Page 59 of Mrs. Pandey
"Why?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
"Pari will stay with you," he said abruptly, changing the subject. "We'll return in a week. Take care of yourself." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out. I wanted his answer but I knew I would not get this easily. I had to earn his trust and his love back.
I watched as Prashant, Priya, and my mother-in-law got into a cab and drove off. Pari and I remained behind, surrounded by cracked walls and the eerie stillness of a house that barely felt alive.
This place gave me chills sometimes. The creaking floors, the peeling paint, the way the wind whispered through broken windows like it remembered too many sad stories. I sometimes worried the house might actually collapse on us. But then a strange idea crossed my mind: what if I renovated it while they were away?
With Pari around, it wouldn't be too difficult. She barely spoke, always buried in her books like they were her only safe place. She was bitter-sweet, a curious mix of innocence and guardedness.
I borrowed her laptop for an hour and started searching for the best renovators in Srinagar. Most of the options were far too expensive, but I finally found one I liked. It was little expensive, but I didn't care. I just wanted the work done before they returned. I wanted Prashant and his family to walk into something beautiful. Maybe then he'd see me.
The house was a disaster. Cracked walls, broken bathrooms, furniture that looked like it had witnessed generations of sorrow.
The first to go was the furniture. I donated what I could: old chairs, rusted shelves, worn-out beds and a few more furniture.
Then came the walls. I watched the workers strip away the decaying plaster, exposing the raw skeleton of the house. It was flawed, and imperfect. I ran my fingers over the bare bricks, imagining what color they would wear, the warmth they could eventually hold.
The contractors moved in, and so did the noise: hammering, drilling, and shouting, the chaos of transformation. The bathroom tiles were replaced with earthy stone. Rusted taps and cracked sinks were swapped for sleek, modern fixtures. I kept only one rusted mirror as a quiet tribute to the past.
Every choice I made had purpose: warm oak flooring that felt like home beneath bare feet, sheer curtains that softened sunlight, and a kitchen tiled in deep blue.
I placed plants in every room, tiny symbols of life and healing. Time was cruel, yes, but it could also be kind. I wanted to believe that.
By the end of the week, the house no longer looked haunted. It looked chosen, like someone had loved it back to life.
I didn't just renovate a house, I rebuilt a home. Piece by piece, like I was reconstructing myself alongside it. It was no longer a place I had been forced to live in. It was a place I had mademy own. And I wanted Prashant to feel that. I wanted him to be proud. Maybe even happy.
"I don't think Bhai and Maa will find it pretty," Pari said hesitantly as she looked around the transformed rooms. "I love it, Bhabhi. I really do. But I don't know why I'm scared they won't."
I looked at her, at her small face, full of hope and uncertainty and smiled.
"Then we'll love it enough for all of them," I said. "And maybe they'll come around."
Pari nodded slowly, and for a brief moment, I saw something in her eyes, a flicker of belief. Maybe this broken house wasn't the only thing that could be rebuilt.
"Are you afraid of your brother?" I asked quietly, watching Pari as she absentmindedly traced the seams of the cushion beside her.
She shot me a look, half incredulous, half curious.
"Are you not afraid of him?" she asked, a genuine surprise in her voice.
I laughed, not mockingly, just softly, like someone remembering a joke from a lifetime ago. "Are you serious? Why would I be scared of the only man who's ever made me feel safe? Who's ever made me happy?"
She didn't laugh. She just stared at me, her expression unreadable.
"Do you know what happened to him during those three months?" she said finally, her voice was lower now, like it cost her something to speak. "When that terrorist bound every inch of him with rusted chains, his wrists, his ankles, his mouth, his thoughts. He came back... changed. And not the kind of change you outgrow. It's permanent, quiet and heavy. He will never be the same."
My breath caught, but I let her continue.
"To be honest," she said, looking away, "I felt relief when you broke his marriage with Mohini. That girl was so...God, she was too innocent, too untouched by pain. I might've acted like I hated you, Bhabhi, but I didn't. Not once. I've seen you with my brother, seen how you both moved in sync back in Barmer. I used to think you were the only one who could look into his eyes and understand what he's been through."
Her words landed harder right in my chest.
"He loved you, Bhabhi," she said, her voice thickening. "Genuinely. Fiercely. With every fiber of himself. But you... you broke his heart."
I stared at my hands, my fingers tangled in my lap like threads knotted too tight.
"I didn't know Prashant told you that much about me," I said, my voice dry with disbelief.
