Chapter 59 A Village Waiting for Hope
Still, Neeti remains silent, her face turned away, eyes locked on the heater as if trying to avoid the world and him.
Without another word, Shorya moves closer and wraps her gently in his arms. His anger melts away the moment he sees her vulnerability.
“Don’t overthink, Neeti… just focus on getting better. I hate seeing you like this.” Neeti’s heart softens, but she remains silent.
Shorya lifts her face toward him and once again offers her the bowl of soup. “Come on… let me feed you.”
Neeti’s heart has been holding in so much, but the tenderness in his voice, the care in his actions it breaks the dam. As Shorya helps her sip the soup, silent tears begin streaming down her face.
Her chest heaves with emotion, and soon she breaks into sobs, trembling as the tears pour freely.
Startled, Shorya quickly sets the soup aside and pulls her tightly into his arms.
“Neeti… what happened? Why are you crying?” he asks with deep concern.
Neeti can’t speak she just clings to him, sobbing harder, her tears soaking his shirt, her small body shaking in his arms.
Shorya’s heart twists painfully. He gently strokes her back, trying to calm her, his voice soft and full of love. “Neeti… shhh… please, don’t cry… I’m here… I’m right here…” Her every sob echoes in the room and in his heart.
Neeti looks into Shorya’s eyes, her voice trembling as she asks, “Why do you care about me?”
Shorya gives a soft smile and replies, “Because you’re my best friend.”
He gently wipes away the tears from her eyes with his fingertips, but Neeti, still sobbing, says, “Then leave Sunaina.”
Shorya’s smile fades instantly. He stares at her in shock, taken aback by her words. Then, without saying a word, he pulls himself away from her embrace.
Neeti notices the shift in his demeanor and asks, “What happened?"
Shorya looks at her seriously and says, “You know very well how much I love her.”
Fury wells up in Neeti’s eyes. She picks up a paper and thrusts it into his hands. “Then give me a divorce,” she says, her voice sharp with hurt.
As she speaks, she pushes him away forcefully.
Shorya looks at her, stunned, unable to believe what he has just heard.
Neeti, her eyes filled with pain, says, “The decision is now in your hands. You can either choose to stay with me or go to her.”
She stares at him with eyes full of hope and heartbreak, but Shorya’s face darkens with anger. He shoots her a cold glare and storms out of the room without a word.
As the door slams shut behind him, Neeti breaks down again, her voice choking as she whispers through her sobs, “I knew… I knew you would never love me.”
With that, she collapses back onto the bed, curling into herself, her heart breaking with every breath.
In the hills of Dehradun, surrounded by lush greenery and peaceful silence, the village seems untouched by the rush of city life. Not far from the village center, a beautiful, newly constructed building stands this is where the doctors and students from the city are going to stay during their medical camp.
Karan, along with the other doctors and medical students, arrives in a bus. As they step out, villagers look on with anticipation and hope shining in their eyes. They have been waiting for this camp, for someone to help them with the health issues they have been quietly suffering from.
Karan is the first to get off the bus, a stethoscope around his neck, a confident smile on his face, and his signature sunglasses in place. Behind him, Riya steps down, carrying a stack of files and reports in her arms. There is a slight tiredness in her eyes, but her gentle smile is still intact, adding warmth to her presence.
The team is shown to the building where they will stay it is clean, simple, and comfortable. But there is no time to rest. Karan and the others quickly make their way to the field where the medical camp is being set up.
By 9 a.m., the camp is in full swing. Tents are pitched in the open ground, with tables and chairs set up to create check-up stations. Villagers are already lined up elderly men and women, children, and mothers holding their babies. Each one waits patiently for their turn, carrying silent stories of their ailments.
Karan sits at one of the tables, professional and focused. Patients come to him one by one some complain of fever, others of stomach aches, some simply say, “Doctor sahab, I feel tired all the time.” Karan listens to each one carefully, checks them patiently, and writes out prescriptions calmly. His warm yet firm manner quickly wins over the villagers.
A little distance away, Riya sits at a desk with a mountain of paperwork in front of her. She records each patient’s name, their issues, and organizes their reports based on Karan’s diagnosis. Her pen moves swiftly, her eyes rarely leaving the paper.
Every now and then, Karan glances at her watching how seriously she works, how dedicated she is. A small smile touches his lips, unnoticed by her. For him, seeing Riya so deeply involved in her work is both impressive and endearing.
In the kitchen, Rimjhim and I stand together in a cozy corner, coffee mugs in hand, smiling and chatting softly. Now and then, a gentle laugh escapes us. For Rimjhim, this mansion has slowly started to feel like home, and I have become more like an old friend than just family.
Suddenly, the kitchen door quietly creaks open, and Mrs. Shobha steps inside. The moment Rimjhim sees her, a wave of nervousness sweeps over her face. Her hands tremble slightly, almost spilling the coffee, but she manages to steady herself.
I quickly respond, “Yes, Mom? Do you need something?”
Mrs. Shobha pauses for a second, then says calmly, “Gajar's Halwa.”
Hearing this, both of us are momentarily shocked. The same halwa that Mrs. Shobha had refused to even touch in the morning now she is asking for it herself. It leaves both Rimjhim and me surprised. I swiftly compose myself, go to the fridge, and bring out the halwa, placing it neatly on a plate.
Rimjhim stands silently, her heart racing, a strange mix of hope and fear in her eyes.
Mrs. Shobha takes a bite of the halwa, tastes it thoughtfully, and then says, “Both of you, come to my room.”
Her tone isn’t harsh, nor is it entirely soft it has a mysterious neutrality that leaves both Rimjhim and me a little curious, a little anxious. We follow her out of the kitchen.
As we enter Mrs. Shobha’s room, Rimjhim’s eyes wander around in awe. The room is stunning elegant furniture, soothing colors, and every corner arranged with precision and grace. It feels like walking into a palace chamber.
Mrs. Shobha opens her wardrobe and takes out two beautifully decorated gift boxes. One she hands to Rimjhim, the other to me. I, still puzzled, ask, “What’s this, Mom?”
TO BE COUNTINUE...!!!