Page 71 of Mrs. Pandey
I walked back inside and went straight to the small puja room, which doubled as a storage for all documents. It smelled of incense and camphor.
I knew where to look. I had seen him slide in the brown envelope under the stack of temple receipts, hidden under his mother's old wedding saree. My hands shook as I reached for it, as if I was stealing. Maybe I was. Stealing his burden from him.
I opened the envelope carefully, flattening out the papers on the floor. Loan documents, signatures, interest schedules. The red stamp of secured against property. My fingers paused on the small hand-drawn map of the house. The courtyard, the kitchen, the storeroom with the leaking tin roof I had fixed that roof. I had painted that wall. It had become mine, this house, slowly. And yet it wasn't. It still lived under someone else's name, inside someone else's file.
That thought made my breath catch.
I memorised the details. Account number. IFSC code. Outstanding amount. My brain worked faster than my nerves, calculating in real-time. I had enough. It would be tight or draining but I had enough. That emergency fixed deposit I had opened years ago. I had never touched it but I needed it.
The bank was a half-hour drive. I took Priya's scooty, she'd never noticed. I wore my plain cotton kurta and tied my hair into a loose braid as I didn't want to attract attention. It felt like I was sneaking out for something shameful, but my heart knew the truth.
The road blurred around the edges. My mind was already at the counter, talking to the manager, handing over the cheque. I could imagine their reaction. "Are you the borrower's wife? You want to clear the full loan amount?" They'd look at me as if I were mad. Maybe I was. Who pays someone else's debt quietly without even telling them?
But I didn't want Prashant's thanks. I didn't want him to feel grateful or smaller or emasculated, that hated word. I just wanted him to breathe, really breathe. Without calculating in his head if he could afford it.
The bank manager was kind, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and turmeric stains on his fingers. "Madam, this is unusual, but yes, legally you can pay. His KYC matches yours. Just one second…" He flipped through files, clicked a few buttons. "Yes. This will clear the loan in full."
I signed, wrote the cheque, gave my ID, and sat there quietly while they printed out the "No Dues" certificate. I took it and folded it neatly into my bag. On the way back, I cried a little, just quiet tears pushed out by too many days of watching a manexhaust himself for everyone and no one ever asking him what he needed.
I reached home before sunset. My mother in law was still on the swing, this time peeling betel nuts. She glanced at me but didn't say anything. Pari was on the phone laughing loudly, and Priya had come out to show her mother a new design on Pinterest.
I went to our room, locked the door, and hid the file at the bottom of the suitcase.
That night, after dinner, Prashant came into the room looking tired. His eyes were exhausted as he plopped into bed. We had not sex for a week and I really didn't want to push him but I really liked when Prashant touched my body with his.
I slowly slid my hand to him to get hold of him but Prashant brushed my touch away gently. "I think we should sleep," he said with a small smile and lay on bed.
Pushing hurt away I lay next to him. I smiled. He didn't know. He wouldn't for another week. The bank would send a physical copy of the closure letter. He would open it and see it.
And he would be furious. I knew he would shout and ask why I didn't tell him. He would talk about pride, responsibility, being the man of the house.
But later, maybe the next day, maybe a week later, he would sit alone, look around the house and realize it was truly his now. Not in some paper filed away in a bank, but in peace and freedom.
That night I watched him sleep, his arm flung across his forehead, the ceiling fan whirring lazily above us.
I whispered into the dark, "You never had to carry everything alone, Prashant, not with me here."
And somewhere inside that darkness, I felt something lift. Maybe debt. I reached out and ran my fingers through his soft hair.
_____
Chapter 33
IRA
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of rustling, not of panic or nightmares, but of clothes being folded, utensils clinking softly, and the hum of my mother-in-law reciting her morning prayers. It was still early, but the sun had already begun its shy entrance through the mist-covered windows, casting soft light that painted golden streaks across the walls.
I turned in bed, expecting an empty side, but Prashant was there. He sat cross-legged at the edge of the bed, wearing a worn-out grey t-shirt with tiny thread pulls near the sleeves. A thermos sat beside him with two steel cups. The moment our eyes met, he poured tea silently and handed me a cup, as if we did this every day. It was his sweetest gesture.
"You're up early," I whispered, smiling.
"You talk in your sleep," he replied, giving me the smallest of smiles.
I raised an eyebrow, a blush creeping to my cheeks. "Oh God!"
"You said something about wanting a 'house with four mango trees and a dog named Bullet.'" He laughed, his dimples appearing on either side of his perfect cheeks.
I flushed hard, looking away. "I was ten when I wrote that in a slam book."
