Chapter 113 A Gentle Slap
I watch them silently. Viransh proudly takes Pihu’s tiny hand and leads her over to Vikram and Ayansh.
Ayansh gently touches her cheeks and says in awe, “Wow, her cheeks are so soft.”
Vikram holds her hand and adds, “And look at her hands, so tiny!”
I notice Pihu staring at the two of them curiously, her big eyes questioning silently, Why are you staring at me like that?
Vikram laughs, “Don’t worry, I’m your brother just like Viransh is.”
Pihu tries to repeat in her sweet tottering voice, “Ba..ii..”
Ayansh bursts out laughing, “Yes, that’s right!”
Pihu only keeps staring at him, confused by his laughter. As her gaze lingers, Ayansh grows quiet.
Then, in her babyish voice, she turns to Viransh and says, “Mum…”
Vikram says quickly, “I think she wants to go to her mumma.”
Viransh chuckles, “No, she calls water ‘Mum.’ Wait, I’ll get it.” He rushes to bring water. Pihu grabs the glass with her tiny hands and drinks with complete innocence. The three boys watch her, utterly mesmerized.
Pihu toddles on her tiny feet straight toward me. She wraps her small arms around my legs, clinging tightly. My heart melts instantly. I bend down, pick her up gently, and place a loving kiss on her soft cheeks.
But she frowns as my faint beard tickles her skin. I laugh softly, hug her closer, rocking her like my own.
From a distance, I watch silently. I realize something—today, I am free, playful, and laughing with Pihu in a way I never even am with my own son Ayansh.
A strange ache rises in my heart. I say nothing. I only stand quietly, letting the moment pass. Amid chatter, giggles, and unspoken silences, the evening slips away slowly.
Everyone returns to Rajput Mansion. The drawing room lights dim, and the ticking clock and soft patter of rain fall in rhythm. The day is long, filled with conversations, emotions, and a few silent battles. Everyone tries to convince me to come along, but I refuse firmly. I don’t even glance at Samar; meeting his eyes would tear open all the pain I hold. Eventually, everyone leaves for the mansion, carrying their weariness. I stay behind, a lingering emptiness filling the air.
A car stops at the big gates of Shekhawat Villa. Shorya walks straight into the drawing room, drenched, water droplets slipping down his neck from his wet hair, the faint smell of mud rising from his shoes. Neeti lifts her eyes briefly, a clear thread of worry crossing her gaze. Vikram runs with hurried steps, “Papa!”
Shorya raises his hand gently, “Stay away, son… Papa is completely wet.” And at that very moment, “Hachhoo!”—a loud sneeze shakes the silence; even the curtains tremble.
Neeti’s heart clenches tightly. She composes herself and stands straight. Shorya walks straight to his room, expressionless.
Neeti goes straight to the kitchen. Water boils on the stove. She crushes fresh ginger, the fragrance instantly filling the space. She adds tulsi leaves, a pinch of black salt, a hint of cardamom, and strong tea leaves with milk.
As the tea bubbles, she lowers the flame, letting it brew in her signature style—strong, hot, and capable of soothing stubborn hearts. She pours it into a cup, calls the maid, and instructs softly, “Take this and tell sir that I made it.”
The maid smiles knowingly and leaves.
In Shorya’s room, the lights are dim. Rain traces paths down the glass panes. “Sir, tea?” Shorya raises his head. “Leave it on the table,” he says. The maid quietly places it and leaves.
Shorya sips the sharp warmth of ginger and tulsi. His lips curve into a small smile—he knows this is Neeti’s tea, recognizable even with his eyes closed. “Extra ginger… that’s her only habit,” he thinks.
Neeti enters, holding Vikram’s hand. His eyelids droop with sleep. She adjusts his pillow, pulls the blanket over him, and hums softly, beginning a lullaby.
Shorya watches, time slowing. This morning, she had said she wouldn’t do anything for him… yet tonight, the cup found its way here. He reads her tired face, seeing the same thread of care in her eyes.
He dries his hair, hangs his coat, steps forward—but stops. Just a little push would say “Thank you,” yet ego and old habits form a thin barrier. He turns back, dims the lamp, leaving her rest undisturbed.
The house is modest, mid-sized, with a single living area, one bedroom, and a small kitchen. Outside, the tiny garden smells of rain-soaked soil.
On the balcony, a little girl splashes in puddles, letting out bursts of innocent laughter. Her wet black hair clings to her cheeks, but in her little world, nothing else matters. All she wants is the company of falling raindrops.
Just then, a young woman rushes in. Her face clearly shows both anger and worry. The moment she sees little Shivi completely drenched in the rain, she shouts loudly, “Shiviii..!!”
For a second, Shivi stops. She lifts her round little face and flashes a toothy smile, looking at her mother, who glares back with anger. But Shivi knows her mother well behind that anger is nothing but love.
The young woman hurries over, scoops Shivi up into her arms, and carries her quickly inside after seeing her cold, wet clothes. As soon as she steps into the bedroom, she shuts the glass sliding door and draws the curtains, making sure Shivi can’t run back out into the rain.
In frustration, she mutters under her breath, “This girl will drive me crazy. What am I supposed to do with her? All day long mischief, all day long stubbornness! She just never listens.”
Without wasting any more time, she begins changing Shivi’s clothes. Little Shivi giggles on one side and fusses on the other, refusing to let her mother change her. But against her mother’s stern scolding, her protests fail.
Within moments, her mother takes off her drenched clothes and dresses her in warm, dry ones. She unties the tiny rubber bands from Shivi’s wet hair, towel-dries it gently, and leaves it open to dry.
Then she sits Shivi on the bed near the heater and says firmly, raising her voice, “Who told you to get wet in the rain?!”
Shivi lifts her big round eyes, pouts her lips, and in her broken baby voice replies, “Mum.. ma… Ra..in…”
Her words are incomplete, but her mother understands what she means. She is trying to say, “Mumma, I love the rain.”
Hearing this only fuels her mother’s anger further. She holds Shivi by the ears and says, “Say sorry right now! Promise you won’t go out in the rain again!”
But Shivi, being her stubborn little self, shakes her head strongly in a firm “No.”
Her mother tries again and again to make her understand, but Shivi continues to pout and refuse with her innocent eyes. Finally, the young woman’s patience breaks. In a moment of helpless anger, she raises her hand and gives Shivi a light slap on her chubby cheeks.
TO BE COUNTINUE...!!!