamas, eyes cold:

"Raat ke ek baje, phir drama? Kabhi chain nahi aata!"

He didn’t look at Arjun, whose chest heaved.

Maa hurried in, voice trembling:

"Tina beta, kya hua?"

She reached for me; I pulled away.

I sneered. Nothing ever changed. I was always the villain.

How to explain? It was like the first month after Maa’s remarriage—I bent over backwards for Arjun, trying to please him. Sweets, comics, anything—he stayed distant.

Once, I misunderstood and annoyed him. In front of everyone, he hurled his spoon at my face.

The mark burned. The table fell silent, only the landline’s ring in the background.

I looked to Maa for help. But my stepfather scolded:

"Khana khate waqt baat nahi karte. Naye ho, samajh lo."

His words stung more than the spoon. Maa’s eyes filled, but she said nothing.

No one wanted my side. I apologised to Arjun, head bowed, voice thick. He ignored me. That day, I learned—in this house, I was always wrong.

Today was just a repeat. Two years gone, nothing changed. The Meh­ra house was still cold, unforgiving.

8

My stepfather tried to calm Arjun, Maa called an ambulance, the help swept up shards. The house rang with shouts, sobs, the wail of a siren.

I stood frozen, like a prisoner in my own home. The words "log kya kahenge" echoed in my head.

When everyone left, silence pressed in—only the wall clock and the sharp scent of antiseptic remained.

Suddenly, I hated myself too. My reflection in the window looked back, eyes rimmed red.

If you can’t fit in, why force it? Why keep exhausting yourself?

The question looped endlessly. If I’d left after the first blow, would things be different?

I drove to the office, staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop, mind blank. Outside, Pune’s neon lights flickered, auto rickshaws honking.

Next morning, a WhatsApp group ping woke me.

[The Pune branch is busy and needs help. Volunteers, sign up.]

It felt like fate—a way out. I filled the form, hands shaking.

Before my approval came, my phone rang twice. The first was spam; I let it ring, nerves buzzing.

The second was my stepfather.

His voice dripped with contempt:

"Ab darr lag raha hai? Maine yeh position Arjun ke liye di thi, aur tum bhaag rahi ho? Pehle Arjun ko pagal kar diya, ab Pune bhaag jao. Tina, dimaag hai tumhare paas?"

I gripped the phone, throat dry, pulse thumping.

"Arjun mujhe nahi dekhna chahta. Main chali jaungi toh sab ke liye accha hai."

My voice was barely a whisper. For once, he was silent.

Then he laughed with someone offscreen:

"Theek hai, Dr. Sinha sambhal lenge Arjun ko."

His dismissal stung. I wanted to ask about Arjun, but he hung up.

Soon after, my phone vibrated:

[Chairman Raj Mehra has approved your application.]

The message blinked cold and final. Alone in the empty office, city lights flickering outside, I wondered if anyone would notice I was gone.