Between Lines

The Mark that Binds

Durga had been confined to her bed, her body ravaged by illness, and this had been going on for a week. Her once vibrant spirit is now reduced to mere whispers of consciousness. The days blurred together as she drifted in and out of a feverish haze, her weakened body unable to find respite from the torment that held her captive. She was sweating heavily, though her mother and her nurses were taking care of her, wiping the sweat off her weak body. Their household is heavy with tension as the entire family gathers together in fierce prayer. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the walls, mirroring the uncertainty that hung in the air.

Parvati, with a spirit as fierce as hers, found herself confined within her bedroom. The heavy wooden door stood as a barrier, a symbol of her punishment for daring to assist her in her escape on that critical night. The memory of that night lingered in Parvati's mind like a haunting melody that refused to fade away. With a heart filled with determination, she made the daring decision. But now the atmosphere was heavy with worry as everyone anxiously awaited any signs of improvement.

Three long days had passed, and finally, a glimmer of hope began to emerge. It appeared that Durga was on the mend, as her sleep became peaceful and undisturbed. Gone were the haunting screams and agonising moans that had plagued her, tormenting her with unbearable pain.

Divia walks into Parvati's room with her dinner in her hands and the door closes behind her. Parvat looks in her direction as she sits still under her big window looking out at the golden sky. Divia braved herself and proceeded to walk to her and place the plate on the table and share the seat with her daughter.

"You have to know what you did was very wrong," she suggests quietly as she clears strands of hair off Parvati's face.

"Trust me, mom, I know," she whispered, her gaze still fixed on the horizon through her window. "I just want her to get well soon," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"She is getting well," Divia informs her, and Parvati gasps as she sits properly, looking into her mother's eyes, her eyes weakened by her relentless crying. "Tomorrow you'll join us for breakfast," Divia informs her as she stands up, her gaze darkening, unlike the good news she is telling Parvati. She walks out of her room, and Parvati smiles as she cries about the good news she has just heard. She pressed her chest against the table as she knelt before her dinner plate. She then starts taking a bite from her rotli and gags water in her mouth from the brine cup, struggling to keep her tears from rolling.

***

After morning prayer, everyone comes together for breakfast in notable silence. Parvati hid her face in her food while she ate, afraid to look at her father, who sat across from her, his presence casting a shadow over the room. She could feel his gaze on her, his eyes piercing through her like a sharp blade. The tension between them was palpable—a silent battle of unspoken words. Pari is sitting next to her husband, Ayaan, and she is delicately picking up a morsel from her plate, carefully passing it to him as if offering a piece of her heart. Ira is sitting next to her husband, Vihaan, and she is glancing wryly in the direction of her parents.

The once lively household now lay shrouded in an eerie silence, a heavy atmosphere that had settled since the tragic incident that unfolded that night. The air, once filled with laughter and animated conversation, now hung thick with an unspoken tension, as if the very walls held their breath, afraid to disturb the fragile equilibrium that had been disrupted.

"We have something to tell you," Divia, their mother, said, breaking the silence, and everyone looked up in her direction. She turned to her husband, who was sitting beside her, and he nodded to her as if allowing her to proceed with their news. She delicately cleared her throat, preparing to capture the attention of everyone in the room. Taking a brief pause, she inhaled deeply, gathering her thoughts and summoning the courage to speak. "Durga is getting better," she breathed, and Parvati pursed her lips in a smile. "But as soon as she wakes up, we want everyone prepared for a big wedding," she says, swallowing hard and her throat tightening with nervousness.

"Who's getting married?" asks Jaya with her rattling voice that is sharpened with a magical singing ability.

"It is hers," Dr. Isshan says, disconnected from any emotion. His detached tone sent a shiver down their spines, leaving them unsettled.

Pari's voice trembled slightly as she spoke, her words carefully chosen to align with her parents' perspective. "I think it is best with what happened," she said, her agreement hanging in the air. However, her gaze remained fixed on the ground, avoiding any direct contact with her sisters.

"But..." As Rushi, their youngest, starts, Ira holds her by her left hand and stops her.

"Worry not," Vihaan tried to assure them. "I know he is wise and respected. She will learn to like him in no time."

"Besides," Ayaan continued the conversation. "He is of great status at the great palace. He is wealthy as well. I say she is lucky."

"Dad..." Before Parvati says anything, he holds his right hand in the air, signalling her to halt.

"This is our final decision." Their father's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade. The weight of his words hung in the air, causing everyone to hold their breath and remain silent, afraid to challenge his decree.

"If you're trying to..." Parvati's voice trailed off, her sentence left unfinished, as their mother, Divia, interjected, her gentle tone attempting to soothe her husband's growing agitation.

"Everyone knows what happened that night," she began, her voice trembling slightly. She paused, taking a deep breath and desperately trying to regain her composure. "And, luckily," she continued, her words hanging in the air as if she were carefully choosing each one, "as fate would have it, that man happened to be of the perfect social standing. And despite his elevated position, he displayed a remarkable sense of compassion and made the decision to marry her."

"It's not like she had any other choice after that." "It's not like she had any other choice after that. As the weight of disappointment settles upon their father's shoulders, he rises abruptly from his seat, his face etched with a mix of frustration and despair. He storms out of the house, leaving behind a heavy silence that hangs in the air. Parvati, overwhelmed by the turn of events, couldn't help but let tears stream down her face, her heart burdened with self-blame. In a tender display of sisterhood solidarity, Aditi, Jaya, and Ruhi gather around her, their arms enveloping her in a comforting embrace. Meanwhile, Pari and Ira, ever the caring daughters, gently guide their mother towards her bedroom, urging her to seek solace within its familiar walls.

***

The course of her life had taken an unexpected turn, one that diverged greatly from the path she had envisioned. It was a stark contrast to the dreams and aspirations she had once held dear. The reality she now faced was a far cry from the idyllic future she had imagined for herself.

Just as she gained consciousness, she was informed of her own wedding. The news had arrived like a bolt from the blue, igniting a whirlwind of emotions within her. As she grappled with the weight of this revelation, her mind raced to comprehend the enormity of the situation. How could she be expected to marry a man she barely knew? The thought sent shivers down her spine. She stood in her room, looking out her window, perplexed, and wrapping herself in her arms. That was the only time she saw him—a chance encounter, a fleeting moment that seemed inconsequential and insignificantly coincidental at the time. Little did she know that this seemingly insignificant encounter would set in motion a chain of events that would alter the course of her life forever.

Fear and confusion gripped her tightly. Questions flooded her mind, each one more pressing than the last. Besides, the image of Kashvi's aged countenance lingered in her thoughts, refusing to release its grip on her mind. It was as if the memory of their conversation had become an incessant presence, incessantly replaying itself like a fleeting blink of an eye, trying to decipher the meaning behind the advice she had received from her. The worry etched on Kashvi's face only added to her perplexity.

Fear and confusion gripped her tightly. Questions flooded her mind, each one more pressing than the last. Besides, the image of Kashvi's aged countenance lingered in her thoughts, refusing to release its grip on her mind. It was as if the memory of their conversation had become an incessant presence, incessantly replaying itself like a fleeting blink of an eye, trying to decipher the meaning behind the advice she had received from her. The worry etched on Kashvi's face only added to her perplexity.

"I wish I could save you from what's coming." She recalled Kashvi's words as she was about to leave her small house in the woods; she seemed worried and scared for Durga. Durga is trying to understand everything as she closes her eyes and thinks. "Oh dear," she said, touching her face. "I don't know how, but he will be in your life one way or another." Durga opens her eyes and takes a seat as she thinks about what Kashvi was trying to tell her.

Who was she talking about? Amidst the chaos of her thoughts, a flicker of curiosity emerged. Could it be about this man? I never met him, and I doubt if he is the type to go to her, given his status. Fate had a peculiar way of intertwining their paths, and now she found herself standing at the precipice of an unexpected situation. Or was there something more sinister at play? The uncertainty gnawed at her like a persistent itch that refused to be scratched.

Durga stands up, her breath escaping her lips in a steady stream of air. The atmosphere was heavy with tension, as if the very air itself held its breath. At that moment, Divia entered the room, her delicate footsteps barely audible against the polished floor. In her hands, she carried a gleaming silver pot and plate to address her wound. As Divia approached, Durga's gaze instinctively dropped, her eyes fixated on the floor. She couldn't bear to meet Divia's eyes, afraid of what she might see reflected in them. The weight of unspoken words hung heavily between them, a palpable barrier that neither dared to breach. With a gentle grace, Divia set the silver pot and plate down on a nearby table, her movements deliberate and purposeful. She knew the task at hand required both skill and tenderness, and she was determined to provide Durga with the care she so desperately needed. The tension between them had been obvious, with an unspoken disagreement hanging heavy in the air. She still recalls the first time she heard the news about her wedding from her mother. It was sudden and unexpected; her heart was broken, and as if everything was out of her control, she for that moment lost it, and as a result, her father, for the first time in his life, had to lay his hands on her. He slapped her. Words had been exchanged, sharp and cutting, leaving wounds that were yet to heal. It was a moment she wished she could forget, but its impact lingered, like an unwelcome guest overstaying their welcome.

Just as Divia sits, Durga sits before her, her eyes heavy and her heart in her throat. Divia didn't want to say anything to her; she quietly started to undress her, but Durga gently took hold of her hands and pressed soft kisses upon them. That's her last resort to ask for her forgiveness.

"I'm so sorry, mom," Durga whispered.

Divia's heart sank as she gazed into her daughter's eyes, feeling a mix of sadness and concern. Taking a deep breath, she tried to steady herself, searching for the right words to say. She lifts her face up with her four fingers tugged under her chin and looks into her green eyes. A sad smile tugs at the corners of her lips. "No, I'm so sorry," Divia whispers, looking at her daughter with sympathy. "I understand that it must be incredibly difficult for you to endure the pain you've been through and then be confronted with this shocking news upon waking up." She takes her to her dressing mirror, and they stand before it, her delicate fingers gently brushing back Durga's hair. Her eyes met their reflection, and she couldn't help but purse her lips, deep in thought. Divia's eyes sparkled with excitement as he exclaimed, "Oh, what great fortune we have been bestowed upon, my dear daughter! It is as if Krishna himself has blessed us with this incredible stroke of luck." She gently held onto Durga's shoulders, her voice filled with gratitude. "You know, despite the belief that your situation was meant to bring bad luck, it ended up bringing us that kind man," she said, her words carrying a sense of wonder.

"But," Durga whispered, her voice barely audible amidst the swirling mist that enveloped her, her mind a labyrinth of fragmented memories. The air was heavy with doubt, as if the very fabric of fate itself trembled at the audacity of the inquiry. "Isn't it questionable," she pondered, that he wants to be with me, knowing what happened?" The answer is elusive. As her mind wandered, she dared to give voice to her musings. Yet her mother, with an air of indifference, dismissed her words as if they were but feeble echoes carried on a gentle breeze. In a quietly sensitive manner, her mother skillfully removes her top, revealing the intricate bindings that encased her chest. She quietly unwraps the bondage right under her breasts, and Durga gently presses them, her palms acknowledging the curves. With a graceful motion, she raised them skyward, parting the path for her revered mother to fulfil her intended purpose.

They both deepened their frowns as they looked at what burned her on her chest, a little in between and under her right breast. It's no longer an injury of some sort of burn but a profound mark—a circle adorned with a mysterious symbol at its very heart, and it shimmers gold at every curve. Its radiant glow, a shimmering golden hue, seemed to dance and twinkle with every curve and contour. As their eyes met, a surge of astonishment coursed through their beings, causing them to inhale sharply in unison.

***

In the midst of the grand wedding ceremony, Durga found herself adrift in a sea of worry, her mind wandering between her conversation with Kashvi and the odd mark on her chest. She felt a peculiar sense of detachment, as if she were but a mere observer in her own celebration. Only in fleeting moments did she come alive when she hid to converse with her mother, their whispers a secret orchestra amidst the chaos. Her mother, a woman of intuition, sensed things might get complicated. With each stolen moment between the flurry of wedding preparations, she sought to unravel the mystery that lay upon Durga's chest. The symbol, etched upon her daughter's being, held secrets yet untold. Time was scarce, but her determination burned like a flame in the darkest of nights. Durga couldn't help but keep playing the last moments of Kashvi. Somehow, she recalls that something burst through her body and entered Durgas, taking Kashvi's life in the process.

The memories of her Mehendi ceremony were but fleeting fragments in her mind, like whispers carried away by the wind. She could hardly recall the intricate patterns that adorned her hands and feet, meticulously etched with the rich hues of henna, as per the custom. As the holy bath, the haldi ceremony, a cherished tradition, was about to commence, she was a little present because her mother, with whom she shared the new odd secret on her body, was by her side. As the fragrant turmeric paste was prepared with a vibrant yellow hue that symbolised auspiciousness and purity, the air was filled with a palpable sense of excitement. It was a time-honoured ritual where married women lovingly adorned the bride-to-be's skin with the sacred paste, bestowing blessings and good fortune upon her. She watched as the women gathered around, their hands adorned with intricate mehndi designs and their eyes gleaming with joy. They approached her, their smiles warm and welcoming, ready to partake in this age-old tradition. With each gentle stroke of their hands, the turmeric paste was lovingly applied to her skin, a symbol of protection and prosperity.

It's an odd sensation to be wedded to a man she's never laid eyes on before. A choice that had been made by her parents in the hopes of securing a prosperous future for their daughter. The days leading up to the wedding had been a whirlwind of activity. There were countless preparations to be made, from selecting the perfect gown to arranging the grandest of feasts. Preparations that she couldn't recall as she was lost in her fear of what lay ahead.

But the day had finally arrived; the sun dipped below the horizon and the stars began to twinkle, and it was the night of their wedding—when she would finally come face-to-face with the man.

Durga, a vision of ethereal beauty, graced the scene in her resplendent red wedding attire. Every inch of her being was adorned with exquisite jewels, sparkling and shimmering in the soft glow of the evening sun. As she made her grand entrance, she was carried on a magnificent palki, a regal throne fit for a queen. The air was filled with anticipation as all eyes were drawn to this radiant goddess, her presence commanding attention and admiration. Silent and composed, she stood amidst the hushed gathering, her presence a mere whisper amidst the anticipation that hung in the air. The murmurs of the crowd swirled around her like a gentle breeze rustling through the autumn leaves. All eyes were fixed upon the priest, the arbiter of fate, as he deliberated upon the auspicious moment to commence the union. Her heart, fluttering with a blend of uncertainty and hope, beat uneasily.

The weight of the decision lay in the hands of the priest, a figure of authority who decided the time of the wedding and the tersalla, the white fabric curtaining both of them from seeing each other.

As the delicate white fabric gracefully descended, hushed anticipation filled the air. Gently parting to reveal and a gasp, so soft it was almost imperceptible, a sight of sheer handsomeness, a tableau that seemed to have been plucked straight from the realm of dreams. It slowly unveiled his regal headgear, a symbol of his noble lineage. His thick black eyebrows framed his face, accentuating his striking cognac-brown eyes that possessed a captivating intensity. With a subtle curl of his thin lips, he revealed a hidden excitement that danced in his gaze—a secret longing that only she could decipher.

His presence commanded attention. With a long neck that seemed to stretch towards the heavens and a broad chest that exuded strength, he stood tall and proud. The moti mala draped around his neck like a delicate garland of pearls added an air of regality to his already magnificent figure. It was as if he had stepped out of the pages of a fantastical tale, a being from another world, captivating all who laid eyes upon him. Adorned around his neck, he proudly displayed a second stole, its colour a mysterious dark silver that shimmered under the faint glow of the moonlight. The stole was not just any ordinary accessory; it exuded an air of opulence and grandeur. Its edges were adorned with a lavish border, intricately woven with threads of pure gold, adding a touch of regality to his already impressive attire. A symbol of his status. His muscles rippled beneath the fabric of his beige sherwani jacket, adorned with intricate gold work that shimmered in the light. The jacket was layered over a deep shade of blue anarkali kurta, its flowing silhouette adding an air of elegance to his attire. Completing the ensemble, his bottom wear complemented the regal colours above, creating a harmonious blend of hues. A pleated stole hung delicately, its folds cascading down. It was carefully draped over an embellished belt, adorning the waist of a mysterious figure. A colossal silver sword, gleaming with an ethereal radiance, stood proudly by his side, its presence imbuing an air of elegance and grandeur into his already commanding figure.

***

It all feels like a dream. Too vivid for her to understand how fast everything passed. She conjures up the vivid image of the friha pravesh ceremony, albeit in a slightly distorted manner: with each step she took, her foot left behind a faint trail in the ink of red, marking her entrance into his household; how she gingerly tilted the kalash, brimming with rice, with her right foot teetering precariously on the ground; and how a striking woman, her husband's aunt, gracefully guided her through the labyrinthine corridors, leading her to a secluded room. There, with a gentle touch, she draped a veil, a ghunghat, over her face.

Now, she sits at the heart of the bed, her anticipation mounting, awaiting her husband's arrival and contemplating the challenge that lies ahead. How would she conceal the mark etched upon her body? Thoughts swirl within her, weaving a tapestry of uncertainty.

In a moment of serendipity, the air grew heavy with anticipation as the grand door swung open, its creaking hinges echoing through the room. Her heart skipped a beat as she lifted her gaze, her eyes meeting him through the ethereal crimson veil that adorned her delicate features. With a graceful stride, he approached the table, his eyes locked on her radiant beauty. His hand reached out, fingers delicately wrapping around the bronze cup filled with milk. As he settled beside her, their bodies almost touching, a current of electricity passed between them, igniting a flame that would burn eternally. With a gentle grace, he extended his hand, offering her the cup. He then, with deliberate tenderness, unveiled her, removing the delicate veil that concealed her beauty from his vision. As the fabric slipped away, her eyes met his, and at that moment, time stood still. A smile danced upon his lips, a silent invitation to explore the depths of their connection. She delicately sipped from her cup, her lips caressing the rim with a grace that mesmerised him. With a tender gesture, she extended the cup towards him. He accepted it, his touch lingering on the porcelain surface before he carefully placed it back on the night table. As he turned to retreat to the bed, his heart fluttered with an unspoken longing, yearning for the warmth of her presence by his side. He gracefully descended to his knees, his heart pounding within his chest as he gazed deeply into her mesmerising eyes. With a gentle yet firm grasp, he delicately took her left hand from its resting place. His eyes, filled with a glimmer of anticipation, met hers, locking them in an intimate embrace. With a tender touch, he carefully slid a ring onto her ring finger, a symbol of their eternal bond.

"May this exquisite piece of jewellery forever serve as a token of my affection," he says, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand promises. Speaking for the first time with a stern "Let it be a constant reminder of my presence, no matter where your beautiful soul may wander." She fills her chest with air. The air crackled with an electric energy, its presence elusive to mortal eyes yet undeniably felt. As the weight of the ring settled upon her finger, a cascade of otherworldly glimmers cascaded forth, casting a spellbinding radiance upon her very being. The ring's enchantment seeped into the depths of her flesh, forging an unbreakable bond between her and him in its radiant embrace. She frowned, her face twisted in anguish, as a gasp escaped her lips, for she felt the touch of the malevolent force upon her very bones. "Have no fear," he murmured, his voice barely audible. His piercing eyes lock onto hers, a mesmerising gaze that holds her captive as he keeps her chin between his fingers to keep her gaze only on his.

"Why does it feel like I know you?" she asks in a whisper. "Other than that night, I mean," she tries to explain her question.

"Perhaps in another time or life," he nodded. "If only fate had deemed us worthy of a different era, where our hearts could intertwine in a passionate dance." His eyes, filled with a smouldering desire, locked onto hers. He answered in an odd manner, and she pursed her lips, her eyes squinting.

"Pray tell, what might your name be?" She whispered, her voice laced with a mischievous laughter that danced upon her lips. A hint of shame lingered in her eyes, for she had never taken the time to even know his name.

He leaned in, closed his eyes, and surrendered to the intoxicating sensations that enveloped him. His breath caressed her delicate right earlobe, and he purred, "Avram." His sultry voice caressed her senses, sending a tantalising shiver down her body. The vibrations danced along her skin, awakening a dormant fire within her. With closed eyes, she surrendered to the intoxicating sensation, her breath catching in a hushed gasp. A clandestine desire stirred deep within her belly, its unfamiliar pull beckoning her to explore the depths of her longing.

"It sounds like music," she whispered, her voice warm. His eyes widened in surprise, captivated by the unexpected allure of her words. He gracefully rose from the plush bed, decorated with flower petals, his movements fluid and deliberate. With tantalising slowness, he began to peel away the fabric that clung to his upper body, unveiling a sight that could only be described as a sculpted masterpiece. Every sinew and contour of his muscular form was on display, touched by the wormy candlelight, a testament to the hours he had dedicated to honing his physique. As her eyes fell upon his chiselled frame, a sudden rush of desire coursed through her veins, causing her to instinctively avert her gaze.

He gracefully returned to bed, his body aching with desire as he knelt before her, his eyes filled with an intoxicating mix of longing and anticipation. As her eyelids fluttered open, she met his gaze, her own eyes shimmering with a mixture of curiosity and a hunger that mirrored his own. "It does sound like a symphony. Only if each note is delicately caressed by the tender embrace of your lips," he murmurs, his voice laced with desire.

His hands softly but firmly grabbed her ankles, and with a tantalising slowness, he began to guide her foot towards his sides, pulling her closer to him. As he knelt between her legs, a wave of desire washed over them, igniting a passionate flame that burned with an irresistible intensity. His smouldering gaze locked onto hers, igniting a fire deep within her core. Her breaths grew laboured, each inhaled a seductive invitation. With a tantalising slowness, his fingers caressed the delicate curves of her neck, tracing the path of her necklaces as they clung to her skin. He slowly takes her jewellery off—her necklaces and earrings—and as he gently removes her headwear, her hair cascades down, a waterfall of silk.

His fingers trail down her nape as he kneels too close to her body, so she can feel every tense part of him pushing against hers as her eyes are fixed on the door. She tries to lick her lips to resist the tensing pull of need in her body and focuses on finding an excuse to stop him from revealing her body. But she suddenly feels the lace on her top pulled to their freedom.

"Can we wait?" she asks. Her fear was that he would see the mark.

"You don't know how long I longed for this night," he whispers. He pulls it off her, sliding it out of her arms, and she covers her breast with her hands. "Allow me," he murmurs, his fingers delicately encircling her wrist in a subtle yet firm grip that sends a shudder into her blood. With a tantalising blend of confidence and desire, he unveils the hidden vista she desperately attempts to conceal.

She closes her eyes fearfully, but she hears his rattling breath at the sight of her body, and she opens her eyes only to meet his need-filled eyes. His pants stretched with an intense longing for her touch. His hand glides sensually across the soft curvature of her supple breasts, tracing delicate patterns that send shivers of excitement. With a tantalising touch, his fingers caressed her sensitive n****e, teasing it ever so gently, causing her to gasp in pleasure. As he feels the hardened bud respond to his ministrations, he bites down on his lower lip, a mixture of desire and restraint coursing through his veins, intensifying the electric connection between them. Then he touches the mark.

"Its..."