Page 112 of Mrs. Rathore

I glanced at the clock. It was noon. I still hadn’t made lunch. As if reading my mind, Aryan said, “I’ve ordered food. Since the kitchen’s empty, we’ll have to eat out for now. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah,” I said with a small, forced smile and turned toward the rest of the house.

Even though the place was already clean, I needed to do something, anything. I grabbed a broom and started with the kitchen. It was mostly empty, so cleaning didn’t take long. I scrubbed the counter until I could see my reflection in it, then wiped down the dusty floor, the cupboards, and the shelves.

To my surprise, Aryan joined me after wrapping up a phone call.

“You don’t have to do this,” I told him when he grabbed the washcloth from the sink. “You’ve been driving since morning. You should rest.”

“‘Rest’ doesn’t exist in my dictionary,” he said arrogantly, and got to work.

A couple of hours later, we sat quietly in the living room, eating our food. Everything felt so new.

I had moved in with Aryan and now I was having lunch with him.

I used to think I hated him, especially when he didn’t show up at my mother’s funeral. But now I realized... it wasn’t hate. It was hurt.

I’d agreed to come with Aryan on one condition: that he divorce me quietly. He’d agreed but made one condition of his own. He promised I could continue my Kathak practice in the garden, which was large and private, tucked behind the house.

I told him I was preparing for a Kathak dance competition next year. I had to win and I would win.

By four in the evening, we headed out. Aryan brought his own car, so we didn’t have to rely on military vehicles.

The sun was still high, its light harsh and unforgiving. A soft breeze blew through the air, carrying the dry scent of sand and wild desert flowers.

As Aryan drove, we passed through the Barmer cantonment.

“This whole area is the cantonment,” he said, his voice calm and proud. “It’s like a mini world of its own.”

I glanced at him as he spoke, taking in every new detail he shared.

We passed a group of soldiers running in perfect rhythm on a wide cement track.

Their boots hit the ground with a steady thump-thump-thump, like a heartbeat.

“That’s the PT ground,” Aryan pointed out. “They train here every morning and evening.”

I watched them, awed. “They don’t even look tired.”

“They’re trained not to,” he replied with a smile. “Didn’t I tell you? The word rest doesn’t exist in the army personnel dictionary.”

A little farther down, we passed a row of neatly maintained houses, each with a garden blooming with desert roses and marigolds.

“Those are the officers’ quarters,” Aryan explained. “Each family gets a flat like the one I brought you to. Electricity, water, furniture, it's all arranged. But I prefer using my own. I don’t like government-issued stuff.”

Of course, he didn’t. He had the money, and he’d never rest until he’d spent a large chunk of it.

A green signboard caught my attention. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing.

“That’s the CSD canteen,” he said. “We can buy groceries, clothes, and daily stuff. Everything is subsidized for defence families.”

Just beside it stood a building with glass windows and posters plastered inside.

“That’s the station library,” he added. “A good place to spend time if you like reading. And next to it is the community center. They host events like Republic Day gatherings, Diwali fairs, even movie nights.”

A group of kids in school uniforms passed us, laughing and chattering.

“There’s a Kendriya Vidyalaya inside the cantonment too,” Aryan said. “Most soldiers’ kids study there. It’s safe and well-disciplined.”

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