The car rattles along NH-44, every pothole jarring my spine. The morning sun is already a white-hot blade slicing through the dusty windshield. I sit pressed against the left rear door, as far from Devraj as the car allows, but it’s still not far enough.
My throat is on fire. Raw, scraped, swollen. The taste of him...salty, thick, faintly bitter coats the back of my tongue no matter how many times I swallow. I keep trying anyway, discreetly, like someone trying to dislodge a fishbone no one else can see.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and flinch. My hair is pulled back so tightly my scalp aches; there’s a thin red line just above my collarbone where his stubble burned me last night. I shift the dupatta higher.
Devraj's eyes flick up to the mirror at the exact same second. As if he has radar for my movements. As if he's always watching, always calculating.

He smiles. Slow. Lazy. The expression of someone who's had a very satisfying meal and is still tasting it on his tongue

.My stomach flips—not with attraction, but with something primal and ancient.
Fear.

Disgust.

The primitive part of my brain that screams predator.

I drop my gaze to my lap, finding sudden interest in the small embroidered flowers on the border of my dupatta. I trace them with my thumbnail.
I can feel Devraj's smile widen even though I'm no longer looking at the mirror. I can feel it, the way one feels a shadow moving across skin.
The car pulls into the gravel yard of the dhaba. Dust swirls. A couple of trucks are parked under the neem trees, drivers dozing in the shade. The smell of woodsmoke and frying ghee drifts over.
We pull into Mannat Dhaba. Dust explodes around the tyres. The smell of woodsmoke, frying ghee, diesel, goat shit all the honest smells of the highway floods in when the AC dies.
"Finally! Mere hips mein current lag gaya itna baithne se!" Reema stretches as she gets out, her joints popping audibly.

(My hips are going numb from sitting so much!)
I get out first, my legs stiff and trembling in a way that has nothing to do with the long drive. The gravel is sharp under my thin chappals, each pebble a small punishment with each step.
I walk as fast as I dare toward the thatched shelter, my eyes fixed on the menu board—a piece of cardboard with handwritten items, most of them illegible—so I don't have to talk to anyone, don't have to make eye contact, don't have to pretend everything is normal.
I can hear his footsteps behind me. Slow. Unhurried. The footsteps of someone who knows exactly where I'm going and knows I can't escape.
He sits down right next to me, even though every other plastic chair is empty—a sea of vacant seats, but he chooses the one that puts us shoulder to shoulder.
His thigh presses against mine under the table hot, solid, claiming territory, the contact so deliberate it feels like a statement.
His body is declaring ownership to anyone who happens to be watching. I can feel the heat of him through two layers of cloth the thin fabric of my salwar and his jeans, it makes my skin crawl with a sensation that's part revulsion, part helplessness.
"Kya Piyegi?Thanda ya garam?” he murmurs, breath grazing the shell of my ear.
The question is innocent enough but the way he asks it, the way his voice drops into something softer, something meant only for me, makes it feel like something else entirely. Something that has nothing to do with food.
I say nothing. My tongue feels too thick.
He laughs softly and orders for all of us like the man of the house already. “Teen special thali. Ek without lahsun-pyaz for Maa. Do meethi lassi, ek namkeen. Papad extra crisp.”
(Three special plates. One without garlic and onion for mother. Two sweet lassis, one salty. Extra crispy papad.)
His mother and Reema are at the handpump, washing hands. Far enough that they can't hear.
Devraj turns his head toward me, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that feels like it's traveling through bone rather than air.
"Abhi bhi muh mein taste hai na, Meera?" (Still tasting me in your mouth, aren't you?)
I stare at the highway so hard my eyes water. A truck thunders past, painted in garish colors with the words "BURI NAZAR WALE TERA MUH KALA" emblazoned across the back.
(Evil eyes, may your face turn black.) The irony is so sharp it cuts
"Bol na," he says, almost tenderly. "Boli thi raat mein kitni baar 'nah'... phir bhi pi gayi na saara?"
(You said 'no' so many times last night... and still drank every drop, didn't you?)
My breath snags. I feel the tears threaten, hot and sudden, building behind my eyes like floodwater behind a dam. I blink furiously once, twice, three times. I will not cry here. I cannot cry here.
Crying would be admission. Crying would mean I'm broken by this, and I cannot give him the satisfaction.
I still remember the bathroom afterward. The cold tile floor against my knees. Rinsing my mouth again and again under the sputtering tap, but the taste stayed. It always stayed.
My hands shaking as I scrubbed my skin with a bar of soap, as if scrubbing hard enough could remove the feeling of violation, could sand away the touch of him. It couldn't.
The boy sets the steel glasses down. Condensation runs in cold rivulets. Devraj drinks from the salted lassi first, then wraps his hand over mine on the table (possessive, gentle for anyone watching) and lifts the glass to my lips.
“Pi. Gale ko aaram milega.”
(Drink. It will soothe your throat)
I don't respond. I can't. My throat is still raw, and every word feels like it would crack me open.
He tilts his head, and I can feel his eyes studying my profile with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Then his hand moves
gentle, unexpected tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so tender, so at odds with last night, that I flinch involuntarily.
“Dekh,” he said, his voice softening into an unsettling apology. “Main jaanta hoon kal raat thodi… intensity zyada thi. Control nahi raha.”( Look, I know last night was a bit… intense. I lost control. )
Lost control. As if it was an accident. As if his hands just happened to hold my head down. As if his weight on top of me was some involuntary reflex, like a sneeze.
“Par tu samajh rahi hai na? Hum dono ki shaadi hone waali hai. Sirf teen din baaki hain. Yeh sab… normal hai. Sab ladkiyan darrti hain pehle. Sab ke saath aisa hi hota hai. Dheere-dheere… adjust ho jaati hain. Phir… phir tujhe bhi maza aane lagega.”
(But you understand, right? We’re getting married. Only three days left. This is all… normal. All girls are scared at first. This happens to all of them. Slowly… they adjust. Then… then you’ll start to enjoy it too.)
Normal. The word sits like ash in my mouth. Nothing about this feels normal. Nothing about him feels safe. But then again, what do I know about normal? Maybe this is what marriage looks like.
Was this the ‘samajhdari’ my mother whispered about? Maybe all those aunties who whisper in the kitchen, who have that tired look in their eyes—maybe they all went through this too,the way they say “adjust kar lena” like it’s a prayer. Is this what they meant?
Reema and his mother finally settle at our table as the thali arrives—an explosion of steel compartments, each one steaming with promise. Dal with tempering ghee, shahi paneer swimming in cream, aloo gobhi dry and fragrant with cumin, rice, six rotis stacked like playing cards, a mound of raw onion and green chilli on the side.
He tears a piece of roti with practiced ease, scoops a perfect bite of paneer, and holds it to my lips the way a husband might feed his shy new bride.
The gesture is so perfectly calibrated for an audience, so exactly what people expect a caring fiancé to do, that I wonder how many times he's practiced it. How many other women has he performed this tenderness for?
"Le," he says gently, his voice carrying just enough to be heard by his mother. "Kha le. Raat tak gaon pahunchte-pahunchte bhookh se mar jayegi." (Come on. Eat something. By the time we reach the village tonight, you'll be starving.)
I keep my lips sealed. Not as defiance—I'm too afraid to defy—but as a physical impossibility. My body has simply stopped cooperating with the performance.
"Meera!" His mother's voice cracks suddenly, sharp with concern and irritation. "Kha kyun nahi rahi? Subah se muh latkaya hua hai. Ladki ka chehra dekh ke lagta hai koi mar gaya ho!" (Why aren't you eating? Your mouth has been hanging down since morning. Looking at the girl's face, it seems like someone died!)
Reema laughs, bright and oblivious. "Haye, sharma rahi hai! Kitna sweet hai na Hone wale jija ji, haath se khila raha hai!" (Oh, she's so shy! Isn't soon to be brother in law so sweet, feeding her by hand!)
I open my mouth because his mother is watching. Because refusing would raise questions I cannot answer. Because my entire life has been a series of opening my mouth when I wanted to scream.
His mother actually smiles, a rare thing. "Dekho, kitna khayal rakhta hai. Aaj kal ke ladke aise nahi hote. Meera, shukr manaa kar itna achha ladka mila." (See how much he cares. Boys these days aren't like this. Meera, thank your stars that you got such a good boy.
The meal continues in a haze of forced normalcy but my mind somewhere else.
"Ho jayega, Maa," he replies to something his mother said. "Sab theek time pe ho jayega. Tension mat lo." (It will happen, mother. Everything will be fine at the right time. Don't worry.)
I stand up abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the concrete floor with a sound that makes everyone look up. "Main... bathroom jaati hoon," I mumble, not meeting anyone's eyes. (I need to use the bathroom.)
I make my way to the bathroom, a small structure attached to the side of the dhaba that smells of bleach and human misery.
The mirror is cracked, and my reflection stares back at me in fractured pieces—fitting, somehow. I splash water on my face, erasing the trace of tears that have been threatening since the morning, each splash of cold water feeling like a small betrayal of myself.
Who is the girl looking back at me? I don't recognize her.
A sharp rap on the door makes me jump so violently I nearly slip. "Meera? Kitna time lagaogi?" Reema's voice, impatient and innocent. (Meera? How long are you going to take?)
"Aa rahi hoon," I croak, my voice sounding like something that's been dragged across concrete.
(I'm coming.)
The next four hours were a blur of arid landscape and internal devastation.
We stopped once more at a small petrol pump. While his mother and Reema went to use the toilet, Devraj filled the tank. I stayed in the car, a prisoner in a metal box. He finished and came to my window, resting his arms on the sill.
“Pani pi?” he asked, offering a cold Bisleri bottle.
I shook my head.
He shrugged, took a long swig himself, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he studied me. “Tu chup kyun hai itni?.” (Why are you so quiet?).
I found my voice, a raspy, unused thing. “Main… thak gayi hoon.”
(I’m tired.)
“Haan,” he said, his eyes knowing. “Raat ko zyada der tak jagaya na maine. Chinta mat kar. Aaj raat tu aaraam se so payegi.” (Yes. I kept you up late last night. Don’t worry. Tonight you’ll be able to sleep peacefully.)

********************************

If you enjoyed this chapter, please like and don’t be shy to leave a comment!

********************************