Page 72 of Mrs. Pandey
He sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving mine. "Well, we've got a house, an actual bullet, and no mango trees, but we've got three poplars and one very dramatic goat."
I broke into a laugh, nearly spilling my tea on him. Prashant stared at me intently, his lips stretching into a light smile. He leaned forward and kissed my lips, taking me by surprise.
"Come with me today," he said suddenly.
"Where?" I frowned, putting the cup on the table.
"Outside," he shrugged. "To the village. I want to show you where I grew up."
I blinked. "What?"
"Yes."
"What if people talk? I mean, the drama I created on your wedding day is still fresh in their minds."
"You think I give a damn about people?" he asked in a dead-serious tone. "If I did, I never would have married you." He stood, brushing dust off his knees, and offered his hand. "Now, let's go."
I didn't say anything. I just nodded, slipped on a long shawl, tied my hair into a loose braid, and followed my husband.
Outside, the world smelled of damp earth and wildflowers. Prashant's home was perched at the end of a narrow stone path, nestled between walnut trees and clusters of marigolds that had started growing wild. Behind the house, hills rolled into each other like green, full waves.
He led me to a bicycle leaning against the outer wall. Its handle was slightly bent, the seat a little torn. A jute string held the bell in place. It was beautiful.
This was entirely new to me, as I had never ridden a bicycle. My father had taught me to drive a four-wheeler straight away; it was a family tradition.
"You want me to ride that?" I asked, folding my arms and holding back a smile.
"No," he said, guiding me gently. "I want you to sit here." He pointed at the bar between the seat and the handlebars. "Like you used to in Dehradun, remember?"
"I weighed seven kilos less back then," I pouted.
"You still fit," he grinned.
I narrowed my eyes on him. "Careful, that could be interpreted as an insult or a compliment."
He shrugged with a smirk and patted the seat. I sighed dramatically and climbed on. I felt a bit of excitement as Prashant climbed next to me, his chest almost rubbing against my back. I'd seen this in movies but never thought Prashant would take me on a tour of his village. It meant he was starting to feel something for me.
We rode, and the wind slapped my face as we rolled downhill, the bicycle wobbling slightly on the gravel. I squealed, grabbing onto the handle as tightly as I could. Prashant laughed behind me, a full, unrestrained laugh that rumbled through his chest and echoed into my spine.
"Slow down!" I shouted, laughing.
"Trust the ride," he said bossily.
"I don't trust the wheels!"
"But do you trust the rider?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I leaned back slightly until my head touched his shoulder. It was my way of telling him I would always trust him.
He pedaled us through winding lanes lined with mustard fields and knee-high fences woven with ropes and dried twigs. Small mud houses stood like stories left untold-quiet and humming with life. We passed a woman sweeping her front yard, her dupatta tied tightly around her head. A boy ran with a tire and a stick, giggling as if the world were made of marbles and monsoons.
"This is where I learned to fight," Prashant said suddenly.
I looked at him as he pointed toward a broken school gate.
"That ground. Right there. I was fifteen when a kid called my father a coward and I broke his nose."
I blinked.
