Dhananjay came through the gate earlier than expected, the light still golden rather than evening-grey. Ganga looked up from where she was sitting and said, with great composure, "Tum toh der se aane waale the na. Itni jaldi kyun aa gaye?"

(You were supposed to come late. Why so early?)

"Kyun? Mere bina hi achha lag raha tha tumhe?"

(Why. Were you enjoying yourself better without me?)

"Haan, badhiya shanti thi." She turned to Nayantara, who had just come in with water for him. "Haina, Chachi?"

(Yes, there was wonderful peace. Isn't that right, Chachi?)

Nayantara set the glass down and looked at Ganga.

"Ab kya hua. Phir kyun ladne lagi ye Ganga."

(What now. Why is this Ganga picking fights again.)

"Chachi, aapne dal kaise badal liya?" Ganga said, clearly offended.

(Chachi, how did you switch sides so quickly?)

The two of them laughed. Dhananjay accepted the water and then he informed, "Chachi, aaj Holika Pooja hai. Sab taiyaar ho jaana, hum chalenge."

(Chachi, it is Holika Pooja today. Everyone get ready, we will go.)

Ganga opened her mouth immediately. Forming another lie to escape this pooja as well.

"Dhananjay, vo mai.."

Dhananjay glared at her, today these lies won't work on him.

"Koi bahana nahi chalega. Taiyaar ho jaao jaake."

(No excuses will work. Go and get ready.)

She looked at Nayantara. Nayantara nodded once, firmly. Ganga pressed her lips together and followed Dhananjay inside.

Inside Dhananjay's room.

Ganga stood in front of the open almirah, her arms crossed, her head tilted, cycling through every saree stacked inside it with the expression of someone standing before a full kitchen and finding nothing to eat.

Dhananjay had already bathed and was getting ready at his end of the room, moving with the unbothered efficiency of a man who takes three minutes to get dressed and cannot understand why this should ever take longer.

But right opposite to him.

Ganga..

"Dhananjay." Her voice was tragic. "Mere paas ek bhi saree nahi hai." She spoke childlike. Faking cries already.

(Dhananjay. I don't have a single saree.)

Dhananjay looked up. Then he looked at the almirah, stacked with folded sarees.

"Nahi hai? Toh ye sab kya hai, Ganga?" His voice was clearly the voice of a victim.

(There isn't? Then what is all of this?)

"Majak bana rahe ho mera.." She shot immediately.

"Arey, ye sab mai pehen chuki hun na."

(But I have worn all of these already.)

He looked at her for a moment with the expression of a man confronting something he cannot argue against because it operates on its own internal logic. He sighed. Then he reached into the side of his bag and pulled out something wrapped in cloth.

He held it out. "Mujhe pata tha, ye toh tum zaroor kahogi."

He unfolded it. A saree, new and unworn, "Nayi laya hun. Ab khush?"

(I knew you would say exactly this. I brought a new one. Happy now?)

Ganga's eyes went to it immediately. "Sacchi? Arey waah, ye toh kitna pyaara rang hai."

(Really? Oh, what a beautiful colour this is.)

"Pasand aaya?"

She nodded before he had finished asking. He smiled and wrapped one palm around her waist, drawing her gently against his chest.

"Gajre bhi hain." His voice was quieter now, closer. "Jaldi taiyaar ho jao. Apne haathon se lagaana hai."

(There are flowers for your hair too. Get ready quickly. I want to put them in myself.)

She looked up at him, a smile breaking through despite everything she was trying to do with her expression. Then she took the saree from him and went to change.

When she came out, Dhananjay was standing by the window. He turned at the sound of her, and his eyes stopped.

She was wiping her hair with a towel, standing before the mirror, not yet looking at herself. The red sat against her skin the way he had imagined it would when he saw it in the shop, and then better. She was doing nothing in particular, just standing there, and somehow that made it worse, that she had no idea.

He crossed the room and took the towel from her hands.

She looked at him in the mirror.

With a smile Dhananjay spoke, "Bahut khoobsurat lag rahi ho aaj, is saree mein."

(You look very beautiful today, in this saree.)

"Kyun. Baaki din, baaki saree mein nahi lagti khoobsurat?" Ganga crossed him, making her eyes dance with each word.

(Why. Don't I look beautiful on other days, in other sarees?)

"Lagti ho. Par itni nahi." He held her gaze in the mirror, steady and unhurried. "Dekh kar hi koi bata de, kisne bade pyaar se ye saree kharidi hai."

(You do. But not like this. Anyone who looks would know, someone bought this saree with great love.)

"Achha Ji."

She laughed softly, looking down, and the blush came up the way it always did when she was pretending not to be moved by something that was moving her entirely.

Dhananjay began to dry her hair, his hands careful, and then combed through it and gathered it back. He took the gajra and threaded it into place with the slow attention of someone who would spend years doing this and will never complaint.

When it was done, Ganga looked at herself in the mirror and the smile that came was quiet and unguarded.

Dhananjay looked at her reflection looking at herself. He watched her for a beat longer than necessary. Then he said, "Ek aur tohfa hai."

(There is one more gift.)

"Kya?"

(What?)

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he knelt in front of her.

Ganga stilled.

He reached into his pocket and drew out a pair of anklets, silver, with the small particular sound that anklets make when they move. He lifted her foot gently and rested it on his knee. His fingers moved carefully around her ankle, fastening the clasp, and when it was done he bent his head and pressed his lips there, against her foot, in the way of someone offering something they cannot find larger words for.

Ganga closed her eyes.

She stood very still and let the moment be exactly what it was, not reaching for it or pulling back from it, just holding it quietly inside her chest where it would stay for a long time afterward.

The second anklet. The same care. The same kiss.

Dhananjay rose. He cupped her face in both his palms, his eyes finding hers, and whatever was in them needed no translation. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, soft and unhurried, the kiss of someone who is not trying to say anything because everything has already been said..

.

.

.

The village had gathered around the fire. The fire was large and generous, its light reaching far enough to soften the edges of everything.

Dhananjay and Ganga performed the pooja side by side. The flowers in her hair caught the light. The anklets made their small sound when she moved.

Across the gathered crowd, Digvijay stood.

His eyes found Ganga the moment they arrived, and his jaw set in the particular way of a man whose blood has begun to boil but who cannot, here, in front of everyone, do anything about it.

The village watched. They knew the girl Ganga from when she was small, but this woman standing beside their new sarpanch in a red saree and gajra was someone they were still placing. They stayed quiet and respectful, accepting the picture in front of them without question.

The pooja continued. The fire received everything it was given.

Rishabh stood at the edge of the gathering, close enough to be present and far enough to be unnoticed. He had tried, genuinely, to keep his eyes on the ceremony. He had managed it for stretches of time that he felt were respectable.

And then his eyes would find her anyway.

Sudha stood at Digvijay's side with the composure she wore everywhere, her pallu held set over her head, her gaze on the fire. She simply was calm.

Something about the way she held herself, the particular quality of her stillness, her attention, the way she watched the fire, it reached Rishabh the way it always did, in that place he could neither explain nor argue with.

And beneath it, always, that other thing. The feeling that he was looking at someone who reminded him of a presence he had lost..

He looked away. Looked at the fire. Breathed.

Back at the haveli, the rooms were quiet.

Nayantara moved through the house settling things, adjusting things, finding the small tasks that accumulate unnoticed through a day. She had chosen not to go to the pooja with a simplicity that asked no explanation of itself.

She was in the main room when Agrawal Ji appeared from the corridor, still in his kurta, his manuscript tucked under his arm as though he had set out to work somewhere and then forgotten where.

She looked up. With a smile she asked, "Arey, aap gaye nahi pooja ke liye?"

(Oh, you didn't go to the pooja?)

"Aap bhi toh nahi gayi." He asked without any expression.

(You didn't go either.)

She smiled at that, briefly, and returned to her work. The kind of smile that does not invite further questions.

But Agrawal Ji, who was a man who worked with words and therefore could not always leave a silence alone, asked again. Directly, this time. "Kuch pooch raha hun mai, Tara Ji. Aap nahi gayi pooja mein?"

(I am asking you something, Tara Ji. Why didn't you go to the pooja?)

She stilled for a moment. She set down what was in her hands. She looked at the middle distance rather than at him, and when she spoke, her voice had the quiet flatness of something that has been carried for so long the weight has become ordinary.

"Ye samaaj bahut kathor hai, uske liye jo nirdosh hai. Jisne gunah kiye ho, use toh ye poojte hain."

(This society is very harsh toward those who are innocent. The one who has actually sinned, they worship.)

"Matlab?"

(Meaning?)

She sat down slowly. A long breath in.

"Mai Thakuron ke ghar ki chhoti bahu thi. Do saal kaise kaate hain us ghar mein, ye sirf mai jaanti hun. Har roz us aadmi ki zyadti. Har roz wohi ek taana. Ki mai baanjh hun. Ki mai kabhi bhi us aadmi ko ek baccha nahi de paayi." She paused. "Par kya kabhi kisi ne mujhse poocha, ki mai uske saath rehna bhi chahti thi ya nahi."

(I was the younger daughter-in-law of the Thakur household. How those two years were spent in that house, only I know. Every day that man's stubbornness. Every day the same taunt. That I am barren. That I could never give that man a child. But did anyone ever ask me whether I even wanted to stay with him.)

The room held its breath around her words.

"Bojh thi vo zindagi mere liye. Par gunehgaar mai bani. Uski maut par kismat ko meri kosa gaya. Par sacchaai ye hai ki uski maut par, shayad mujhse zyada khush koi na hua ho. Kyunki aazadi mili mujhe us bojh se."

(That life was a burden on me. But I was made the guilty one. When he died, my fate was blamed. But the truth is that when he died, perhaps no one was more relieved than I was. Because I was freed from that burden.)

She looked at the lamp rather than at him, its flame very steady in the still room.

"Aur Agrawal Ji, mujhe fark nahi padta ki us aadmi ki vidhwa hone ke naate mujhe in sab pooja paath se door rakha gaya. Mai bas khush hun ki kam se kam, mujhe us narak jaisi zindagi se aazadi mili."

(And Agrawal Ji, it doesn't matter to me that as that man's widow I am kept away from all these prayers and ceremonies. I am simply glad that at the very least, I was freed from that life that was like hell.)

The silence afterward was not uncomfortable. It was the silence of something that has been said for the first time and the room is adjusting to the shape of it.

Agrawal Ji looked at her face for a long moment. This woman who made tea with chilli when he said something wrong. Who teased Ganga. Who ran this house with the ease of long practice and asked for nothing in return. Who had just told him, about her biggest trauma.

This woman who suddenly began to mean everything he didn't know anyone could mean for him..

Looking at her face, he stepped forward.

And without a notice he placed his hand over hers. Firmly, without hesitation.

"Sahi keh rahi hain aap, Tara Ji. Aapki koi galti nahi hai. Aur na is samaaj ke paas koi haq hai ki aapse aapki koi bhi khushi cheene. Kisi bhi pooja paath ya samaroh se aapko door rakhe." He paused, and when he continued his voice was quieter but no less certain. "Aur abse ye meri zimmedaari hai."

(You are right, Tara Ji. You are not at fault. And this society has no right to take any happiness from you. To keep you away from any prayer or ceremony. And from now, this is my responsibility.)

Nayantara looked at him.

At his hand on hers. At his face, which was holding her gaze with the directness of a man who means what he says and is not embarrassed by it.

This man who claimed to believe in nothing, in no ceremony, no attachment, who had called marriage a waste of time and love a waste of it too.

She looked at his hand on hers and just gulped down.

She didn't even move it away. Because for the first time, someone's touch made her feel safe. Comfortable..

.

.

.

Soon after, Agrawal Ji left the room.

And Nayantara sat where she was, looking at her hand he has touched. And without realising a soft smile appearing on her lips.

But then,

Brushing off the thought, she picked up what she had been working. But in between she kept looking at her own hand, the one he had held. And smile once again.

His words were still in the room with her, taking up the space he had left behind. Abse ye meri zimmedaari hai. She turned the phrase over.

A man who didn't believe in attachment had just used the word responsibility. A man who had called ceremony a waste had just said he would make something his to carry.

She pressed her lips together and reached for her work again.Then she heard her name.

"Tara Ji."

She turned. He was standing in the doorway again, his coat on now, his manuscript not with him.

She looked at him. "Ji? Kuch chahiye tha aapko?"

(Ji? Did you need something?)

He nodded. He walked to her and held out his hand.

She looked at it. Then at him. Then, with the expression of someone deciding to trust something she cannot fully explain, she placed her hand in his.

He led her out.

Through the corridor, past the courtyard, around the side of the haveli where the path narrowed between the old wall and the garden. Nayantara walked beside him, her pallu flowing away with the wind, her brows slightly drawn together.

"Hum.. hum kahan ja rahe hain, Agrawal Ji?"

(We.. where are we going, Agrawal Ji?)

He didn't answer. He kept walking, and she kept following, which was its own kind of answer.

They came around to the back of the haveli. The open ground behind it, away from the lane and the neighbors, private and quiet under the dark sky.

Nayantara stopped.

A neat stack of wood had been arranged there, not large, just enough. Beside it, set out with careful deliberateness, the small things required for a pooja. Flowers. A vessel of water. Incense. A plate of offerings. Everything gathered and placed in order by hands that had asked around, or looked carefully, or both.

Nayantara looked at it. Then at him.

Agrawal Ji let go of her hand and reached for the small burning stick from the edge of the arrangement. He held it out to her

He looked at her, and what was in his expression was something he had no theory for, no argument against, only the simple certainty of a man who has done the one thing he knew how to do with what he was feeling.

"Mujhe theek theek nahi pata in sabke baare mein," he said quietly. "Par apni taraf se maine koshish ki. Ek koshish ki. Aapko tyohaaaron se door na rehna pade."

(I don't know properly about all of this. But I tried, from my side. One attempt. So that you wouldn't have to stay away from festivals.)

The night air moved between them. Somewhere across the village, the main Holika fire was at its height, its light faint and orange against the bottom of the sky. And here, a small holika waiting for Nayantara to burn them.

Nayantara looked at him and then at the burning stick in his hand. And not holding the stick but his hand she gently guided it to the wood stack.

He turned his eyes at her.

Still trying to find answers that why he did all this? Why his poem was named after her? Why he couldn't move his gaze when it was set on her?

Why despite everything, his heart asked for only her.

Not her body. Just her heart. Her soul...

How was the chapter cuties? 👀

Thoda Chhota hogya shayad. I'm sorry, kyunki iske baad ka next part ke liye hai which is going to be special. Special about Dhananjay and Ganga.

So..Aaj ke liye itna hi..

Pasand aaya ho toh Like aur Comment kar dena,

Bye, bye..❤️