COUNTINUE

By the time Amrutha finished folding the last banana leaf, the women had dispersed to their chores, and the teasing glances had stopped — but the burn on her neck hadn’t faded.

Neither had Janani’s gaze.

She could still feel it — heavy, sour, clinging to her skin like a second saree. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look back. But something in her chest coiled tight.

She stepped out of the kitchen, crossing the stone courtyard, the warmth of the mid-morning sun doing little to thaw her.

Ayya hadn’t returned.

Not yet.

She should be glad. Relieved, even. Her pulse could slow. Her thoughts could settle.

But they didn’t.

All she could think about was the mark of his lips on her skin and the absence of his words in her heart.

She reached the steps of the central verandah and sat there, tucking her feet up. The quiet was deceptive — birds chirped somewhere, the village dogs barked in the distance, but inside her… silence screamed.

She stared at her palm, still feeling the phantom heat of his fingers around her wrist from when he had pulled her into him. That moment—violent in its tenderness—had left her shaken.

He had said nothing before leaving.

No apology. No explanation.

Just that one look.

Possessive.

And something darker.

---

Hours passed.

The sun climbed higher. Shadows shrank. Maids moved about, and Amrutha helped wherever she could, keeping her head low but her ears sharp.

No one had seen Ayya return.

But they had seen the flooded canal, the gathered villagers, and the anger boiling under the surface.

She heard snippets — something about a corrupt land deal in a neighboring taluk, funds that were meant for canal repairs being siphoned, leaving their end of the village vulnerable. Crops were drowning. A few cattle were lost. The headman had demanded Ayya’s presence. He had gone alone.

Typical.

Always taking everything on his shoulders like the pain would obey him.

Like guilt could drown in silence.

---

It was nearly dusk when she finally spotted him — crossing the threshold of the main gate, his vesti soaked with mud, maroon shirt sticking to his back, face bruised, jaw clenched.

He looked like a man who had fought the earth itself — and maybe he had.

A few servants rushed to him, asking questions.

He brushed them off.

Her breath caught when his eyes flickered up, catching hers for the briefest second across the courtyard.

Something passed between them — raw, unspoken — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

He turned and walked toward the outer house, where he kept his ledgers and papers. Alone.

Again.

---

That night, she lay on the cot with her back to the door, eyes open, heart racing.

Would he come?

Would he stay away?

She didn’t know what terrified her more.

The door creaked faintly sometime after midnight, but no footsteps followed. Just the soft slam of the wind.

She turned, but no one was there.

---

The next morning, his aunt called her early — to help prepare for the pooja in the family temple. Land disputes always brought bad omens, and it was custom to appease the gods.

She wore a deep red saree, kept her hair braided, and walked silently to the temple courtyard.

He was already there — sitting on the floor, legs folded, a towel draped over his shoulder, vermillion on his forehead. A true Ayya. The land’s son. Its protector. Its weapon.

He didn’t look at her.

Not once.

But she felt his awareness — like a live wire between them.

She sat behind him, beside the women. Janani sat on his other side. Too close.

Too deliberate.

The priest began the mantras, fire cracking in the small havan pit.

Janani leaned in slightly to offer the ghee, and her elbow brushed against his. She didn’t pull away.

Amrutha’s throat burned.

But she said nothing.

She was Ayya’s wife, but today, she felt like a ghost.

One touched. One marked. One forgotten.

---

As the pooja ended, and everyone rose to take prasad, Amrutha finally stood beside him — her hand trembling slightly as she accepted the offering from the priest.

Ayya glanced down at her hand… and his eyes stilled.

Right where her bangles ended, on the inside of her wrist—his bite mark.

Dark. Obvious.

His jaw tensed.

Their eyes met.

And for the first time that day, he whispered—quiet, sharp, meant only for her—

> “Cover it.”

A command.

Low. Dark. Familiar.

Like he hated himself for what he had done.

And hated her for showing it.

Amrutha looked down at her wrist… then looked back up at him with a quiet, searing calm.

And didn’t move.

She turned and walked away — leaving the mark exposed.

Leaving her silence louder than any scream.

---

The house bustled again.

After the pooja, brass plates clanged in the kitchen, fresh jasmine was brought from the backyard creepers, and the smell of ghee-laced prasad lingered in every corner. Servants moved fast. Everyone was pretending things were normal.

But something wasn’t.

Not inside the house.

And not inside Janani.

She sat on the raised stone ledge of the verandah, her silk saree too stiff for comfort, eyes following Amrutha like a hawk.

From the pooja mandap to the courtyard water pot, Amrutha moved quietly, her steps light… but her presence loud.

That mark on her neck hadn't faded.

The one just above the blouse line.

The one Ayya hadn’t asked her to hide.

Not like the one on her wrist.

Janani’s jaw locked. She crushed the flower petals in her palm.

She had spent years trying to get even one soft look from him.

And now this girl—this widow-turned-wife—comes from nowhere and suddenly becomes a flame he can’t stop burning around?

Janani’s mother-in-law walked past, handing her a bowl of sindoor for the evening rituals. She stopped mid-step, her gaze catching Amrutha in the corner of the courtyard, head bowed over the brass lamp tray.

And then came the voice.

Sweet.

Coated in tradition.

Dripping poison.

> “Hmm. What’s the use of wearing sindoor if it keeps getting washed away by tears and rain?”

The words weren’t loud.

But loud enough.

Amrutha froze, fingers stilling on the wick she was preparing. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.

Every woman around them heard it.

Even Janani straightened slightly—eyes sparkling with the start of a smirk.

The grandmother continued, stepping closer now, hands folded behind her, voice low but edged with sharpness that decades of control had only honed.

> “A woman’s place is in her husband’s light, not in his shadow. If she stays where she’s not welcomed, even the gods turn their face away.”

She was staring straight at Amrutha now.

A few maids near the well paused mid-task. One of them glanced nervously between the two women.

Amrutha slowly stood straight, her grip tightening on the brass lamp.

She turned—calm face, quiet defiance.

> “I didn’t come to stand in anyone’s light, Paati. I came to build a lamp of my own.”

The air went still.

Even Janani’s half-formed smirk faltered.

The grandmother blinked, once, twice… and then gave a dry chuckle.

> “Strong words… for someone who couldn’t even hold on to her first husband.”

That one sliced through the bone.

Amrutha’s breath caught—just for a moment. She didn’t flinch. But her eyes dimmed.

Before anyone could speak, a low, firm voice echoed from the corridor:

> “Enough.”

Ayya.

He stepped into the verandah, eyes hard as granite, shoulders still dusted with soil, palms slightly bruised from lifting logs with the villagers.

He hadn’t even changed.

But the storm in his eyes was clear.

He looked at his grandmother with polite sharpness.

> “This house doesn’t taunt those who carry its name. Not anymore.”

He walked up to Amrutha. Quiet. Steady.

He looked down at her. Then lifted the brass lamp from her trembling hands… and lit it himself.

Flame flickered.

And for once, silence wasn't awkward.

It was full of power.

He turned to go.

But not before glancing at his grandmother

Just a glance.

But enough to remind her—she shouldn't do thos.

And never would.

AMRUTHA’S POV

I tried.

I smiled when I served.

I bent without showing the stiffness in my spine, nodded even when my throat ached with unshed tears. I told myself—they’re just words. They’re just looks.

But they weren’t.

They were stones. Hurled gently. Casually. Sharpened with intent.

His grandmother’s voice still echoed in my ears like poison sweetened with turmeric milk.

> “Strong words… for someone who couldn’t even hold on to her first husband.”

Why does it always come back to that?

Why do they always try to remind me of the one thing I never wanted to hold on to?

Yes, I was married before. Yes, I lit a pyre too young and too scared. Yes, I came here wearing the red again… and it’s the only sin they can’t forgive me for.

But tonight—tonight I thought maybe I wasn’t alone.

He didn’t say much. Rudhran never does.

But he said enough.

> “This house doesn’t taunt those who carry its name. Not anymore.”

That “anymore”—I felt it like warmth on frozen skin.

And still, as I stood near the dining area, carrying a brass pot full of hot rasam, I felt Janani’s sharp gaze like a thorn brushing my cheek. I served other men but not the only man who is my man, I guess?? .

Or is it wrong to call him my man, when he himself don't consider me his. But his actions sometimes say something else other time something else.

Whenever I tried to step near his side of the table, she moved like a shadow. Smiling. Pouring. Laughing louder than needed. Making sure I couldn’t touch the same plate she served on.

They sat on the floor— his rowdy men, even the servents . Plates in neat banana leaves, their posture alert, their eyes lowered respectfully.

Only Rudhran, his cousin brother , his uncle and pa sat at the dining table.

He sat at the head, of course.

King in his court.

And me?

Just a servant no one waited for.

A pot of rice in my hand, my mind lost, my feet frozen in place. I must’ve been staring too long, because his voice came—loud and clear.

Sharp. Not cruel. Just cutting.

> “You are my wife.”

I blinked. The entire room stilled for a second.

> “So better handle some responsibility. Everyday, three times meals are served to my men. They are my strength and my pillar. From now on—make sure they are fed properly.”

The pot in my hand suddenly felt heavier.

I swallowed.

So that was it?

A title to be used when convenient?

He didn’t look at me when he said it. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even glance. Janani was serving him rice, the corner of her lips curving smugly as she sat a little too close.

I held my tongue.

I turned. Quietly.

And walked.

My anklets made music in the corridors as I moved through the varanda and into the outer courtyard. The plates were lined up already. I took few helpers like he said, and began serving.

The men didn’t speak. They bowed their heads slightly when I neared.

Their eyes didn’t rise. Whether it was fear or respect, I didn’t know. Maybe both.

Some of them had fresh cuts on their arms. One had a long scar across his cheek. They were hardened men—warriors in silence.

And yet… none of them showed me disdain.

It was the women in this house who made me feel invisible.

Where have I landed, Parameshwara?

A land where men bleed but speak gently, and women smile while cutting throats with words.

I finished the serving.

By the time I came back, the floor was cleared, the tables wiped, even the lights, oil lamps snuffed down to gentle flickers. The other women of the house had eaten. I could still smell tamarind and ghee lingering in the air… but no one had waited.

Not one.

Even the maids had cleared their plates.

I walked into the kitchen. There was food left.

But suddenly… I didn’t want any of it.

It tasted bitter already.

I stepped away, my feet moving on their own. Past the dark halls. Past the ancestral swing and the tall windows.

My body went where my heart did.

To the back courtyard.

The very same place I poured water on him that night. The place I dared him. Touched him. Kissed him.

And the same place he kissed me back like he was claiming his fate.

I sat down slowly, folding my legs beneath me, saree tugged close. My arms wrapped around myself.

And that’s when the tears came.

Just one at first.

Then two.

Not loud. Not broken sobs. Just a quiet ache slipping out, drop by drop.

The same ache I hide behind smiles and bowed heads.

I wiped my cheek with the edge of my pallu, my eyes fixed on the dark sky above.

I’m still not welcome.

Not here. Not fully.

Not even after marrying again.

No matter how hard I try, someone will always whisper widow behind my back like it’s a curse.

Even tonight, when I dared to feel warm for a second… the cold returned.

But then, just as I exhaled—a gust of wind hit my face.

Soft. Chilling. It rushed across the courtyard like a whisper from the gods.

It danced through my wet hair, making it sway. My anklet chimed lightly in the quiet.

I leaned into the wind.

Eyes closed.

Because even if no one waits for me here…

The sky does. The wind does.

And tonight, that will have to be enough.

---

Bye bye