Kumkum Bhagya: Rishton Ki Ankahi Kahani - Chapter 111 updt on pg 30 - Page 30

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Chapter 109 (What Was Never Owed)

Suhaag Raat —Rakhi–Sunny

The room was quiet in a way Rakhi wasn’t used to.

Not tense.
Not threatening.
Just… still.

The soft glow of a bedside lamp cast gentle shadows across the walls. The bed had been decorated hurriedly—flowers scattered, sheets too crisp, pillows arranged with a formality that felt almost ironic given how suddenly everything had happened.

Rakhi stood near the window, clutching the edge of her dupatta like an anchor. The glass was cool beneath her fingers.

Behind her, Sunny closed the door quietly.

The click of the latch made her flinch.

He noticed.

“I can sleep on the couch,” he said immediately, his voice gentle but firm. “Or the floor. Or anywhere else. You don’t owe me anything, Rakhi. Not tonight. Not ever.”

She turned slowly.

For a moment, she simply stared at him—as if waiting for the catch.
The expectation.
The entitlement.

It never came.

“You’re not angry?” she asked softly.

Sunny frowned. “About what?”

“That I… that I’m not—” Her voice faltered. She swallowed. “That I can’t be what people expect on a night like this.”

He took a step closer, careful, closing the distance without invading her space.

“Rakhi,” he said quietly, “if tonight had expectations attached to it, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Something in her cracked.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, her shoulders folding inward. “Every man I’ve ever known,” she whispered, “thought they were entitled to me. My silence. My body. My fear.”

Sunny sat down across from her—not touching her, just present.

“My father,” she continued, eyes fixed on the floor, “used to say a woman’s worth is how well she obeys. I believed him. For a long time.”

Sunny’s jaw tightened—not in anger, but in restraint.

“I grew up watching my mother disappear slowly,” he said after a moment. “One compromise at a time. One silence at a time. And then I watched my father walk away because the house stopped feeling like home.”

Rakhi looked up at him then.

“They say men leave because women change,” Sunny went on quietly. “But no one ever asks what broke the woman first.”

The air between them shifted—something unspoken, understood.

“I don’t know how to be a wife,” Rakhi said softly. “I don’t even know how to be… normal.”

Sunny shook his head. “I don’t want normal.”

She let out a small, humourless breath. “You should.”

“No,” he said, gentler now. “I want honest. And I want safe.”

He hesitated before asking, “Can I sit closer? Only if you’re okay with it.”

She nodded.

He moved beside her, leaving a careful space between them.

“For the record,” Sunny added, “this marriage didn’t start the way it should have. But if it’s going to mean anything… it will start on your terms.”

Rakhi’s eyes filled with tears she didn’t try to stop.

“No one has ever said that to me.”

“Well,” he said softly, “then let me be the first.”

She leaned back against the headboard, exhaustion finally seeping into her bones. After a moment’s hesitation, she spoke again.

“Will you… stay? Just sit here. Until I fall asleep.”

Sunny smiled faintly. “I’ll stay.”

She lay down carefully, still tense, still guarded. After a pause, she whispered, “You can turn off the light.”

He did—but not before placing a folded blanket between them on the bed, an unspoken boundary made visible.

As the room dimmed, Rakhi’s breathing slowly evened out.

Sunny remained awake, staring at the ceiling.

Tonight, he thought, was not about beginnings written in fire.
It was about choosing not to repeat the past.

For the first time in a very long time, Rakhi closed her eyes without fear.

Minutes passed.

Sleep hovered close but fragile.

Then, softly—almost like a thought she hadn’t meant to speak—Rakhi whispered, “Sunny…”

He turned his head slightly. “Yes?”

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the sheet. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile—more relief than happiness. “For not being like the men I’ve known.”

Sunny didn’t respond immediately.

“All my life,” Rakhi whispered, “I thought kindness was a trick. That gentleness came with a price. That silence meant fear.”
She paused. “Tonight… I wasn’t afraid.”

Something shifted in Sunny’s chest—quiet, unfamiliar, steady.

“I don’t know what tomorrow holds,” Rakhi continued, eyes closed now. “I don’t even know what this marriage truly means yet. But…” Her voice trembled slightly. “If God had to send me someone… I’m grateful it was you.”

“You don’t owe God thanks for me,” Sunny said gently, his throat tight.

She shook her head, though he couldn’t see it. “I do.”

Silence followed—full and unbroken.

Rakhi turned her face slightly toward the window, where moonlight slipped through the curtains. Her lips moved soundlessly now, words meant only for the One who had heard her cries for years and answered them in the most unexpected way.

Thank you, she prayed.
For giving me a man who doesn’t demand, who doesn’t frighten, who doesn’t hurt.
If this is my kumkum bhagya… then for once, I accept it with faith.

Beside her, Sunny exhaled slowly—unaware of the prayer, yet deeply aware of the feeling blooming quietly in his chest.

Not love.
Not yet.

Something gentler.
Something steadier.

As sleep finally claimed Rakhi, her face softened, the weight she carried easing just a little.

And Sunny stayed awake a while longer, guarding a peace he hadn’t known he was capable of offering.

Unknowing.
Unclaimed.
But already written—somewhere beyond both their understanding.

Prachi–Ranbir — A Love That Refused to Leave

The room was too familiar for strangers.

Prachi stood near the bed, staring at the flower petals scattered across the sheets, her fingers twisting the edge of her dupatta. Her head no longer throbbed—the bhaang haze had lifted enough for clarity to hurt.

Ranbir leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Neither of them spoke.

Because words would open wounds that had never healed.

Prachi broke the silence first, her voice low. “So… this is how it happens.”

Ranbir let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh without humour. “Yeah. Fate has a sick sense of timing.”

She turned toward him. Really looked at him. The man she had loved quietly. The man she had sworn she was done with.

“You know,” she said softly, “we were both ready to marry other people.”

Ranbir’s eyes darkened. “Out of stubbornness.”

“Out of pride,” she corrected.

“And fear,” he added.

The truth hung between them.

Prachi’s voice wavered. “I told myself I didn’t care anymore. That loving you was a mistake.”

Ranbir stepped forward instinctively, then stopped himself. “I told myself marrying someone else would make it stop.”

“Did it?” she asked.

“No,” he said immediately. “It never did.”

Her throat tightened.

Silence again—but this one pulsed.

“You know what hurts the most?” Prachi whispered. “That we almost ruined everything… on purpose.”

Ranbir nodded slowly. “And yet here we are. Married. Without planning it. Without choosing it.”

She laughed bitterly. “After choosing everyone else.”

His gaze softened. “Sanju didn’t choose himself.”

Prachi looked up, startled. “What?”

Ranbir hesitated. “He knew. Somewhere… he knew. And he still stepped aside.”

Her chest tightened at the thought.

Sanju—who had always looked at her with quiet affection.
Sanju—who could have stopped this, but didn’t.

Ranbir ran a hand through his hair. “He agreed to the madness because he thought this was the only way you and I would stop destroying each other.”

Prachi closed her eyes.

“That makes this worse,” she murmured.

“It makes it honest,” Ranbir said.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. “What do we do now?”

Ranbir walked closer, his voice steady but heavy. “We don’t pretend tonight didn’t happen. But we also don’t pretend it fixes everything.”

She looked at him. “You’re saying—”

“I’m saying,” he interrupted gently, “we don’t touch each other tonight. Not because we don’t feel it… but because we do.”

Her eyes shimmered.

“Because love without clarity can still hurt,” he finished.

Prachi nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” she whispered—not for the marriage, but for the restraint.

Ranbir picked up a pillow and blanket and moved toward the couch.

As he lay down, he spoke again—quiet, unguarded.

“For what it’s worth, Prachi… loving you was never the mistake.”

She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, her heart aching in a way that felt painfully alive.

They slept in the same room.
Bound by rituals.
Separated by timing.

And yet—closer than they had been in the past few days.

Rhea–Sanju — Laughter Over Silence

Rhea slammed the door shut and turned around.

The room smelled faintly of roses and incense—too much, too loud for how hollow she felt inside.

Sanju was already sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands like they’d personally betrayed him.

She crossed her arms. “Say it.”

He blinked. “Say… what?”

“That this is ridiculous,” she snapped. “That this shouldn’t have happened. That you’re regretting every second.”

Sanju opened his mouth. Closed it. Then sighed. “I’m not regretting marrying you.”

Rhea scoffed. “Liar.”

“I regret the chaos,” he corrected quietly. “Not you.”

She faltered—just for a second.

Then irritation rushed in to cover it. “You were crying at the mandap, Sanju.”

He rubbed his face. “I thought your mom and dad would kill me. Still do.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

She turned away, annoyed at herself, then dropped into the chair near the dressing table, rubbing her temples. “I didn’t plan this.”

“Same,” he said. “My five-year plan involved a bike, a promotion, and zero weddings.”

She glanced at him sideways despite herself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—but it wasn’t comfortable either.

“You know I don’t love you, right?” Rhea said suddenly, flat and defensive.

Sanju nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.”

She turned sharply. “And you’re okay with that?”

He hesitated, then shrugged, trying to smile. “Tonight? Yes. Tomorrow? We’ll see.”

Something about that answer unsettled her.

She studied him—really studied him—for the first time. The nervous fidgeting. The forced lightness. The way he wasn’t looking at her like he expected anything in return.

“You’re weird,” she muttered.

“I know.”

She looked away again. “I don’t know how to be a wife.”

Sanju leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Perfect. I don’t know how to be a husband.”

A beat.

Then she asked quietly, “You could’ve stopped this, you know. You didn’t have to go through with it.”

Sanju turned his head toward her. “So could you.”

The truth stung.

Rhea’s voice dropped. “I didn’t care anymore.”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I didn’t stop it.”

She frowned. “What does that even mean?”

Sanju sat up, straighter now—not moving toward her, just bracing himself.

“It means,” he said slowly, “that I knew if I stepped out… someone else would finally step in.”

Her breath caught. “You mean—”

“I mean Prachi and Ranbir.”

The room went still.

Rhea laughed once—sharp, disbelieving. “You married me… so they could end up together?”

Sanju winced—not at the accusation, but at how close it was to the truth.

“I’ve liked Prachi for a long time,” he admitted softly. “Long enough to know when she was lying to herself. Long enough to know she never stopped loving him.”

Rhea’s chest tightened. “And what about me?”

Sanju met her eyes steadily. “You didn’t stop loving him either.”

The words landed quietly. He didn’t say them to wound her—just to acknowledge what already existed.

Rhea swallowed hard. “Then what am I doing here, Sanju?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Finally, he said, “You’re not a consolation prize. And I didn’t marry you to trap you.”

She laughed bitterly. “Then why?”

“Because someone had to absorb the damage,” he said simply. “And I could handle it.”

Her voice cracked despite her effort to stay composed. “You think I wanted this?”

“I know you didn’t,” he replied softly. “That’s why I won’t ask you for anything. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until you’re ready—if you ever are.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

“We’re not…?” she asked, gesturing vaguely.

Sanju raised a brow. “God, no. Relax. I’ll sleep here. You take the couch.”

She blinked. “You’re offering me the bed?”

He smirked faintly. “Temporary truce?”

She considered it, then nodded. “Temporary.”

He picked up a pillow and blanket and moved to the couch.

“You’re my husband,” she said slowly, testing the words.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why I’ll wait.”

She didn’t thank him.

She didn’t stop him either.

When the lights went off, Rhea lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft rustle of Sanju settling on the couch.

It wasn’t love.

But for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t pressure either.

And worse than that—

She had married a man who loved someone else.
And even worse—

A man who loved her enough
to step aside for her happiness,
even when it wasn’t with him.

That thought stayed with her long after sleep refused to come.

------

To be continued.

Chapter 110 (Written in Kumkum, Watched in Silence)

Morning After – The Silent House

The house woke up before Rakhi did.

Not with laughter.
Not with voices.
With silence.

She opened her eyes slowly, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling above her. The fan hummed softly, cutting through the stillness, and for a moment she forgot where she was.

Then it all came rushing back.

The hospital.
Sunny’s bloodied knuckles.
Disha’s slap.
The words that had cut deeper than anything else.

You married the daughter of the people who destroyed our family.

Rakhi sat up quietly, careful not to disturb Sunny sleeping beside her. Even in sleep, his brows were slightly drawn together, as if his mind refused to rest.

She slipped out of bed soundlessly.

The room felt too neat. Too untouched. Like it had been prepared for a guest—not a daughter-in-law.

As she stepped into the hallway, her bare feet echoed faintly against the marble floor. Somewhere in the distance, a door shut—firm, deliberate.

Disha.

Rakhi paused.

From outside, through the slightly open front window, hushed voices drifted in.

“Did you hear? Disha’s son brought her home last night.”

“So sudden, no? No invitation, no rituals… straight from the hospital.”

“I heard she’s that woman’s daughter.”

A brief silence—then a soft, disapproving click of tongues.

Rakhi’s fingers curled around the edge of her dupatta.

It’s okay, she told herself. I won’t complain. I won’t react. I won’t give them another reason.

She turned away from the voices and walked into the kitchen instead, instinctively drawn to routine—something familiar, something grounding.

Tea leaves.
Milk.
A kettle.

Her hands trembled only once as she lit the stove.

Sunny Draws the Line

Rakhi stood in the kitchen long before anyone else woke up.

It wasn’t obligation that had brought her there—it was instinct.
Something she could do, when everything else felt uncertain.

She moved quietly, preparing something simple. Nothing elaborate. Just food made with care—the kind that didn’t demand approval.

When she finished, she arranged the dishes carefully on a tray, her hands steady despite the tightness in her chest.

Sunny appeared at the doorway.

“You should’ve woken me,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “You barely slept.”

He watched her for a moment—how carefully she moved, how deliberately she kept her eyes lowered, as if trying not to take up too much space.

“This is…?” he asked.

“Pehli rasoi,” she replied quietly. “I thought—if it’s okay.”

Sunny didn’t answer immediately.

Together, they walked into the living area.

Disha was seated near the window. Aryan and Shahana stood nearby, mid-conversation. The room stilled the moment Rakhi stepped in.

She placed the tray down carefully. “Ma… Aryan… Shahana… I made something.”

Disha didn’t touch the plate.

“She’s already playing daughter-in-law?” Disha said coldly. “Trying to claim a place?”

Rakhi froze.

Sunny stepped forward at once.

“No, Ma,” he said calmly. “She’s not claiming anything.”

Disha looked at him sharply. “Then what is this?”

“It’s food,” Sunny replied evenly. “And an effort.”

Disha scoffed. “Effort doesn’t erase chaos.”

Sunny met her gaze without raising his voice. “No. Silence brought chaos. Lies did. Fear did. Not her.”

Aryan shifted uncomfortably. Shahana glanced at Rakhi, then at Sunny.

Disha’s jaw tightened. “You’re choosing her over your own blood.”

Sunny didn’t hesitate. “I’m choosing what’s right.”

The words were quiet—but they landed heavily.

Shahana, gently, picked up a spoon. “It smells nice,” she said, offering Rakhi a small smile.

Aryan followed suit, taking a bite without comment.

Rakhi stood still, her hands clasped tightly together—not victorious, not relieved—but seen.

Disha – Behind Closed Doors

Disha sat alone in her room, the door locked.

In front of her lay an old photograph.

Purab.
Abhi.
A much younger Pragya—smiling, unaware of what fate had planned.

And in the corner, barely visible, a tiny child wrapped in a pink blanket.

Kiara.

Disha’s breath hitched.

Her fingers hovered over the photo, then clenched into a fist. She turned it face-down, as if hiding it from herself.

“Why,” she whispered hoarsely, “does this family always pay for Tanu’s sins?”

She stood abruptly and walked to the small prayer shelf. The sindoor box lay open—but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she snapped it shut, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

“I protected my family once,” she said aloud, tears burning her eyes. “I won’t watch it fall apart again.”

But even as she said it, her mind betrayed her.

The girl’s eyes last night.

Not defiant.
Not manipulative.

Just… broken.

Disha pressed her palm against her forehead, her breathing uneven.

If I don’t stop this now, she thought, I’ll lose my son.

The Kumkum Moment – A Silent Echo

Later that morning, after the house had settled into its uneasy routine, Rakhi stood alone in the small wash area outside the bedroom.

The mirror reflected a woman she barely recognised.

Married.
Accepted by one man.
Rejected by everything else.

Her gaze drifted upward—to the faint red line of sindoor in her maang.

Carefully, almost reverently, she touched it with her fingertip.

The colour smudged slightly.

Her breath caught.

For a moment, the old instinct flared—to erase, to hide, to disappear before anyone could question her right to belong.

But then she remembered.

You don’t owe anyone erasure.

Slowly, deliberately, Rakhi reached for the small container of kumkum resting on the shelf. It wasn’t ceremonial. It wasn’t gifted. Just something she had found among Shahana’s puja items.

She dipped her finger into it.

Her hand trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of choice.

And then, with quiet resolve, she reapplied the sindoor herself.

Not perfectly.
Not boldly.
But honestly.

As the red settled into place, Rakhi met her reflection’s eyes.

“This isn’t for tradition,” she whispered.
“And not for approval.”

Her fingers curled lightly over her stomach.

“This is for the man who didn’t ask for anything,” she added softly.
“And for the life that deserves a beginning without shame.”

Behind her, unseen, Sunny paused at the doorway.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t interrupt.

He only watched—something warm and unfamiliar tightening in his chest as he realised this wasn’t about marriage rituals at all.

It was about choice.

Rakhi lowered her hand, squared her shoulders, and walked past him without a word.

The faint red line in her hair caught the light as she passed.

And for reasons Sunny couldn’t yet name, he knew—

that mark wasn’t a burden.

It was a promise.

The Kumkum Bhagya Disha Cannot Ignore

It happened later that afternoon.

Rakhi was passing through the corridor, carrying a folded stack of clean clothes toward the bedroom, when Disha emerged from the prayer room.

They didn’t collide.
They didn’t even speak.

But Rakhi paused instinctively, stepping aside to give space.

As she lowered her head in respect, the movement shifted her hair slightly.

And there it was.

The thin, deliberate line of sindoor in her maang.

Not freshly applied.
Not performative.
Chosen.

Disha’s eyes caught it—and stilled.

For a fraction of a second, she forgot to breathe.

That sindoor wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t defiant.
It didn’t scream claim.

It sat there quietly, like a promise Rakhi had made to herself rather than to the world.

Disha’s fingers tightened around her prayer beads.

She remembered another girl once—
another red line, another beginning that had ended in blood and lies.

Rakhi murmured softly, “Ma,” and moved past her.

Disha didn’t stop her.

Didn’t comment.

Didn’t look back.

But long after Rakhi disappeared down the corridor, Disha stood rooted to the spot, staring at nothing.

For the first time, it wasn’t anger burning in her chest.

It was dread.

Tanu – Damage Control

Tanu paced her room like a caged animal.

Sunny’s face flashed before her eyes again and again—
the way he had stood in front of Rakhi,
the way he had drawn a line without shouting.

And worse—

Disha had seen it.

Too much had changed too fast.

“If he starts asking questions,” Tanu muttered, clutching her phone, “everything ends.”

Her thumb hovered over a familiar contact.

Aliyah.

No.

Her jaw tightened as she locked the screen.

Aliyah loved Kiara.
Loved her fiercely.

Tanu wouldn’t risk that truth surfacing—not now, not ever.

Instead, she dialed another number. Unnamed. Disposable.

“We need to move her,” Tanu said coldly when the call connected. “Temporarily.”

A pause.

“For her health,” she continued smoothly. “For the baby.”

Another pause.

“Yes. Quietly.”

She ended the call and sank onto the edge of the bed, her breath uneven.

Kiara must never come home.

Small Allegiances

The kitchen smelled faintly of ginger and cardamom.

Rakhi stood near the counter, unsure if she should stay or leave, when Aryan walked in with Shahana trailing behind him.

Shahana picked up a spoon from the counter. “Jethani ji, you made this?”

Rakhi nodded. “I can remake it if—”

“No,” Shahana said quickly, tasting it. Then smiled. “It’s good.”

Aryan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying Rakhi—not critically, but thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “Disha ma doesn’t hate effort. She just… doesn’t trust change.”

Rakhi swallowed. “I don’t expect trust.”

“That’s good,” Aryan replied. “Because you won’t get it quickly.”

Shahana shot him a look. “You’re terrible at comforting people.”

“I’m honest,” Aryan countered, then turned back to Rakhi. “But for what it’s worth, Bhabhi—you didn’t do anything wrong today.”

Rakhi blinked, startled. “I—”

“You didn’t,” Shahana cut in gently. “And Jethani ji, you don’t have to keep apologising just to exist.”

Rakhi’s throat tightened.

Aryan straightened. “Bhai’s stubborn. He doesn’t protect people lightly.”

Shahana added softly, “And when he does… we stand with him.”

They didn’t say we stand with you.

They didn’t need to.

As they walked out together, Rakhi stood alone in the kitchen—but for the first time since entering the house, she didn’t feel like an intruder.

Tanu’s Plan — A Hairline Crack

The clinic receptionist frowned at the file in her hands.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Nikhil Mehra,” she said politely. “But this request doesn’t align with our protocol.”

Tanu stiffened. “It’s just a precaution.”

“Yes,” the receptionist replied, calm but firm, “but the patient hasn’t reported any symptoms that justify relocation or isolation. And the attending doctor has already cleared her.”

Tanu forced a smile. “Perhaps you should speak to—”

“We already did,” the woman interrupted gently. “Dr. Malhotra spoke to Mr. Sunny this morning.”

The name hit harder than expected.

Tanu’s smile froze.

“Oh,” she said lightly. “He must be confused. He’s emotional right now.”

The receptionist shook her head. “No. He was very clear.”

Tanu walked out of the clinic slowly, her nails digging into her palm.

Sunny was already in places she hadn’t anticipated.

Too alert.
Too involved.

She pulled out her phone instinctively… then stopped.

Aliyah.

No.

She shoved the phone back into her bag, breath uneven.

Plans only worked when no one else cared.

And Sunny cared too much.

Rakhi’s Promise

Night fell gently over the house.

Rakhi stood alone on the balcony, the cool air brushing against her face. The sky above was scattered with stars—distant, quiet, constant.

She rested a hand over her stomach without realizing it.

“I don’t know who I am,” she whispered into the darkness. “I don’t know where I belong.”

Her throat tightened.

“But I won’t let my child inherit my pain.”

Behind her, Sunny watched silently—close enough to protect, far enough to respect.

Some truths wait not to destroy—

—but to return home.

And somewhere far away, a destiny long buried began to stir.

------

To be continued.

Chapter 111 (The Name That Shouldn’t Hurt)

It was almost accidental.
That was what made it dangerous.

The next evening, Rakhi was in the living room, folding the corner of her dupatta nervously, when Shahana walked in with a small stack of old photo albums she’d found while clearing a shelf.

“Jeth ji, look what I found,” Shahana said lightly. “Ma’s old albums. I was trying to make space.”

Sunny glanced up briefly from his phone. “Careful. Ma doesn’t like anyone touching those.”

Disha, seated near the window, stiffened.

Rakhi’s eyes drifted toward the albums despite herself. Faces. Memories. A life that had existed long before she entered this house.

One photograph slipped out.

It landed face-down on the table.

Instinctively, Rakhi bent to pick it up. “Sorry—I’ll—”

“DON’T.”

Disha’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Everyone froze.

Rakhi’s hand stopped mid-air.

“I’ll take that,” Disha said sharply, standing up and snatching the photograph herself.

The movement was too fast. Too panicked.

Sunny frowned. “Ma?”

Disha avoided his eyes. “Some things are not meant to be revisited.”

Rakhi straightened slowly, her pulse racing. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know what you didn’t mean,” Disha snapped. “Intent doesn’t undo damage.”

The words stung—not because they were loud, but because they were familiar.

Rakhi nodded silently and stepped back.

But as Disha turned away, the corner of the photograph briefly flashed.

A little girl.
Big eyes. Messy curls.

And a name written in fading ink at the back—

Kiara.

Rakhi’s breath caught.

The name echoed in her chest in a way she couldn’t explain. Like a memory she wasn’t allowed to have.

Sunny noticed the way her face drained. “Rakhi?”

She shook her head quickly. “Nothing. Just… tired.”

Disha watched her closely.

Too closely.

And for the first time since Rakhi entered this house, fear—not anger—flickered in Disha’s eyes.

Disha Alone — The Past Pushes Back

Later that night, Disha locked herself inside her room.

Her hands trembled as she placed the photograph back into its album.

Kiara.

The name burned.

“I warned myself,” she whispered hoarsely. “I warned myself not to let this happen.”

She moved to the mirror, staring at her own reflection—older now, harder, carrying decades of unspoken grief.

Sunny’s words echoed in her mind.

I’m choosing what’s right.

What if right destroyed him?

Her gaze dropped to the bedside drawer.

Slowly, reluctantly, she opened it.

Inside lay a tiny silver anklet—blackened with age, untouched for years.

Kiara’s.

Disha closed the drawer again as if burned.

“No,” she whispered fiercely. “I won’t let the past repeat itself.”

But deep inside, she knew—

The past had already begun to knock.

Rakhi’s Dream — The Child Without a Face

Sleep came to Rakhi in fragments.

In the dream, she stood in an open field she didn’t recognise—soft grass beneath her feet, a pale sky above. No house. No walls. Just space.

Then she heard it.

Laughter.

A child’s.

She turned, heart pounding, and saw a little girl running toward her. Small feet. Messy curls bouncing. Bangles clinking softly at tiny wrists.

“Wait,” Rakhi whispered, stepping forward.

The child stopped a few steps away.

She was smiling—but her face was blurred, like someone had smudged the edges of her existence.

Rakhi knelt instinctively, arms opening. “Who are you?”

The girl tilted her head, curious. Familiar.

“I was waiting,” the child said simply.

“For whom?” Rakhi asked, tears burning her eyes for reasons she didn’t understand.

The girl lifted a hand and pointed—not at Rakhi’s heart, but at her forehead.

At the place where sindoor rested.

Before Rakhi could speak again, the child’s smile faltered.

The field darkened.

And a voice—sharp, urgent—cut through the dream.

“DON’T REMEMBER.”

Rakhi woke with a gasp.

Her hand flew to her stomach.

The room was silent.

But her heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Pragya’s Dream — The Child Who Calls Without a Name

Sleep found Pragya late.

When it did, it took her somewhere she hadn’t been in years.

An open field.
Soft grass. A pale sky.

Her heart began to pound even before she saw the child.

A little girl stood a few steps away, back turned. Messy curls. A familiar stillness—as if she had been waiting.

“Kiara?” Pragya whispered.

The child didn’t turn.

Instead, she said gently, “You didn’t forget me.”

Pragya rushed forward, falling to her knees. “I never could. I tried—I swear I tried—but they took you away from me.”

The girl finally turned.

Her face was blurred. Smudged. Unfinished.

“I’m not lost,” the child said. “I’m just… far.”

Pragya reached out, fingers shaking. “Where are you?”

The girl lifted a small hand and pointed—not to the field, not to the sky—

But to Pragya’s chest.

Before Pragya could speak again, the field darkened.

A voice—sharp, commanding—cut through the dream.

“DON’T REMEMBER.”

Pragya woke with a gasp, tears soaking her pillow.

Her hand pressed to her heart.

“Kiara…” she whispered into the dark.

For the first time in years, the grief didn’t feel distant.

It felt close.

A Mother’s Intuition Stirs

Miles away, in a quiet temple courtyard, Pragya stood before the deity, hands folded, eyes closed.

She hadn’t known why she’d come.

Only that something inside her had felt… unsettled.

Her prayer faltered mid-chant.

A sudden tightness gripped her chest.

She pressed a hand to her heart instinctively.

“Kiara…” the name slipped out before she could stop herself.

Pragya gasped.

She hadn’t spoken that name aloud in years.

Her eyes flew open, breath uneven.

Why now?
Why today?

A tear slid down her cheek, unbidden.

“I don’t know where you are,” she whispered into the silence. “Or if you’re safe.”

Her voice broke.

“But wherever you are… if you’re calling out to me—”

The temple bell rang sharply.

Pragya flinched.

Somewhere, unseen threads tightened.

Fate did not reveal itself all at once.

It whispered.

And it had just begun to speak.

Disha — The Face She Knows Too Well

The next day, Disha stood in the living room doorway, unnoticed.

Rakhi sat on the floor near the window, folding clothes slowly, methodically. The afternoon light fell across her face at just the right angle.

And suddenly—

Disha saw it.

Not Rakhi.

Pragya.

The same lowered gaze.
The same way of shrinking when spoken to sharply.
The same quiet dignity that never asked for permission to exist.

Disha’s breath caught.

She remembered Pragya years ago—standing in that very house, trying to belong without demanding space.

Trying not to break.

Rakhi looked up then, startled to see Disha watching her.

“Ma?” she asked softly.

Disha didn’t answer.

She turned away too quickly.

In her room, she locked the door and leaned against it, heart pounding.

“No,” she whispered. “This is just coincidence.”

But her mind betrayed her.

Pragya’s kindness.
Rakhi’s silence.

Different lives.

Same scars.

And the thought terrified her more than anger ever had.

Tanu — Control Tightens

Tanu stood before the mirror, adjusting her hair with meticulous care.

Outwardly calm. Inwardly unraveling.

Too many things were slipping.

Sunny was alert.
Disha was afraid.
Doctors weren’t cooperating.

And worse—

Aliyah had called earlier.

Not accusing.

Just… curious.

“You sound tired,” Aliyah had said. “Is Rakhi okay? I was thinking of coming by.”

Tanu’s fingers tightened around the phone.

“No,” she’d replied too quickly. “She needs rest. Too many people will overwhelm her.”

A pause.

Aliyah had gone quiet.

That was what frightened Tanu the most.

Curiosity always came before truth.

Tanu snapped her compact shut.

I can’t afford cracks, she thought. Not now.

She picked up her phone again and sent a single message.

Advance the plan. No delays.

Control wasn’t about cruelty.

It was about speed.

Aliyah — The Near Miss

Aliyah stood outside a small stationery shop, staring at the display absently.

She didn’t know why she’d stopped there.

Only that something had pulled her off her usual route.

Inside, a woman argued gently with the shopkeeper.

“I’m telling you,” the woman laughed nervously, “my niece loves these. She’s always losing them.”

Aliyah froze.

Niece.

She turned instinctively—

Just as the woman shifted aside.

For half a second, Aliyah’s gaze fell on a photograph tucked into the woman’s wallet as she reached for money.

A child.

Big eyes. Messy curls.

Something in Aliyah’s chest tightened.

The woman paid and left quickly, disappearing into the crowd.

Aliyah stood rooted to the spot, breath uneven.

Why did that feel familiar?

Her phone buzzed.

Tanu.

Aliyah stared at the screen for a long moment before answering.

“Yes?” she said finally.

Tanu’s voice was light. Too light. “You didn’t come by today, did you?”

Aliyah frowned. “No. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Tanu replied smoothly. “Just checking.”

Aliyah hung up slowly.

The unease didn’t leave.

Aliyah — The Question That Won’t Leave

Aliyah didn’t raise her voice.

That was what unsettled Tanu.

They sat across from each other, tea untouched between them.

“Why,” Aliyah asked calmly, “don’t you want me near Rakhi?”

Tanu smiled. Too quickly. “I told you. She needs rest.”

Aliyah tilted her head. “You never worried about rest before.”

A pause.

“She’s pregnant,” Tanu snapped. “I’m being responsible.”

Aliyah’s eyes didn’t leave her face. “Or protective?”

“Of course I’m protective,” Tanu shot back. “She’s my daughter.”

Aliyah leaned back slowly. “Then why do you look scared every time her name comes up?”

Silence.

Tanu laughed softly. “You’re imagining things.”

Aliyah’s voice dropped. “I had a dream last night.”

Tanu’s hand froze mid-motion.

“A little girl,” Aliyah continued. “Curly hair. Big eyes. She didn’t speak—but she felt… familiar.”

Tanu’s smile faltered—just for a second.

Aliyah noticed.

“You know something,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what. But you do.”

Tanu stood abruptly. “Enough.”

Aliyah didn’t stop her.

But as Tanu walked away, Aliyah whispered to herself,

“If Kiara is alive… I will find her.”

The First Lie — Almost Exposed

That evening, Sunny stood in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Her medical history. All of it.”

A pause.

“I don’t care if it’s old,” he continued. “I want everything. From the beginning.”

Rakhi stood a few feet away, pretending to adjust a cushion—but listening.

Sunny ended the call and turned.

Their eyes met.

She hesitated. “Is something wrong?”

He studied her face for a long moment—too long.

“No,” he said slowly.

Then, softer, “But I think someone’s been lying to all of us.”

Rakhi’s heart skipped.

“About what?” she asked.

Sunny didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he said, “Did anyone ever tell you about a child named Kiara?”

The name hit her like a breath she’d been holding too long.

Her mind flashed—
the dream.
the laughter.
the blurred face.

“I…” Rakhi swallowed. “I don’t know why, but that name feels—”

She stopped.

Fear flickered in Sunny’s eyes—not of her, but of what this meant.

“That’s okay,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to answer.”

But somewhere, unseen, a lie shifted.

And the pressure around it grew tighter.

Rakhi — Hearing Kiara’s Story From the Wrong Mouth

Rakhi hadn’t meant to listen.

She was passing by the temple courtyard when she heard voices—low, conspiratorial.

“…such a tragedy,” one woman murmured. “That little girl—Kiara, wasn’t it?”

Rakhi stopped.

Her name again.

“They say she was kidnapped,” another voice whispered. “Thrown off a cliff. Never found.”

Rakhi’s breath caught painfully.

“That poor mother,” the first woman sighed. “Pragya. She never recovered.”

Rakhi stepped back, heart hammering.

Cliff.
Child.
Lost.

Her head spun with images she didn’t recognise—but felt.

A little girl laughing.
A voice calling out.
A sense of being torn away.

She pressed a hand to her stomach instinctively.

“Kiara…” she whispered, unsure why the name hurt so much.

Behind her, unseen, Sunny watched her sway slightly.

“Rakhi?” he said sharply, moving toward her.

She turned, eyes wide, shaken. “Sunny… who is Kiara?”

The question hung between them—dangerous, premature.

Sunny hesitated.

Before he could answer, a voice sliced through the air.

“Enough.”

Disha stood at the edge of the courtyard, pale, furious, afraid.

“That name,” she said tightly, “is not meant for you.”

Rakhi stared at her, confused and trembling.

“But why does it feel like—”

“Because pain echoes,” Disha snapped. “Even when it doesn’t belong to you.”

She turned away abruptly.

Rakhi stood frozen.

Because deep down, she knew—

Pain didn’t echo without origin.

------

To be continued.

Rakhi has found someone she can depend on, after a long time.

Sanju turned out to be more mature than we ever gave him credit for.

Disha and Tanu are not happy with Rakhi being there married to Sunny. Tanu is just waiting to strike.

Disha is seeing the signs but not wanting to follow through. She is getting the clues about Rakhi's connection to Kiara.

Too many do not want Kiara to surface. Rakhi does nor remember enough.

Chalo Aliya has sone humanity left. So tanu lied to her too. And probably tanu wants to use aliya to get rakhi

Why this fear Disha? Do you not want to past to resurface, you don't want to hope or something else

Kiara truth is coming out. Very interesting rakhi pragya aliya trio had same dream

There is no reason for Prachi ranbir to be cold to eo now. They will be normal soon