Chapter 5: Night of Ink and Laughter

For the first time in my twenty-seven years, I blushed—on my wedding night!

Madam’s gaze was a laser—first delighting over the wheels and levers of my chair, poking and prodding at every gear, then dropping boldly to my legs, her curiosity unfiltered.

Being stared at like that, my face heated up so much that the lanterns on the wall could have been dimmed by comparison. She frowned, half-sighing, half-joking: "Accha, koi baat nahi—even if you can’t be a man, Colonel Arjun is still handsome! So many people, but only you look like a hero from one of those old Hindi films."

She actually said... such shameless words, with the innocence of a child and the cheek of a dacoit. I didn’t know where to look. No one—ever—had called me handsome, only brave or stubborn. And anyway, it’s not that I can’t be a man, just that...

Bas, chhodo—she’s too young, her whole life ahead. Let her keep her illusions.

So I smiled, a helpless, tired smile: "Sorry to wrong you, I..."

She cut me off with a wave: "Arrey, main kyun bura manoongi? Colonel is the one to pity—with this size, if not injured, you could lift four or five sacks of rice at once. Our rice crop is ready in the fields, haan."

Every time I opened my mouth, I felt breathless, as if I’d run a race. Madam’s style—no, her whole existence—was a whirlwind. The wedding night, which in stories is full of longing and shy glances, was spent in a whirlwind of her words—first telling me I couldn’t be a man, then dragging me off to study the wheels of my chair!

She’d swapped her bridal lehenga for a faded kurta, hair in a messy braid, feet bare on the divan. Ananya, now changed into plain cotton, sat cross-legged on the divan, messy sketches and bits of paper scattered everywhere, discussing how to improve my wheelchair. Later, she collapsed sideways, snoring softly, a streak of blue ink across her nose.

I shook my head, half smiling, half in disbelief, and gently wiped her cheek. As she slept, she muttered: "Come back... the one who went to war has come back..."

My heart twisted, all my pride and pain turning over. At that moment, the old maid slipped in quietly—she’d served my mother, and her words always came with a motherly scold. She looked at Ananya, then at me: "Colonel saab, abhi tak doctor sahib intezaar kar rahe hain—kya aapko apni sehat ki parwah nahi?"

I pressed my spasming leg, grimacing. "Just now, listening to Madam, I didn’t even feel the pain."

She shook her head, half scolding, half worried: "Madam still has a child’s mind, keeps chattering all day. Colonel should look after your health!"

"It’s alright. I like listening to her talk."