Dassani Brides

Chapter 9

The palace, despite its grandeur, carried an undercurrent of unease that day, seeping through its marble walls. Chandeliers sparkled in every corridor, silken curtains swayed with the faintest breeze, but to Geetanjali, every glittering light was another pair of watchful eyes. The Dassani household was not a home—it was a fortress of iron bars where even whispers had weight.

She had not spoken to Meera since that moment in the kitchen. The words haunted her: “Five days left"- Choose whether you will count them—or use them. Geetanjali turned them over in her mind like a prayer bead, wondering what was impossible but she was determined.

It was during the afternoon lull, when the men were at their offices and the women withdrawn into their rooms, that she found herself again in Meera’s presence. The younger daughter-in-law sat by the open jharokha, a patch of light falling over her pale face, her anklets still. Her hands moved mechanically over embroidery, but her eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the city stretched beyond the high palace walls. But Geetanjali knew Meera did not yearn for a life beyond the palace walls, she was allowed to go and come at her will unlike Geetanjali who needed Shiv's permission to even visit a temple. Meera was a bird who chose this cage to be her home.

Geetanjali hesitated. Meera had always been aloof, her silences heavier than speech. Yet something in her posture today felt vulnerable, as though she too was trapped in the invisible cage that held them all. Since Kartik's return, Meera had been almost scared of her own existence, she did not know their past but one thing Geetanjali could figure out from how Kartik had changed after his marriage was he deeply loathed Meera. What could Meera ever have done to anger her husband even before her wedding? But the part which Geetanjali understood was that Kartik had returned from the Soviet solely to get married and left on the same day. She still remembered the day he almost pull-dragged his wife into the house and threw her inside his room and locked the door. Nobody had stopped him.

Coming out of her thoughts and gathering courage, Geetanjali whispered, “How is Kartik?”

Meera’s hands paused mid-stitch. For a long moment, she did not answer. Then, without looking at Geetanjali, she said, “Exactly like his older brother if not worse.”

The words fell heavy, like stones into water. Geetanjali’s throat tightened. “Does he force himself on you?” she asked, almost afraid of the reply.

Meera finally lifted her gaze. Her eyes were dark pools, unreadable. “He wouldn't need to.”

The air thickened between them. Meera set her embroidery aside, rose, and walked toward the inner chest tucked away in the corner. From it, she drew out a small folded scrap of paper, yellowed at the edges. She pressed it into Geetanjali’s hand.

“If it were some other time, I would have dispatched your letter myself ,” Meera said. “This is a letter on which I have written the address. I trust you can write the contents yourself. The postman delivers letters at 7am sharp, everyday. Mix it up with the festivities invitations, that should do it. Be careful to do it just before they are handed over, since the mail is checked multiple times before being carried.”

Geetanjali’s heart lurched. For the first time in years, the possibility of reaching Sudha and Komal flickered before her eyes. Her hands trembled as she clutched the paper.

“But how?” she asked, bewildered. “Did you get the address and how do we know this is correct?”

Meera’s lips curved, not into a smile, but into something darker—an expression steeped in irony. “I had to. Because you still believe someone out there is waiting for you. I envy that.”

Her words carried a weight Geetanjali did not yet understand. But she recognized the truth in them. Meera, for all her beauty, lived like a ghost. Her husband’s absence, cruelty and rudeness had turned her into little more than a rumor within the palace. Where Geetanjali clung to memories of her sisters, Meera clung to nothing—except perhaps the shadow of Kartik, the husband who loathed her very presence.

Before Geetanjali could thank her, the heavy thud of footsteps approached. Meera snatched back the scrap of paper and tucked it into Geetanjali’s sleeve with practiced ease, as though such exchanges were second nature to her.

Kartik appeared in the doorway. He was not searching for Meera, nor for Geetanjali—his eyes were fixed on a stack of ledgers he carried, his face expressionless as stone. Yet his presence alone froze the air.

His gaze brushed over them, indifferent, but sharp enough to leave both women silent. He said nothing, only moved past, his cologne lingering in the room long after he left.

Meera’s jaw tightened. “Careful,” she whispered once the echo of his steps faded. “They do not ask questions, but they notice everything. And when they notice, they wait. Waiting is more dangerous than anger.”

Geetanjali felt the blood drain from her face. She knew Meera was right. Even Shiv’s silence was not ignorance—it was strategy.

That night, as Geetanjali lay awake, she pressed her hands together in prayer. Not for Shiv, not for her marriage, but for the letter she would soon attempt to write. A letter that carried the weight of her sisters’ survival. A letter that could either save them—or destroy her completely.

Shiv closed door, connecting their adjacent rooms, his eyes unreadable. He did not speak, but the faintest crease on his brow betrayed a thought he did not voice.

For him, Geetanjali was nothing more than duty. Yet even duty, when disobeyed, demanded retribution.