Yeh Hai Chahatein: Adhuri Chahat ~ Rusha/Rajma Saransh SS - Page 2

Rajeev has been shutting down and not saying anything. Mahima knows something is wrong.

Chapter 5 (Unspoken Chords)

Later That Day — Khurana Industries Office

The Khurana Industries building gleamed under the afternoon sun, its glass façade reflecting the restless city below. Inside, the hum of productivity filled the air — phones ringing, printers whirring, footsteps echoing across marble floors. But in Rajeev Khurana’s cabin, silence reigned.

He sat at his desk, staring blankly at a contract he hadn’t turned a page of in the last twenty minutes. His pen rested loosely between his fingers, forgotten. Every few seconds, his gaze drifted to the window — as though the skyline of Chennai could offer answers his heart refused to give.

The knock came lightly, followed by a familiar drawl.
“Bhai, I thought you didn’t do the whole ‘brooding businessman’ thing.”

Rajeev looked up to find Rudraksh leaning against the doorframe, sunglasses perched on his head, a lopsided grin playing on his lips. But beneath that easy charm, his eyes held quiet curiosity — and concern.

“Rudraksh,” Rajeev murmured, straightening slightly. “You’re here early.”

“Yeah,” Rudraksh said, stepping in. “My rehearsal got cancelled. Thought I’d see if the great Rajeev Khurana wanted to grab lunch. But looks like you’re too busy… contemplating your window’s life choices?”

Rajeev chuckled weakly, rubbing his temple. “Just tired, that’s all.”

“Right,” Rudraksh said, drawing the word out as he flopped into the chair opposite him. “Because you look like someone who hasn’t slept. At all.”

Rajeev’s grip on the pen tightened. “I’m fine, Rudra.”

But Rudraksh wasn’t convinced. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, tone softening.
“Bhai, I know you. You’ve been off lately. Smiling one minute, lost the next. Something’s up.”

Rajeev forced a smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. “You’re imagining things. Maybe I just need a vacation.”

Rudraksh tilted his head. “A vacation? You hate vacations. Last time you took one, you spent half the trip checking your office emails and the other half scolding me for not waking up before noon.”

Despite himself, Rajeev laughed. “That does sound like me.”

“Exactly.” Rudraksh’s gaze softened, perceptive beneath his teasing. “So, what’s changed?”

Rajeev hesitated. Mahima’s face flashed before his eyes — the way she’d looked at him last night, trusting him completely, unaware that he was carrying a secret heavy enough to destroy her faith. The words I came to tell you something still echoed in his head like a cruel reminder.

“Nothing’s changed,” he said quietly, finally looking away. “Everything’s the same.”

Rudraksh studied him for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he stood. “You’re a terrible liar, bhai. You forget, I’ve watched you since I was a kid. I know when something’s eating you.”

Rajeev didn’t respond. His silence said more than words could.

Rudraksh lingered near the door, his tone gentler now. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s worth the look in your eyes right now.”

And with that, he left — leaving behind a silence that pressed heavier than before.

Rajeev sank back into his chair, guilt curling tighter around his chest. He looked down at his phone — at Mahima’s name glowing faintly on the screen from her missed call earlier that morning.

His thumb hovered over it, trembling slightly… then he turned the phone facedown.

Outside, the faint sound of Rudraksh’s car engine faded away.
Inside, Rajeev’s heart pounded in the quiet, torn between love and duty — knowing that soon, he would have to choose.

That Evening — Srinivasan House, Mylapore

The faint scent of jasmine and freshly ground filter coffee drifted through the Srinivasan home as dusk settled over Mylapore. Lamps glowed softly in the puja corner, and the rhythmic sound of the veena floated faintly from Mahima’s room — but tonight, her melody faltered.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, fingers resting on the strings, plucking half-hearted notes that broke mid-tune. Her mind wasn’t in the raga; it was lost in the memory of the previous night — the rain against the windows, Rajeev’s trembling touch, his silence after passion. The warmth they had shared in their flat at Adyar now felt like a secret burning too close to her heart.

Preesha, meanwhile, was sprawled on the floor with her textbooks, hair tied up in a messy bun, humming absentmindedly as she highlighted lines.

“Akka,” she said suddenly, glancing up, “that doesn’t sound like Vathapi Ganapathim. It sounds like Heartbreak Raga in E minor.”

Mahima blinked. “What?”

Preesha grinned. “Your notes are crying. Spill it.”

Mahima tried to smile. “Nothing, kanna. Just tired.”

Preesha frowned. “You never get tired of music. You live and breathe it.”

Mahima tried to smile. “Maybe because of too many concerts lately.”

Preesha shut her book and rolled onto her side. “You’ve never said that before. Usually, you’d say, ‘Preesha, I could play this till sunrise.’” She studied her sister curiously. “Something’s bothering you. Tell me?”

Mahima hesitated, gaze dropping to the veena strings. She wanted to tell her — everything. How Rajeev’s words had trembled last night, how his touch had felt like both love and goodbye, how his silence since morning felt heavier than any distance. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

“It’s… complicated,” she murmured.

Preesha frowned. “Complicated like... exam results complicated? Or complicated like... someone hurt you?”

Mahima looked up, caught off-guard by the gentleness in her sister’s tone. “Neither,” she said softly. “It’s more like... when your favourite song suddenly stops making sense, but you still can’t stop listening to it.”

Preesha tilted her head, thoughtful. “Then maybe you just need to listen to it differently.”

Mahima smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

A knock on the front door interrupted their moment. Preesha got up to check, muttering about people who arrived exactly during study time. But when she opened the door, her eyes widened. “You?”

Standing there, wearing a casual denim jacket and that same infuriatingly confident smirk, was Rudraksh Khurana — a sight she’d hoped not to see again anytime soon.

“Me,” he said easily, holding out a small envelope. “Before you start glaring, relax — I come in peace. This is for your sister.”

Preesha crossed her arms. “What are you, her courier service?”

“Funny,” he replied. “Rajeev bhai forgot to give her some music sheets yesterday after their rehearsal, so… here I am. Second home delivery.”

Before Preesha could snap back, Mahima appeared behind her, startled. “Rudraksh? You again?”

He shrugged. “What can I say? Rajeev trusts me with deliveries more than his driver.”

Something in Mahima’s chest tightened at the mention of Rajeev’s name — especially after their night together, the morning’s silence, and now this unspoken distance. But she composed herself, taking the envelope. “Thank you, Rudraksh. I’ll tell him I got it.”

Their eyes met briefly — his curious, hers clouded with something unspoken. He didn’t pry, but the way she avoided his gaze didn’t escape him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Mahima hesitated. “Yes… just a little tired.”

Rudraksh nodded, though doubt flickered in his expression. ““Well, tell Rajeev not to overwork his classical singer next time. You look like you could use a vacation.”

Preesha rolled her eyes. “You done? Or are you planning to critique everyone’s mental health now?”

He turned toward her with that signature grin. “Only yours. You’re my favourite patient.”

“Patient?!” she huffed. “You were the one who needed first aid last time after I pulled your hair.”

Mahima looked between them, half exasperated, half amused. “Wait, has he become your hair-pulling friend?”

“Friend?” Rudraksh said dryly. “That’s generous.”

Preesha folded her arms. “It’s called self-defence. You provoked me.”

“I was singing.”

“Exactly!”

Mahima’s laughter finally broke through her tension, lighting her face for the first time that evening. “I can’t believe you two. The whole of Chennai, and you keep bumping into each other like fate’s running a comedy show.”

Rudraksh smirked. “Fate’s got a cruel sense of humour.” He glanced back at Mahima, the teasing fading from his tone. “Take care, okay? You look like you’ve got too much on your mind.”

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks, Rudraksh. And thank you for bringing this.”

He nodded once, then turned to leave, tossing Preesha a grin over his shoulder. “Try not to assault anyone till our next encounter, okay?”

Preesha shot back, “Then stop giving people a reason to!”

The door closed behind him, leaving a trace of his cologne and a tension that neither sister acknowledged right away.

Preesha muttered, “That guy’s insufferable.”

Mahima smiled faintly, still staring at the envelope in her hand. “Maybe. But he’s not entirely heartless.”

Preesha frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Mahima said softly, her voice drifting away like a half-played note.

She sat back on the bed, clutching the envelope — her thoughts already across the city, with the man who hadn’t called all day, her heart whispering questions she couldn’t yet ask.

Outside, the night deepened — and somewhere across the city, Rajeev stood by his window, holding his phone, his thumb hovering over Mahima’s name once again.

This time, he didn’t call.

Meanwhile — Rajeev and Mahima’s Apartment, Adyar

The city outside pulsed softly under the orange haze of the streetlights. From his balcony, Rajeev watched the rain that had begun to fall again — faint, steady, like an echo of last night. The same rain that had blurred the world when Mahima’s fingers had traced his face with quiet trust, unaware that every breath he took beside her had been heavy with guilt.

Inside, his phone screen glowed with Mahima’s name. He’d opened the chat a dozen times, typed, erased, and retyped the same words: We need to talk. But each time, his chest clenched — because to talk meant to break. And he couldn’t do that. Not yet.

His father’s voice from that morning still rang in his head — cold, decisive, final.
“End it, Rajeev. You have responsibilities to this family, not to that girl. I won’t allow a scandal that drags the Khurana name into gossip columns.”

Rajeev had stood silent then, jaw tight, rage flickering beneath his calm.
“She’s not just ‘that girl’, Papa. She’s—”
“She’s not your equal,” Balraj had cut in sharply. “And you’ll forget her. The sooner, the better.”

But how did one forget a heartbeat? A voice that lingered in silence?

Rajeev turned away from the window, his gaze falling on the rumpled bedsheet, still carrying the scent of jasmine and veena polish. His throat tightened. He should have called her, told her the truth — that his father had found out, that everything between them was hanging by a thread. Instead, he’d sent Rudraksh to deliver the music sheets, using that as a poor excuse to reach her indirectly.

“Coward,” he whispered to himself, sinking onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. His reflection in the dark window stared back at him — hollow-eyed, conflicted.

He closed his eyes, remembering her voice from last night: Rajeev, you’re trembling. What’s wrong?
And his lie: Nothing, Mahima. Just tired.

A storm brewed within him, far heavier than the rain outside. He loved her — deeply, recklessly — but love now felt like standing on glass. Every move, every word risked shattering them both.

By the time the rain ceased, dawn had begun to colour the clouds faintly pink. Rajeev hadn’t slept. He’d only sat there, staring at the silent phone, wondering if love was ever meant to feel this heavy.

And when the city woke, so did the guilt — quiet, relentless, ready to follow him home.

------

To be continued.

Chapter 6 (The Distance Between Them)

The days that followed felt unbearably long to Mahima. Each hour seemed to stretch into silence, heavy with questions she could not bring herself to voice aloud. She had sent him three messages already—short, hesitant ones that never sounded like her:

“Are you okay?”
“You didn’t call last night.”
“Did I do something wrong?”

Each time, the two blue ticks on her phone screen remained gray.

At first, she convinced herself that he must be busy. Rajeev had often spoken of back-to-back meetings at the Khurana office, of late-night calls and paperwork that never ended. But as the third day passed, and his silence lingered like an unanswered prayer, that hope began to crumble.

At the Khurana mansion

Rajeev sat in his study, phone in hand, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. Mahima’s name blinked in the notification bar. His thumb hovered over the message, trembling slightly before he forced the phone face-down onto the desk.

Rudraksh peeked through the half-open door. “Bhai, are you coming down for breakfast?”

Rajeev didn’t look up. “I’ll eat later.”

Rudraksh frowned. “You’ve been saying that every day this week. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Rajeev said curtly, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just work pressure.”

Rudraksh studied him for a moment longer, sensing the tension behind his calm tone. Something was definitely wrong. His brother, usually composed and affectionate, had become withdrawn—snapping easily, spending hours alone, avoiding even casual conversations.

Meanwhile, Mahima tried calling again—late at night this time, when the world was quieter and courage came easier. The call rang for a few seconds before cutting off.

She stared at the dark screen, her reflection faintly visible on the glass. “Rajeev,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “please don’t do this to me.”

The rain began outside, soft at first and then insistent, tapping on her window like a cruel reminder. Their last night together had begun with rain too. But back then, it had felt like music—now it was just noise.

Days turned into a week. Mahima began to lose sleep. Her singing lessons grew strained; her students noticed her voice falter on notes she used to hold effortlessly. Her guru gently remarked, “Your sur is trembling today, Mahima. The heart affects the voice, remember?”

She nodded faintly, eyes lowered. “Yes, Guruji. I’ll practice more.”

But later, when she sat alone in her room, the tanpura’s hum filled the silence. She began to sing softly, her voice breaking midway through a line. The emotion choked her before the melody could flow.

“Rajeev…” she breathed, pressing her palm to her throat, “you’ve taken even my voice away.”

Preesha, ever perceptive, finally asked one evening, “Akka, you’ve been quiet lately. Is everything alright?”

Mahima smiled faintly, adjusting her dupatta. “Just tired, Preesha. Some practice stress.”

Preesha tilted her head, unconvinced. “You’re sure it’s not… someone?”

Mahima froze for a split second but quickly recovered, brushing the hair away from her face. “No one, Preesha. Don’t be silly.”

But as soon as Preesha left, Mahima’s façade broke. She opened her phone again, typing and deleting a dozen drafts—each more desperate than the last.

Rajeev, I miss you.
Please talk to me once.
At least tell me what happened.

None were sent.

At the Khurana mansion, Rajeev was fighting his own battle. His father’s words replayed in his mind every night like a curse:

“End it. She’s not for you. The family won’t accept it.”

He wanted to rebel, to run to Mahima and tell her everything. But the image of his mother’s anxious face and Rudraksh’s oblivious cheerfulness chained him to his silence.

Once, in a weak moment, he picked up the phone and began to dial her number—but before it connected, he hung up and flung the phone across the room. It landed on the carpet, screen cracking, Mahima’s smiling face frozen as his wallpaper.

The world outside continued as usual, but inside both hearts, chaos reigned.

Mahima stopped calling by the tenth day. Rajeev stopped sleeping properly by the eleventh.

And by the twelfth, both had learned the cruel rhythm of pretending—she, by forcing a smile for her students and family; he, by hiding behind paperwork and silence.

Yet, beneath the quiet, both knew that silence wasn’t peace—it was punishment.

Balraj Khurana had always believed emotions were distractions — business, legacy, and reputation were what mattered. And now, he was determined to secure all three in one move.

“Rajeev,” he announced one morning, his voice calm but absolute, “the Singhania proposal is final. Mr. Niketan Singhania and I have discussed every detail. His daughter, Ahana, is exactly the kind of woman who belongs in this family. The wedding will be private — no media, no drama. Quiet and dignified.”

Rajeev froze mid-breakfast. His spoon clinked lightly against the plate.
“So soon?” he asked, barely masking his unease.

Balraj’s sharp gaze met his. “Yes. I don’t want the past interfering with your future. The Singhanias are essential for our expansion project. We will announce the marriage once it’s done. End of discussion.”

Across the table, Rudraksh looked up slowly. “Bhai?” His tone carried both confusion and concern.

Rajeev forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine, Rudra. Papa’s right.”

Balraj’s expression softened into satisfaction. “Good. The wedding will take place this weekend. Only family and the Singhanias. I’ve already informed Niketan.”

Rudraksh’s jaw tightened. Something felt terribly wrong.

That night, Rajeev sat in his car near the Adyar bridge, staring at the city lights flickering across the river. Mahima’s face appeared in every reflection — her soft laughter, her trust, the way she’d whispered his name the night before everything changed.

He unlocked his phone. Her message from the morning blinked back at him:

“Rajeev, please call me when you can. I’m worried.”

His thumb hovered over the reply box for a long moment. Then he locked the screen.

He couldn’t risk it now. One conversation, and everything his father had built would collapse under his defiance.

He started the car, the guilt pressing on his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake off.

Two days later, inside the Khurana mansion, a quiet ceremony unfolded. The living room had been transformed into a private mandap, draped in gold and ivory. No reporters, no outsiders — only Balraj, Rudraksh, the Singhanias, and a few close associates.

Ahana Singhania, poised and elegant, sat beside Rajeev. She smiled politely during the rituals, her demeanor calm and composed — the perfect corporate match.

Rajeev, in contrast, felt hollow. The priest’s chants blurred into meaningless rhythm. Each vow he repeated felt like betrayal whispered into the smoke of the sacred fire.

When he tied the mangalsutra around Ahana’s neck, a sharp silence filled the room — a silence heavier than the vows themselves.

Balraj exhaled, satisfied. “Finally, some peace in this house,” he murmured.

Rudraksh glanced at his brother — the peace Balraj saw was not peace at all. It was surrender.

Meanwhile, across the city, Mahima Srinivasan woke up with a strange heaviness in her body.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, but instead of calm, nausea rose sharply in her throat. She barely made it to the washroom before retching, her hands gripping the edge of the sink as her body shook.

“This is… not normal,” she whispered to herself, splashing water on her face.

She had dismissed the dizziness the past two days as exhaustion — sleepless nights, emotional strain, too much practice. But this felt different. Her stomach churned again, and instinctively, her mind travelled backward.

Rain on glass.
Warm breath against her neck.
Rajeev’s voice breaking as he held her too tightly.

Her chest tightened.

“No,” she murmured, gripping the sink harder. “It can’t be…”

But memory betrayed her — the exact night, the way time had dissolved between them, the intimacy that had felt eternal. The realization settled slowly, frighteningly.

Her cycle was late.

Her hands trembled as she stepped out, wrapped herself in her dupatta, and sat on the edge of the bed. For a long moment, she stared at the floor — scared to move, scared to confirm what her heart already knew.

An hour later, with her head bowed and her sunglasses pulled low, Mahima stood in a small pharmacy two streets away from her house.

“A… pregnancy kit,” she said quietly, barely meeting the pharmacist’s eyes.

The walk back felt endless.

Inside her room, she locked the door, leaned against it for a second, and closed her eyes — drawing strength from somewhere she didn’t know she had. Her hands shook as she followed the instructions, every second stretching into agony.

She sat on the bed, knees pulled to her chest, the kit resting on the table like a verdict.

One minute.
Two.
Three.

When she finally looked, the world tilted.

Two lines.

Clear. Unmistakable.

Mahima’s breath hitched sharply. Her hand flew to her mouth as tears blurred her vision.

“Rajeev…” she whispered, sinking onto the floor. “We… we created a life.”

Her fingers trembled as they rested over her abdomen — tentative, protective, awed.

A life.

Their life.

Her phone lay beside her. For a moment, hope flared — raw and desperate. She picked it up, her thumb hovering over his name.

I need to tell you something.

But then she remembered the silence. The unanswered calls. The way he had vanished without a word.

Her hand fell back to her lap.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she curled inward, cradling herself — and the truth growing inside her.

“You’re not a mistake,” she whispered fiercely, pressing her palm against her stomach. “You’re love. Even if he never comes back… I’ll protect you.”

That night, at the Khurana mansion, Rajeev stood by the window, sleep refusing to come.

Ahana had retired early, her presence calm, distant — a reminder of duty fulfilled, not love chosen. The house was quiet, too quiet.

On the table beside him, his phone lit up briefly.

A missed call.

Mahima.

His chest tightened painfully. For a moment — just one — his hand moved toward the phone.

Almost.

Then he turned it face down, as if silencing his own heart.

Outside, rain began to fall — soft, rhythmic — the same rain that had once wrapped him and Mahima in warmth, now falling like an elegy for what he had abandoned.

Across the city, Mahima lay awake, her hand resting protectively over her abdomen, whispering through tears,

“You’re mine, little one. No matter what happens… you’ll never be alone.”

The night deepened, drawing two lives further apart — one building a facade of duty, the other quietly carrying love in its most fragile, eternal form.

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To be continued.

Chapter 7 (What the Body Knows)

Preesha noticed it first—in the mornings.

Mahima, who usually rose before sunrise with effortless grace, now lingered in bed longer than usual. Her veena practice had shifted to late evenings, her voice softer, guarded—as if afraid of disturbing something fragile inside her.

That morning, Preesha paused outside the kitchen when she heard it.

Retching.

“Akka?” she called out, worry slicing through her sleepiness.

By the time she reached the washroom, Mahima was already rinsing her mouth, gripping the sink as though the ground beneath her had tilted.

“I’m fine,” Mahima said quickly, too quickly.

Preesha frowned. “That didn’t sound fine.”

Mahima avoided her eyes. “Must be something I ate. I’ll skip breakfast.”

That alone unsettled Preesha.

Mahima never skipped breakfast.

Over the next few days, the signs accumulated quietly—like symptoms lining up in a textbook.

Mahima pushed food around her plate. The smell of coffee made her visibly uncomfortable. She tired easily. Her moods shifted without warning—withdrawn one moment, teary the next.

And then there was the singing.

Her voice was still beautiful—but restrained. Controlled. As if she were holding something back.

One afternoon, Preesha sat cross-legged on Mahima’s bed, pretending to revise while watching her rehearse.

Mahima stopped mid-alaap, pressing her palm against her forehead.

“Akka,” Preesha said gently, “you’re not okay.”

“I’m just tired,” Mahima replied automatically.

“No,” Preesha said, firmer now. “You’re nauseous. You’re exhausted. You’re emotional. And you flinch every time someone says Rajeev anna’s name.”

That name fell between them like a dropped note.

Mahima’s fingers tightened around the tanpura string. “Don’t say that.”

“You haven’t heard from him,” Preesha said quietly.

Silence.

That night, Preesha woke to muffled sobbing.

She followed the sound to Mahima’s room. The door was ajar.

Mahima sat on the floor beside her bed, knees drawn to her chest, tears slipping silently down her face. One hand clutched her phone.

The other rested protectively over her stomach.

Preesha froze.

That gesture—instinctive, unconscious—hit her with terrifying clarity.

“Akka…” she whispered.

Mahima looked up, eyes wide with fear. “Preesha, I—”

“How long?” Preesha asked, already knowing.

Mahima broke.

“I didn’t even let myself think it,” she sobbed. “I kept telling myself it was stress. Or grief. Or hope.”

Preesha knelt beside her, heart pounding. “You’re pregnant.”

Mahima nodded.

For a moment, the room felt unbearably still.

Then Preesha wrapped her arms around her sister. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I thought he’d come back,” Mahima whispered. “Because I thought he’d explain.”

“And he hasn’t,” Preesha said.

Mahima shook her head.

That was the moment Preesha’s fear turned into resolve.

“He needs to know,” she said.

Mahima flinched. “No. Not yet.”

But Preesha was already standing.

“Akka, this isn’t just about heartbreak anymore,” she said softly. “This is about responsibility.”

Chhatarpur, South Delhi — Where It All Began

Preesha was the one who found Rajeev.

She didn’t shout. She didn’t accuse. She simply said,
“She wants to meet you. One last time. Where you met her first.”

Rajeev knew where that was.

He stood outside Shree Adya Katyayani Shaktipeeth Mandir, dread weighing down his chest. The bells rang overhead, cruel in their familiarity.

When Mahima appeared on the steps, carrying a prasaad thali, Rajeev almost faltered.

But the moment she saw his face, her smile faded.

“Rajeev… what happened?”
She stepped closer, her eyes searching his, confusion giving way to hurt.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” she asked softly. “Why didn’t you answer my calls? Why did you disappear like I meant nothing?”

Her voice trembled despite her effort to stay composed.
“If you were in trouble, I would’ve stood by you. If you needed time, I would’ve waited.”
She swallowed hard.
“But this silence… it hurt more than any truth you could’ve told me.”

He took a breath that felt like glass in his lungs.

“This temple gave me you,” he said hoarsely. “When I was broken. What began here became my life.”

Her eyes searched his.

“And now,” he continued, voice hollow, “I’m here to end it.”

The thali slipped from her hands.

Flowers scattered. Kumkum stained the stone.

“My father arranged my marriage, Mahima,” Rajeev said, his voice hollow as he forced the truth out.
“The very day we last met, he decided it.”

He paused, his jaw tightening.
“And two days later… he married me off.”

The words struck harder than any slap.

“You’re… married?” she whispered, disbelief draining the colour from her face.

“To Ahana Singhania,” he said quietly. “In a private ceremony. You didn’t know—because no one was meant to.”

Something shattered in Mahima’s eyes.

Then—

SLAP.

The sound echoed through the courtyard.

“You married someone else,” she cried, trembling. “And you came here to tell me this?”

Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach.

“And you should know something too,” she said, her voice breaking open.
“I’m pregnant, Rajeev. With your child.”

The world tilted.

Rajeev froze.

The bells blurred into silence.

Mahima stepped back, tears falling freely now.
“I found out on the day you married her. And today… you chose to erase me.”

Rajeev stood unmoving as she walked away—the place of their beginning now bearing witness to their undoing.

He had come to sever love.

Instead, he had ignited ruin.

After the Temple — Rajeev

Rajeev did not remember how he left the temple.

Only that at some point, the bells stopped ringing—or perhaps he simply stopped hearing them.

He sat alone in his car for a long time, forehead resting against the steering wheel, breath shallow, hands shaking. Mahima’s face replayed endlessly in his mind—not her anger, not the slap—but the moment just before she turned away. The moment her eyes had searched his for something—anything—to hold on to.

I destroyed her, he thought numbly.
And I did it myself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

A message from Ahana.

Did you reach safely? Papa says we’re hosting dinner tomorrow.

Rajeev stared at the screen until the words blurred.

He felt like a fraud inhabiting someone else’s life—husband in name, son in duty, traitor in truth.

That night, he stood in the dark of his room, wedding ring heavy on his finger. He tried to take it off.

It wouldn’t budge.

Mylapore — Preesha

Mahima did not cry when she came home.

She walked straight to her room, closed the door, and sat on the bed without moving. Her face was blank—too blank.

That terrified Preesha more than tears ever could.

She followed quietly, knelt in front of her sister, and took Mahima’s hands in hers.

“You met him?” Preesha asked softly, already sensing the worst—but not yet knowing how deep it went.

Mahima nodded once.

Preesha hesitated. “What did he say?”

Mahima’s voice was hollow.
“He’s married.”

The words hit Preesha like a physical blow.

“What?” she whispered. “Married…?”

Mahima nodded again, her gaze fixed on nothing. “His father arranged it. He didn’t even tell me. He just disappeared—and today he told me everything.”

Preesha felt the room tilt. Until this moment, Rajeev had been—at worst—a man who had gone silent. A coward, perhaps. But not this.

Not married.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t curse him. She simply pulled Mahima into her arms, holding her as though the world itself might fracture if she let go.

“You’re not alone,” Preesha said firmly, the shock hardening into resolve.
“I didn’t know this either. But now I do. And I won’t let you face it alone.”

That night, Preesha slept outside Mahima’s door.

Shield first.
Sister always.
Everything else later.

Rudraksh

Rudraksh noticed it in the silences.

Rajeev stopped humming while reading the newspaper. Stopped teasing him. Stopped scolding him for leaving guitar strings everywhere.

At dinner, he barely touched his food.

“You okay, bhai?” Rudraksh asked casually one evening. “You’ve been zoning out like you’re auditioning for a tragedy.”

Rajeev forced a smile. “Just work stress.”

But Rudraksh had grown up watching his brother absorb storms quietly.

This was different.

Later that night, Rudraksh overheard Balraj speaking sharply on the phone.

“No, no unnecessary exposure. Everything stays contained. The girl from Chennai is finished. Rajeev will fall in line.”

Rudraksh froze.

The girl from Chennai?

Something cold settled in his stomach.

Balraj

Balraj Khurana slept peacefully that night.

The alliance was secured. The wedding done. The inconvenience erased.

Or so he believed.

The next morning, he summoned Rajeev again.

“You will not contact her,” Balraj said flatly. “You will not respond if she reaches out. You will not let sentiment interfere with stability.”

Rajeev stood silently.

Balraj narrowed his eyes. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Papa,” Rajeev replied.

But as he turned to leave, his hand curled into a fist so tight his nails bit into his palm.

Balraj watched him go, unaware that control—once tightened too far—always leaves cracks.

Narrator

Four lives moved forward that day.

One man drowning in guilt.
One woman learning to survive betrayal.
One sister becoming a fortress.
And one brother beginning to sense the truth beneath the silence.

The truth had not ended anything.

It had only begun to demand answers.

And fate—patient, merciless—was not done yet.

------

To be continued.

Chapter 8 (When Truth Refuses to Stay Hidden)

Mylapore — Mahima

By the time the jasmine buds began blooming again, Mahima could no longer pretend.

Her sarees fit differently now. The slight curve at her waist was unmistakable to her own eyes, even if the world hadn’t noticed yet. She began choosing looser pallus, longer blouses. When she sang, she instinctively rested her palm against her abdomen between alaps—as if grounding herself.

The nausea had eased. In its place came exhaustion. And fear.

One morning, as Mahima stood before the mirror, adjusting her dupatta, her reflection startled her. Not because she looked different—but because she looked protective. Older. Fiercer.

“This is real,” she whispered to herself.

The life growing inside her no longer felt like a secret she could hide behind silence.

Preesha

Preesha noticed everything.

The way Mahima climbed stairs slower now.
The way she stopped lifting heavy tanpuras.
The way her hand always returned—unconsciously—to her stomach.

One evening, Preesha placed a hand over Mahima’s.

“Akka,” she said gently, “you can’t keep doing this alone.”

Mahima looked at her sister—this girl who was still studying biology textbooks but already understood the body better than most doctors.

“I don’t want him near this,” Mahima said quietly. “Not after what he chose.”

Preesha’s jaw tightened.

“That child didn’t choose his mistakes,” she replied calmly. “And neither did you.”

That was the moment Preesha decided something.

Rajeev Khurana did not get to disappear.

Khurana Industries — Rajeev

Rajeev’s days blurred into meetings and signatures.

At home, Ahana spoke politely, carefully—like someone living beside a stranger. At work, Balraj hovered more than ever, monitoring calls, schedules, movements.

Rajeev existed in between.

Then Preesha walked into his office.

No warning. No drama. Just a quiet request at the reception desk:
“I need to speak to Rajeev Khurana.”

When Rajeev saw her standing there—arms folded, eyes steady—his breath caught.

“You,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Preesha said evenly. “Me.”

He gestured toward his cabin, shutting the door behind them.

“You don’t get to avoid us anymore,” she said, without raising her voice. “My sister is pregnant.”

The words knocked the air out of him.

“I know,” Rajeev whispered.

Preesha’s eyes flashed. “Then you also know she can’t carry this alone.”

“I’m trapped,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” Preesha cut in. “You chose silence. You chose obedience. Now you live with that.”

She stepped closer, her voice low but unyielding.

“But you will meet her. Once. And you will listen.”

Rajeev didn’t argue.

He only nodded.

Rudraksh

Rudraksh hadn’t meant to overhear anything.

He had come to Khurana Industries to drop off some paperwork Rajeev had forgotten at home—something mundane, forgettable. The kind of errand he’d done a hundred times before.

As he reached Rajeev’s cabin, the door was slightly ajar.

Voices drifted out.

Preesha’s.

Firm. Controlled. Unmistakable.

“You don’t get to disappear like this,” she was saying. “Not after what you’ve done.”

Rudraksh slowed.

Rajeev’s voice followed—low, strained.
“Preesha, please. Not here.”

“Then where?” she shot back. “Because my sister is carrying your child, and she’s doing it alone.”

The words landed like a blow.

Rudraksh froze.

Carrying your child.

His breath caught painfully in his chest.

He stepped back instinctively, heart pounding, the corridor suddenly too narrow, too loud. Inside the cabin, Preesha continued—her voice steady but sharp with restraint.

“She doesn’t want sympathy. She doesn’t want promises. She wants dignity. And responsibility.”

“I know,” Rajeev said hoarsely. “I never stopped knowing.”

Rudraksh’s hand tightened around the file he was holding.

Images rushed through him—Mahima’s quiet smiles, her veena case tucked carefully under her arm, the way she had always looked at his brother with calm respect. And Preesha—angry, protective, unyielding.

This wasn’t a misunderstanding.

This was something far worse.

He turned away silently, walking down the corridor on unsteady legs, his mind racing.

Bhai… what have you done?

For the first time, the silences made sense.

Rajeev’s distant eyes.
Mahima’s sudden absence from conversations that once revolved around music and warmth.

The fracture wasn’t small.

It was devastating.

And Rudraksh realized—with a cold clarity settling in his bones—that the truth had been there all along.

He just hadn’t known where to listen.

Balraj

Balraj sensed the shift.

Rajeev grew quieter. Less compliant.
Mahima’s name appeared in conversations where it didn’t belong.
And Rudraksh stopped joking.

Control, Balraj realized, worked only when fear stayed contained.

That evening, he issued new instructions.

“No unnecessary visits. No meetings. No distractions.”

But for the first time in decades, his son didn’t respond immediately.

Rajeev simply stood there.

Something in his silence unsettled Balraj.

Rudraksh and Rajeev — The First Crack

Rudraksh waited until night.

Until the house had quieted, until Balraj had retreated to his study and Ahana’s door had closed. Only then did he knock on Rajeev’s bedroom door.

No teasing. No jokes.

Rajeev opened it and knew instantly.

Rudraksh’s face was pale, his usual easy confidence stripped away.

“You heard,” Rajeev said quietly.

Rudraksh nodded once. “Preesha. At your office.”

Silence stretched between them—thick, suffocating.

“She’s pregnant,” Rudraksh said, not as an accusation, but as a fact that still didn’t feel real. “Mahima is pregnant.”

Rajeev closed his eyes.

“I didn’t abandon her,” he said hoarsely. “I was forced into this marriage. I tried to stop it.”

Rudraksh’s jaw tightened. “And while you were trying… she was carrying your child.”

The words landed harder than any slap.

“You should have told me,” Rudraksh said. “You should have told someone.”

Rajeev’s voice broke. “I was afraid. Of Papa. Of losing everything.”

Rudraksh shook his head slowly. “You already did.”

That was when Rajeev sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

For the first time since it began, he didn’t try to justify himself.

Rudraksh and Preesha — An Uneasy Truce

The next day, Rudraksh found Preesha outside Mahima’s music academy.

She stiffened the moment she saw him.

“If you’re here to defend him—”

“I’m not,” Rudraksh said quickly.

That stopped her.

He hesitated, then spoke carefully. “I didn’t know. About their relationship. About the pregnancy. I found out yesterday.”

Preesha studied him for a long moment, weighing truth against instinct.

“And now?” she asked.

“And now I don’t know how to fix something that should never have been broken,” he said honestly.

Preesha’s voice softened—but only slightly. “Then don’t fix it. Just don’t make it worse.”

Rudraksh nodded. “I won’t.”

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was something dangerously close to trust.

Mahima — The Unspoken Knowing

Mahima sensed it before anyone told her.

The way Rudraksh avoided her eyes when he came by to drop off something Rajeev had sent. The way his voice faltered when he asked, “Are you okay?”

She smiled politely. Said yes.

But her heart knew.

He knows.

Later that night, Mahima stood by the window, one hand resting over the faint curve of her belly.

“Everyone will know soon,” she whispered—not with fear, but with quiet acceptance.

The child shifted gently, as if answering.

Rajeev — Breaking Point

Exposure changed something in Rajeev.

The secrecy that had once protected him now crushed him.

At work, he missed meetings. At home, he barely spoke. Balraj noticed—but misread the signs.

“You’re becoming careless,” Balraj snapped one evening. “This is not the time for weakness.”

Rajeev looked at his father—really looked at him—for the first time in years.

“I already lost everything that mattered,” he said quietly.

Balraj scoffed. “Sentiment.”

But Rajeev felt it then—the truth settling, solid and irreversible.

Silence had not saved him.

Obedience had not saved anyone.

That night, he stood alone on the terrace, phone in his hand, Mahima’s name glowing on the screen.

This time, he didn’t turn it face down.

He pressed call.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

Rajeev lowered the phone, tears finally spilling free.

For the first time since the temple, since the marriage, since the truth surfaced—

Rajeev Khurana broke.

Narrator

Secrets survive in silence.
But truth demands witnesses.

One brother had seen.
One sister had stepped forward.
One woman carried life and loss together.
And one man stood at the edge of everything he had destroyed.

It did not end with answers. It ended with fractures.

And fractures, once exposed, never stay hidden for long.

The story had moved beyond love and loss.

It was now about consequence.

And the child—silent, growing, inevitable—would be the truth none of them could escape.

------

To be continued.