Page 66 of Mrs. Pandey
Prashant Pandey.
He was lying next to me, breathing comfortably now. His face looked calm and carefree. He had no wrinkles between his brows, no sadness at the corners of his mouth, just peace. I stared at him like a fool in love.
In love? Seriously? No, I was not in love with him, but I thought I was starting to fall for him.
His lips were slightly parted, with a softness that only sleep could give him. I traced the line of his jaw with my eyes, remembering how it felt under my palm last night, it was strong, familiar, and warm. The shadows played across his cheeks, showing how beautiful he was from inside and out. I had the most handsome man in the whole universe.
My heart sank. This was not the face of a monster. This was the same boy who would leave handwritten notes during our officers' training.
The same boy who would wait four hours outside a temple to catch a glimpse of me during Holi.
The same boy who told me one night under the stars that he believed the moon turns orange whenever I smiled.
I reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. My fingers lingered, and for a moment, I felt as if time had turned back. As if we were still the same.
But then he turned.
At first, just a movement in his sleep. Then a grunt sounded like he was in so much pain. He twisted his body, gripping the sheets like they were a lifeline. His jaw clenched harder and deep creases settled between his brows. Then suddenly he became impatient and desperate as his feet thumped against the mattress, arms thrashing, his breathing no longer calm but uncontrolled and panicked.
"No... no... don't you dare!" He clenched his teeth. I sat up, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Prashant?" I whispered, shaking his shoulder softly. "Prashant, wake up..."
He was struggling, beads of sweat breaking out on his temples.
"Don't... Don't touch me! I said... no!" he shouted.
God! I reached out to try to wake him, but his hand jerked up and grabbed my collarbone so hard that I whimpered.
When I tried to rip myself away from him, I slipped and bumped into the side table. My elbow hurt as it hit the edge, and the lamp fell to the floor with a thud. Only then did he open his eyes andsit upright against the bed. He was gasping, eyes bloodshot and sweat-smeared.
His chest heaved as if he had just escaped death. He had, years ago, but it kept haunting him. I heard how he brought dead bodies of soldiers who went with him on missions and how his eyes were lifeless for months. I was a soldier, how could I miss his pain, but I never imagined what he had been through three months, tied in chains and breathing beneath stone.
"Ira..." Prashant whispered, making me look at him.
I was huddled in the corner of the room, rubbing my arm. He turned and looked at me. Terror slowly formed on his face, as if poison were spreading through his body.
"Oh, God..." he choked, heaving his legs off the edge of the bed, crawling toward me.
"I didn't... did I..." he held out a hand, hesitating. "Did I hurt you again?"
I didn't answer, swallowing hard. He didn't hurt me, he was just having a nightmare. It was just an accident. My lips opened, but no sound came out.
"Ira..." his voice cracked, he looked vulnerable and broken. "I didn't mean to. I swear. I was there... in that place... those three months, those..." he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbed. "They just broke me, and now I'm scared all the time. Of what I'll become if I let go. If I sleep too much, If I drink too much, If I love too much."
I stared at him. This man, my husband. He was a hero covered in scars no one could see.
"You shouldn't have married me," he whispered painfully. "Not to someone like me. You should not..."
He looked at the ground, fists clenched on his thighs, his muscles flexed with restrained emotions.
"I'm not the guy who rode 8 kilometers just bought you coffee, Ira. I'm the one who wakes up screaming, the one who inadvertently hurts the people he loves. I'm still fighting a battle in my mind, and I don't know when it'll end." His voice was shaking.
"You married a cemetery. And I don't know how to stop myself from burying myself."
I sat there, frozen, pain throbbing in my arm, but it was nothing compared to what I was feeling for that man. I wanted to reach out to him. I wanted to scream.
But most of all, I wanted to hold the broken pieces of this man and tell him that he wasn't in a cemetery. That he was still a light. That there was still hope. That he was still mine. But I didn't move.
