Chapter Sixteen: That Night
Nobody asked her anything for a while.
That helped.
The silence after Maan left was not really silence. Rain pressed steadily against the tall windows. Somewhere deeper inside the house, a door opened and shut. Footsteps crossed an upstairs corridor. A voice murmured something too far away to distinguish, and another answered.
The house continued.
That seemed strange.
Something had happened to Geet that felt large enough to stop time, but the lamps remained lit. The rain kept falling. Somewhere, someone was probably putting a child to bed. Somewhere else, someone would still remember to ask whether the kitchen had closed for the night.
Ordinary life had apparently decided to continue without waiting for her.
Geet sat where Maan had left her, staring down at her hands.
They looked normal.
That seemed strange too.
Daadi eventually stood.
"Come."
Geet looked up.
It took her a moment to understand that the word had been directed at her.
Daadi did not repeat herself.
Maan's mother came closer and offered her hand.
Geet stared at it.
Then stood without taking it.
Her knees worked.
Apparently.
That was something.
She followed them upstairs because they were moving and because remaining alone in the hall felt impossible.
The house passed around her in fragments.
A staircase.
Dark wood beneath her palm.
Portraits.
A corridor.
Someone standing at the far end who disappeared the instant Daadi looked that way.
Rain ticking against windows.
A family photograph on a table she did not stop long enough to see properly.
Another hallway branching into somewhere else.
No one spoke to Geet.
No one asked what she wanted.
For once, that did not feel like being ignored.
It felt like mercy.
Devika opened a bedroom door.
Not his.
Geet understood that much immediately.
Relief moved through her before she could decide whether she was allowed to feel it.
The room was warm and quiet, set farther inside the family wing than the guest rooms she had glimpsed earlier. A lamp had been turned on beside the bed. Someone had already placed water there. Fresh towels sat folded over a chair.
Geet stopped near the doorway.
Her suitcase wasn't there.
Her eyes moved once toward the corridor.
Devika noticed.
"Your things will be brought."
Geet gave no answer.
Daadi looked toward her daughter-in-law.
"Not from a guest room."
A pause.
Then Devika nodded.
"No."
Geet didn't understand why that mattered.
Not then.
She would much later.
A guest room was where visitors slept.
This room belonged to the family wing.
Tonight, without asking Geet to understand it, they were refusing to make her a visitor.
A member of staff appeared several minutes later with her suitcase.
Geet watched it being placed near the wardrobe.
The same suitcase that had been in Maan's room.
She knew that somehow.
Perhaps somebody had told her.
Perhaps she had simply assumed that this morning, when they had arrived together, her things had naturally followed his.
Husband.
Wife.
One room.
The thought stopped there.
Daadi looked toward the corridor, where another woman had appeared in the doorway.
She was younger than Devika and Daadi, dressed simply for the night, her hair loosely tied back. Geet vaguely remembered seeing her downstairs earlier, though the evening's introductions had become a blur of names and faces.
"Rhea," Daadi said. "Stay with her tonight."
The woman nodded once.
No questions.
No visible surprise.
She came fully into the room.
Geet would learn later that Rhea was married to one of Maan's older cousins and was roughly Maan's age herself. Young enough that her presence felt different from the older women downstairs. Someone who had once entered this house from outside too.
None of that meant anything to Geet yet.
Devika lingered for another moment.
Her eyes passed once over Geet's face, the green silk, the sindoor, the mangalsutra.
There was something in her expression Geet could not read.
Shame, perhaps.
Concern.
Something directed at a son who was no longer in the house.
But she said nothing.
Then she touched Daadi's arm lightly, and the two women left.
The door remained partly open.
Rhea said something quiet about changing.
Geet looked down.
Green silk.
The fabric seemed unfamiliar.
So did the hands resting against it.
She had chosen it that morning because she had wanted to look nice when she met his family.
Not grand.
Not timid.
Just-
Glad.
She remembered touching the sindoor at her parting in the car.
Is this too much?
Maan looking at her as though the question made no sense.
No.
Geet's eyes closed.
Only for a second.
When she opened them again, she was still standing in the bedroom.
Rhea did not ask her to change again.
She crossed the room instead and drew the curtains partly closed against the storm.
Then she stepped back, giving Geet space.
Geet sat on the edge of the bed.
Still wearing her shoes.
Still wearing the sindoor Maan had put in her hair.
Still wearing the mangalsutra.
For a long time neither woman moved.
Then Rhea crouched in front of her.
Not touching.
Only close enough to be seen.
"Geet."
Geet's eyes shifted toward her.
"I'm going to take your shoes off."
No response.
Rhea waited anyway.
When Geet did not pull away, she reached carefully for one sandal, then the other.
The simple act nearly broke something loose.
Geet's mother had done that once.
Years ago.
After a wedding.
Geet had fallen asleep in the car and insisted, even half-conscious, that she was not tired.
Her mother had laughed.
A hand at her ankle.
A shoe slipping free.
Warm fingers brushing her foot.
Her father's voice from somewhere nearby.
Her mother's answer.
The easy safety of hearing both of them without needing to listen because they were there and therefore nothing required vigilance.
Gone.
The memory vanished almost as quickly as it came.
Geet looked down at her bare feet.
A tear fell onto the back of one hand.
Then another.
Still no sound.
Rhea stood.
She did not wipe them away.
She did not tell Geet not to cry.
That helped too.
Geet's phone lit on the bedside table.
The vibration sounded enormous in the room.
Mehek calling.
Geet stared at the name.
The screen went dark.
A few seconds later it lit again.
Mehek calling.
Nobody reached for it.
Nobody told Geet to answer.
Nobody told her not to.
The call stopped.
A message appeared.
Didi where are you? Did you reach? Call me when you can.
Her chest tightened.
Mehek didn't know.
Of course she didn't.
As far as Mehek knew, Geet had married Maan, travelled to Delhi and gone to meet her new family.
A normal day.
A normal beginning.
Geet turned the phone facedown.
That was all.
Rhea did not reach for it either.
She only moved to the chair near the window and sat down.
Not beside Geet.
Not hovering.
She simply occupied the room in the quiet way of someone who had decided she was going to remain there without making the decision itself into an event.
Geet watched her.
Something about the unremarkable patience of it hurt more than questions might have.
"You don't have to stay."
Her own voice startled her.
Rhea looked toward her.
"I know."
Geet waited.
Rhea shifted farther back into the chair and tucked one leg beneath the other.
She did not explain herself.
Somehow that was easier.
The rain kept falling.
Somewhere below, another door closed.
Then another.
The house seemed to be settling around what had happened, footsteps becoming fewer, voices dropping lower until even those disappeared.
Geet sat very still and let the night happen around her.
A tray appeared sometime later.
Geet did not see who brought it.
Soup.
Toast.
Tea.
The smell reached her before she properly looked.
"I didn't ask for-"
The sentence came out thin enough that she stopped halfway through.
Rhea glanced toward the tray.
"I know."
Nothing else.
Not you need to eat.
Not you should try.
Not for my sake.
Just I know.
The tray remained where the staff member had left it.
Nobody pushed it toward Geet.
Nobody put anything into her hands.
For several minutes she watched steam rise from the tea.
It reminded her of Shimla.
That was worse.
She looked away.
Eventually, without thinking too much about it, Geet reached for the cup herself.
One sip.
Sweet.
Too sweet, perhaps.
She couldn't tell.
She put it down again.
Rhea did not react.
That helped too.
At some point Geet became aware that one hand was closed tightly around the mangalsutra.
She hadn't noticed doing it.
She opened her fist slowly.
Gold rested against her palm.
Ordinary.
Small.
Enormous.
Maan's fingers at the clasp.
Unsteady.
There.
Now you'll actually look married.
The registrar's office.
Her mother's sari.
His face.
My wife.
Then-
I married her for the land.
Fine.
She can leave tomorrow.
Her fingers closed again.
She did not know whether she wanted to take it off.
She did not know whether she wanted never to take it off.
The not-knowing frightened her more than either answer would have.
Her other hand rose toward the sindoor in her hair.
Stopped halfway.
Dropped.
Everything seemed to require a decision.
She had no decisions left.
The phone lit again sometime later.
Mehek.
Geet stared at it.
This time she picked it up.
There were three messages now.
Reached?
Didi??
And finally:
Okay at least send one word so I know you got there 😭
Geet looked at the screen for a long time.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
She imagined what Mehek would ask tomorrow.
Did his mother like you?
What's Daadi like?
How enormous is the house really?
How many people live there?
Did Maan behave?
Geet imagined trying to answer with:
There was a woman named Naina.
Then:
Maan knew about the land before he proposed.
Then:
Marriage gave him control of it.
Then:
He told them he married me for it.
Then:
Someone said I should leave.
Then:
Maan said fine.
The thoughts collided.
She could not organize them into anything another person could understand.
So she typed only:
Reached. I'm okay.
Her finger hovered.
Then she sent it.
The reply came almost immediately.
Good 😭❤️ Papa kept asking me. Sleep now. Call tomorrow and tell me everything.
Everything.
Geet stared at the word.
Mehek meant the house.
The family.
Her first evening as a married woman in Delhi.
Geet locked the phone.
Not tonight.
She could let that version of her life exist in Shimla for a few more hours.
Rhea watched none of this openly.
If she noticed, she said nothing.
Somewhere close to midnight, the green silk became unbearable - not because it hurt, but because it belonged to the morning, to the woman who had dressed in front of a hotel mirror wondering whether Maan's family would like her, who had arrived at those gates nervous about meeting in-laws. That woman seemed very far away.
Geet stood. The suitcase waited beside the wardrobe. For several seconds she stared at it, then opened it, and chose the softest clothes she could find without really seeing them, her hands clumsy.
Rhea rose immediately and turned toward the window.
No request required.
Geet changed slowly.
When she was finished, her fingers went to the mangalsutra.
Found the clasp.
Stopped.
She tried once.
Then again.
She could not make herself open it.
Finally she let her hands fall.
The necklace remained. So did the sindoor. When she sat back down on the bed, there was nothing ceremonial left about her clothes - only soft cotton, ordinary, the mangalsutra resting against it looking almost more visible now for the plainness around it.
Geet stared at it.
Rhea returned to her chair.
For several minutes there was only the rain.
Then Rhea said quietly, "You don't have to talk."
Geet looked toward her.
"I'm not going to ask."
Geet looked down again.
She did not answer.
She did not need to.
The phone vibrated once more.
Not Mehek.
Geet knew the name before she turned it over.
Maan.
Everything inside her tightened.
The screen showed only the beginning.
I know you don't want to-
Geet turned it facedown before the rest appeared.
For one absurd second she saw him outside in the rain.
Wet hair falling forward.
Angry at the weather.
Swearing because he had waved away the umbrella.
The image came too easily.
That hurt almost as much as anything else.
She hated that some part of her still knew how Maan would look in rain.
Hated that her mind could still reach for him automatically after everything he had done.
The phone remained dark.
She did not open the message.
She did not delete it either.
After a while she switched the phone to silent.
Not off.
Silent.
She noticed that distinction.
Did nothing about it.
Much later, Rhea shifted in the chair.
The soup had gone cold.
The tea was barely warm.
Neither woman mentioned it.
Rhea reached for the folded throw on the back of the chair and pulled it over her legs.
Geet watched.
"You're staying?"
Rhea looked over.
"Daadi told me to."
Something in Geet almost recoiled.
Obligation.
Of course.
Rhea must have seen it happen.
She added, "I could have ignored her."
Geet blinked.
A faint smile touched Rhea's mouth.
"People do occasionally survive it."
Geet looked away.
A moment passed.
Then the question slipped out.
"Why?"
Rhea did not pretend not to understand.
Why stay.
Why help.
Why had Daadi kept her here.
Why had a family that had not known she existed yesterday sent its own son out into the rain and brought Geet upstairs instead.
Why was anybody doing anything for her when nobody had to.
Rhea thought about it.
"Because you're here."
Geet looked at her.
That was all.
It was not a grand answer.
That was why she believed it.
Rhea settled back into the chair, pulled the throw higher and lowered the brightness on her phone until only a faint glow remained.
"Try to sleep."
Geet lay down.
Rhea stayed.
Sleep did not come. Night became strange after that - sometimes Geet thought she had fallen asleep because the rain sounded different when she opened her eyes, and then she checked the clock and discovered six minutes had passed. Or nine.
Once footsteps moved slowly through the corridor outside and stopped near the room.
Geet went still.
The door did not open. After several seconds the footsteps continued, and she never knew whose they were. Rhea appeared asleep by then, head resting against the chair, the blanket still around her legs.
Another time voices rose faintly from downstairs - male, too distant to distinguish. Geet listened for Maan despite knowing he was gone, and the realization made her angry. She turned onto her side, pulled the blanket higher, closed her eyes.
And there he was anyway.
The bookshop. Wet from the storm. Standing in front of her counter as though being trapped by weather entitled him to conversation. Then the hotel. Index cards. His awful mnemonic. The stupid cartwheel. His hand finding hers beneath the blanket.
His body warm beside her.
The quiet little intimacy of knowing where another person was without having to look.
Geet opened her eyes.
Those memories had changed.
That was perhaps the worst part.
Nothing had disappeared.
The laughter still happened.
The touch still happened.
The softness still happened.
He had meant those things.
She knew that somehow.
And he had known about the land while they happened.
Both truths existed.
Her mind did not know what to do with both.
Before the proposal.
Weeks.
He knew.
Later.
You're welcome.
She pressed the heel of one hand against her eyes.
A tear escaped anyway.
Then another.
No sound.
The mangalsutra shifted against her throat.
Her fingers found it automatically.
Again.
She hated that too.
Sometime after midnight, the rain softened.
The house became very quiet.
Geet lay on her back and stared into the dark.
Shimla came to her eventually.
Not as home.
As logistics.
A road.
A train.
A plane.
Uncle opening the door.
Mehek looking up from the shop.
Sunita aunty somewhere behind them.
The room she had packed from.
The photograph of her parents.
The terrible humiliation of returning barely more than a week after insisting she had chosen correctly.
Everyone there believed she was in Delhi with her husband's family tonight.
Mehek had gone to sleep thinking Geet would call tomorrow and complain affectionately about relatives and rooms and Maan.
Uncle knew only that she had reached safely.
She could tell him.
No.
Tell Mehek.
No.
Not yet.
She could let them believe the ordinary version until morning.
Then this house.
A room that wasn't a guest room.
Maan gone.
Rhea asleep in the chair.
Daadi's voice.
Then this is your family.
Geet did not know what that meant.
Perhaps Daadi was simply kind.
Perhaps the Khuranas believed hospitality extended even to disasters.
Perhaps they felt responsible because Maan was theirs.
Perhaps daylight would change everything.
The old instinct moved immediately.
Don't become inconvenient.
It was so familiar that it almost soothed her.
She could leave before breakfast.
No.
The thought made her stomach twist.
Not because she wanted to stay.
She did not know what she wanted.
Only because leaving before anyone asked felt like doing something she had done all her life.
Making herself smaller in anticipation.
Removing the inconvenience before anybody had to name it.
Geet stared into the dark.
No.
Not tonight.
Daadi had said she could stay.
For tonight.
That was enough.
She did not have to solve tomorrow while it was still dark.
Near dawn, the rain finally stopped. Geet knew because the silence woke her - or perhaps she had never slept properly. The room had changed colour, not daylight yet, just a thin grey beginning behind the curtains.
Rhea was still in the chair. Asleep now, her head tipped awkwardly to one side sometime during the night.
The sight made Geet stare.
She had actually stayed. Not because Geet had asked. Not because they knew each other. She had simply stayed.
Geet looked away before the thought could become anything larger.
Her phone remained facedown. Mehek knew she had reached. Maan's message waited unread. Her suitcase stood near the wardrobe. The tea had gone cold. The mangalsutra still rested against her throat.
Nothing had resolved itself overnight.
She was still married.
Still hurt.
Still angry, though even anger felt too organized for what existed inside her yet.
Still unable to decide whether the last two weeks had been real or whether she had simply understood them incorrectly.
Still unable to imagine returning to Shimla.
Still unable to imagine staying here.
Still unable to think of Maan without seeing a hundred small things that now hurt more than the large ones.
Geet turned toward the window. Across the grounds, a light appeared in another wing of the house, then another. Somewhere downstairs, a door opened. The Khurana house was beginning to wake.
Yesterday morning she had believed she was travelling to meet her husband's family. By nightfall, her husband was gone. And she was still here.
Geet did not know whether that meant she belonged. She did not know whether she believed Daadi. She did not know what would happen once the house fully woke and she had to step outside this room again.
But nobody had asked her to earn the room. Nobody had asked how long she intended to stay. Nobody had reminded her that she owed them something for being here. Nobody had asked her to be grateful.
For one night, at least, the door had simply remained open.
Geet closed her eyes. Sometime after that, exhaustion finally did what grief had not allowed.
She slept.
Cricket
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