Chapter 7: Waiting and Dread

Later I learned—Madam hung lanterns everywhere because she was scared of the dark. After the wedding, she didn’t give up her father’s work. I thought her carpentry meant toys and trinkets, but no—she made bows and crossbows for the army camp, her hands callused, her nails black with oil and wood.

The work at the camp was tough—late nights, long hours, the kind of grind that would scare any city girl. The old maid whispered to me, hinting: "Now that she’s married, Madam shouldn’t be showing her face so much in public."

But I didn’t care. She was free to be herself—no need to shrink for anyone, not even for the so-called society.

One night, she was late. I waited by the study door for hours, the house echoing with silence. Only when I called her did she relax, dashing over, cheeks flushed, throwing herself into my arms. My legs useless, I hugged her tightly. Her head pressed against my chest, I patted her back: "Why running like this?"

"Why are you awake still?" she shot back, avoiding my question, her voice a mix of shyness and stubbornness.

"Couldn’t sleep—fresh air helps."

"Then let’s go together."

Before I could protest, she was pushing my chair through the house, as if we were escaping curfew. Who was keeping whom company, who can say? I didn’t point out her trick, letting her wheel me wherever she wished.

She adjusted my shawl before wheeling me outside, fingers lingering for a second on my shoulder. Outside, in the early summer air, the scent of raat ki rani floated on the breeze. We glided through islands of candlelight, our shadows stretching and mingling, the world shrinking to just us. For a moment, it was as if nothing else existed—no duty, no expectations, only the two of us and the soft rustle of leaves.

"How was your day?" I asked, half-ashamed, half-hoping she wouldn’t mind my foolish question.

But she grinned, launching into a running commentary: "Accha suno—my favourite malai chamcham was sold out, the camp people annoyed me, and the driver wouldn’t stop telling ghost stories the whole ride home..."

She rambled, and I listened, wishing the night would never end. They were right—I wanted to spend more time with her. At first, just from afar; now, talking, laughing, living.

She was my wife, my lawfully wedded one. In the time God had granted me, I wanted to taste a little happiness—just once. After that night, I started waiting for her return, sometimes at the door, sometimes at the gate, sometimes with sweets, sometimes with a shawl.

I’d watch for her shadow at the end of the lane. The waiting, slow and sweet, was its own kind of blessing—maybe because it was filled with hope. But I also knew, for someone like me, hope was dangerous—more painful than any wound, if lost.

One day, I waited and waited, but she didn’t return. An unease gnawed at me. I sent out the guards—my heart thumping harder than it had on the battlefield.

They came back, faces grim. "Madam has been taken to the Secretariat."

At that, my blood froze. Outside, the siren of a police jeep echoed down the lane. My hands trembled on the wheels—had my last hope already slipped away?