Nitya’s POV

"I'll come back soon and take you with me."

Those were the last words he said to me.

It’s been ten years. No call. No message. Not even a whisper of where he might be.

I don’t even remember what he looks like anymore.

People call me many names now — abandoned woman, defected piece, unlucky girl.

But my ma and baba named me Nitya — the eternal one. I wonder what they’d think of me now… a woman stuck in an eternal waiting room.

I got up slowly, pulling the edge of my old cotton saree over my shoulder. The sky outside was still half asleep, washed in blue-grey light.

I opened the door.

5:00 AM.

My life has become so robotic, I don’t even realise what I’m doing anymore — just habit, breath, repeat.

"Bahu, chai la!"

Maaji’s voice pierced the silence.

"Ji, laayi," I replied, already moving toward the kitchen, tying the pallu at my waist.

Water on the stove. Tea leaves. Sugar. Milk.

Breakfast to be prepared. Lunch to be packed for Mayank — my devar. The only one in this house who still says “thank you” when I pass the roti.

I walked carefully, the steel plate trembling in my hands, the cups of chai still steaming. And then—

Splash.

Hot, burning chai spilled across Mayank’s shirt.

“Sss…”

He flinched.

“Maaf kijiye, galti se ho gaya!” I gasped and immediately began brushing the front of his kurta with my saree's pallu, panicked, breath caught in my chest.

He held still.

“Koi baat nahi,” he murmured, gently pulling away, and walked back into his room without another word.

I stood there for a moment, heat blooming across my cheeks more than the chai.

Why can't I do anything normally? Why do I mess up everything?

“Maar gayi kya?” Maaji shouted from inside.

“Nahi, nahi! Bas la rahi hoon!” I rushed back to the kitchen, poured another cup, and brought it to her — careful this time, quiet.

Then back again — rolling the dough, flipping parathas, making sabzi, packing lunch. My hands moved on their own while my mind stood still.

When I served breakfast to Mayank, his hand brushed mine as he reached for the plate. He held it — just for a second.

My heart thumped.

“Tumhe toh nahi lagi?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

“Nahi, nahi…” I whispered, trying to free my hand. He let go, without saying anything else.

I know he cares. I’ve seen him watching me. The way his fingers hesitate just before touching mine. The way he lingers near the kitchen when I'm there. I notice everything.

But I don't want to be called more names.

They already call me enough — cursed woman, bad luck. Even my own mother once said:

“Ek baar ladki ki doli uth gayi, toh uski arthi hi wapas aati hai.”

Cruel words, but… that’s what my life has become.

I haven’t been back home in years.

After Rajji left — right after our first night — he’d said, "I'll come back in a week, Nitya. Just a few things to settle. I'll take you with me."

That week turned into ten years.

“Suno Nitya,” Mayank called out softly.

“Ji…” I turned, startled by how gently he said my name.

“Tumhe kuch chahiye?” he asked, standing in the doorway, not stepping in — just… waiting.

“Nahi…” I shook my head and looked away. My voice came out thinner than I intended.

I turned and slipped into Maaji’s room, as if his kindness were something I wasn’t allowed to accept.

Like always, I waited. Waited for the sound of the main gate clicking shut.

Only then could I start my day — truly.

A few minutes later, I heard his voice again:

“Accha Ma, abhi aata hoon.”

He came in, touched her feet. I didn’t look at him.

I’ve trained myself not to.

I ignored him.

Just like I always do.

But still, part of me listens for the pause in his step as he leaves.

“Tujhe kaam nahi karna?” Maaji snapped from the corner, her voice sharp like always.

“Ji, ja rahi hoon,” I replied, tying my pallu tight around my waist.

And so it began again —

Washing the dishes from last night, sweeping the angan, scrubbing the clothes at the handpump.

The sun had barely risen, and I already felt like I’d lived a lifetime.

But maybe that’s what waiting does to you.

It turns every day into a memory you never asked for.

By noon, I had washed the dishes, swept the aangan twice, cleaned the soot-blackened stove, and hung the clothes to dry. My hands smelled of ash, soap, and sweat.

Maaji sat on the woven cot in the verandah, her ankles swollen, a damp cloth resting on her knees.

I knelt beside her without a word and began pressing her feet — gently, rhythmically, like I’d done every single day for the last three years. She didn’t speak either. Just leaned back against the mud wall and closed her eyes.

This was what life had become — a cycle of silence, duty, and dust.

✥

The sun dipped slowly behind the neem trees.

By the time Mayank returned from work, the house was quiet again. I heard his bike stop outside, the gate creak open.

He walked in without fuss, set his bag down, and washed his hands.

I served him dinner — two hot parathas, a bowl of aloo-gobhi, and a little imli chutney, just how he liked.

He didn’t say much. He never did during meals.

But he looked at me a little longer than usual when I filled his glass of water.

✥

Later that night, after everyone had gone to sleep, I sat on the floor of my room, unpinning my saree from my shoulder. The blouse clung to my back from the humidity. I pulled the pallu away and folded the saree neatly beside me.

Only the skirt and blouse remained.

My dupatta lay on the hook behind the door.

Just as I leaned back on the pillow, I heard it —

A knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

Two quick taps.

My breath stopped.

I scrambled to the door, quickly snatching the dupatta and wrapping it across my chest, pulling the ends over my shoulders.

I opened the door.

There he stood — Mayank, holding a small packet wrapped in brown paper and string.

He didn’t speak.

Just looked at me, then held the parcel out toward me with both hands.

“Tumhare liye….”

He extended the packet toward me.

“Socha... shayad tumhe achhi lagegi,” he said, almost in a whisper.

I took it from his hands — fingers brushing just slightly — and shut the door softly behind me.

This wasnt the first time, he always bought sarees for me.

All of them… still folded, untouched, lying in the back of the wooden drawer beneath my clothes.

I opened it, and the scent of old silk and camphor rose into the room.

The bright pink saree joined the others — mustard, peach, pista green, off-white — never worn. Never spoken of.

For girls like me, there are no new sarees.

Maaji gives me her old ones — faded at the border, soft from too many washes, the colour almost lost to the sun.

“Yeh pehno,Nahi toh apne pati se kehna naye laakar de.”

That sentence stings more than any slap would.

I looked down at my hands, still holding the corner of the new saree.

Tears welled up in my eyes.

I know what he wants.

I know how he looks at me, how his voice softens when he says my name, how his fingers linger just a second longer.

And maybe... I want it too.

But I’m not allowed to. Not in this house. Not in this skin. Not with this mangalsutra still around my neck.

I lay back down on the bed, the fan creaking above, and closed my eyes.

No dreams came.

Just sleep.

Heavy, silent, and empty — like everything else in my life.

❂

My eyes opened again. Same day, same ceiling.

The air was still heavy, like the kind that comes before a storm.

I got up, tied my hair loosely, and walked to the kitchen.

Poured water in the kettle, added tea leaves and cardamom. Two cups. A plate of biscuits.

Today was Sunday.

I carried the tray to Maaji’s room.

Mayank was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, reading the newspaper.

Maaji looked up.

“Tu bhi le aa yahin... akele kyun piyegi?”

“Nahi, nahi... mujhe kaam hai,” I said, stepping back quickly.

She scoffed.

“Arre, aisa kaunsa kaam hai? Kaunsa tera pati yahaan hai jo tu uski seva karegi?”

Her words hit harder than they needed to.

“Maa… kyun faltu bol rahi ho… Nitya ki galti nahi hai,” Mayank intervened, his tone firmer than usual.

Maaji glared at him.

“Aye naspeete! Kitni baar kaha hai, bhabhi bola kar! Koi sunega toh pata nahi kya sochega.

Aur sun — tu idhar lq aapni chai-vaai. Tujhse zaroori baat karni hai.”

I swallowed my breath, steadied my face.

“Ji.”

When I returned, she didn’t even wait for me to sit.

“Sun, aaj ladkiwale aayenge. Iske rishte ki baat chali hai. Aj samose-kachori bana lena.”

My heart... stopped.

Ladkiwale?

He’s getting married?

A strange, sharp jealousy pierced through me — uninvited, unwelcome, undeniable.

I gripped the edge of the tray tighter.

“Sunn rahi hai na?” Maaji snapped.

“Haan ji… bana lungi,” I said, somehow.

I sat there for a few more minutes.

No one spoke.

The tea in my cup turned cold.

I couldn’t taste a thing.

When I finally walked out of the room, the tears had already escaped — soft, silent, uncontrollable.

I wiped them quickly, before they could betray me.

Why was I feeling like this?

Of course, he would get married one day.

He’s young. Kind. The only earning man in this house.

It’s a moment of celebration. A new beginning.

Then why does it feel like something inside me just cracked?

I took a deep breath and forced a smile.

Even if it looked fake. Even if it felt like my ribs were splitting inside.

I rolled the dough harder than needed, the wooden board trembling beneath my palms.

Every time I tried to fold the edge of the kachori, it would break unevenly.

I tried again. And again.

The kitchen was filled with the sound of oil crackling, steel plates clanking, and my heartbeat — loud, disoriented, angry.

Why am I doing all this?

For whom?

Still, I went on.

I chopped coriander finely, boiled the potatoes, fried the samosas till golden.

I added extra ghee in the halwa — the way Maaji likes.

I folded the napkins, wiped down the glasses, cleaned the copper plates with tamarind until they shone.

By noon, the entire house smelled like a wedding — hot oil, fried dough, steam, cardamom.

I, on the other hand, smelled of sweat and sadness.

Maaji walked in once to check.

“Theek banaya hai. Dekh lena log aaye toh koi kami na nikale.”

I nodded without looking up, my hair sticking to my neck, hands dusted with flour.

❂

By the time I finished, my arms ached.

I leaned on the kitchen counter, staring at the final plate of samosas, perfectly stacked.

A small part of me hoped no one would come.

Hoped the samosas would stay untouched.

That the girl would cancel.

That today would pass like any other — invisible and silent.

I was cleaning the kitchen slab, wiping away oil stains that had settled, when I suddenly felt it.

That gaze again.

I turned around slowly.

He was there — Mayank — standing by the doorframe, his shoulder against the wood, eyes fixed on mine.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

And for the first time…

I didn’t look away.

We stared at each other, held in something neither of us dared to name.

Seconds passed.

Long. Still. Loud.

Then, he dropped his gaze.

And walked away.

❂

Soon after, the house filled with laughter.

Voices rose in the living room, shoes piled at the door, bangles jingled and fabric rustled — the sounds of guests and expectations.

I stayed in the kitchen.

In my place.

I served tea, passed plates, refilled chutney bowls — and returned again and again to the shadows. No one noticed me. And I preferred it that way.

Mayank and the girl were asked to go inside the other room.

They went quietly.

Not even two minutes passed before they returned.

No one said anything.

But the mood changed.

Subtly.

Quickly.

Smiles didn’t last.

Someone cleared their throat. And another moment the house was empty again.