—VEDANT—
After that morning—after I was kicked out of Sohini's house like a criminal—I ran. I ran to the only people I had left—my parents.
My hands trembled as I begged them, my chest tightening.
"Mom—Dad—please," I whispered, unable to look them in the eye. "Please talk to Sohini's parents. Make them understand. I love her. I'll marry her if that's what they want. I just need your help."
I saw the worry flash in their eyes, the way they shared a look without saying a word. And then, without hesitation, they agreed. My father—once a proud, stern IPS officer—put on his old blazer. My mother tied her hair into a neat bun. They stood beside me like a shield.
But what I didn't know was—I was dragging them into humiliation.
Because when we reached Sohini's house, they weren't greeted like elders.
They were insulted. Thrown out. Shattered.
Back home, the silence was loud. Deafening. Dad sat still on the couch, his hands on his knees, eyes staring blankly ahead. His face pale. Tired.
"Dad—are you okay?" I asked quietly, scared of his silence.
He didn't answer. It was my mother who broke.
"They think we have no dignity left?" she yelled, her voice cracking, her dignity bleeding. "He talked down to your father, Vedant! A decorated officer!"
"Lata," Baba tried to calm her, his voice weak, barely there, "Let it go."
"Let it go?" Maa snapped. "They threw us out like beggars! They called you a predator. Said you used that girl. That you're divorced. That you're old. That you're useless!"
My breath caught.
"What?" I whispered.
My father closed his eyes. "They said you ruined their daughter. That you forced her."
"No." I stood up. "No. Das uncle isn't like that. He would never say those things."
"They did, Vedant." Maa's eyes brimmed with tears. "He accused me. Said I failed as a mother. That we raised a man without morals."
I didn't speak. Couldn't.
It felt like someone had peeled my skin off and poured acid on my soul.
"You are not marrying that girl," Maa hissed. "We will find someone else. Someone respectable. Not that meat-eating, godless family—"
"ENOUGH!" I shouted. "Mom don't talk about them like that!"
She flinched. So did I. I had never raised my voice at her. I fell to my knees, my hands clutching my hair. "I'm sorry. I just—I can't lose her, Mom. Please."
But she turned away. "Go then—talk to them yourself."
I got up. And I ran.
I banged on their door like a madman. I didn't care if the whole colony was watching.
And finally, he opened it. Sohini's father. He looked at me like I was dirt on his shoe.
"What do you want now?" he barked.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice shaking. "I didn't mean for anything to happen the way it did. But I'm willing to do what it takes. I love Sohini. I'll marry her. I'll wait. Anything."
He sneered. "You've no self-respect, do you? I threw your parents out, and you're back here, begging like a dog."
"I'm not here for pride," I said, trying to steady my voice. "I'm here for her."
"She doesn't love you," he spat. "You're nothing to her."
"That's not true," I whispered.
Then suddenly, he grabbed my collar and slammed me against the wall.
"You destroyed my daughter!" he screamed. "You made her a whore!"
His words pierced deeper than his fists. I didn't raise a hand.
He shoved me again, his face inches from mine. "You want to see her? You think you'll change her mind?"
"I just want to talk to her," I whispered.
Then the punch came.
I staggered back, dizzy. My lip split open, and I tasted blood. Still, I stood tall.
"I love her," I said, my voice raw, broken, trembling.
"Go before I call the police."
I dropped to my knees. Literally.
"Please," I begged. "Please, just let me talk to her once. I'll leave after that. Just once."
He stared at me like I was some stray creature on the street.
And then, like a storm, my father burst in.
"How dare you touch my son!" Baba shouted, furious. He ran to me, pulling me up. "Do you know who I am? Do you think I'll let you get away with this?"
"Dad, please—no," I pleaded, holding his hand, but he wasn't listening.
"I'll bury you," Dad warned. "I still have friends in the force. You think you can slander us and—"
"I'm not afraid of your threats," Sohini's father snapped. "Get out of my house!"
"I should've dragged you to court!" Dad screamed. "You called my son a predator? You called me useless?!"
"Stop it!" I shouted, stepping between them.
But then, Das uncle lunged again. His punch landed hard on my jaw.
This time, Dad shoved him with full force.
He fell to the floor with a heavy thud. I panicked. Bent to help him.
"Are you okay?"
"DON'T touch me!" he barked, spitting beside me.
But when I turned back—Dad was holding his chest.
"Dad?" I froze. "Dad, what's wrong?"
He staggered. His breathing labored. His face pale.
"Dad?!"
I caught him before he fell. My heart raced.
"Mom! Someone call an ambulance!"
—
In the hospital, I paced like a lunatic.
The blood on my face dried and cracked every time I opened my mouth. My shirt was stained with sweat and tears and dirt and failure.
The doctor came out, his face grim.
"He had a heart attack. We've stabilized him for now—but he's weak. Very weak. This could've ended much worse."
I nodded numbly.
My mother sobbed behind me.
And me? I sat outside the ICU—
Still thinking of Sohini. Still hoping she'd come. Still wondering if she knew her love had nearly killed my father.
Still loving her like a fool.
But my father's condition never stabilized.
The doctors shook their heads and whispered suggestions behind masks. We moved him to a bigger hospital in another city—one with cleaner sheets, whiter walls, and colder floors. Everyone kept saying, "Let's hope for the best."
But hope is cruel. It gives you just enough to breathe before it drowns you.
He died in the ICU three weeks later.
I wasn't there. I was in the corridor, buying tea for my mother that had gone cold in my hand when the nurse came out.
"He's gone," she said.
Just like that.
My knees gave in before my tears did. I sat there, on the hospital floor, while people walked past me like I was invisible.
My mother didn't speak for two whole days. When she finally did, her voice was hoarse. Broken. Different.
"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't gone after that girl."
I wanted to scream, but I didn't.Because deep down—I was starting to believe her.
But I still couldn't hate Sohini.
Not until—
Not until the day we were preparing for my father's antim sanskar—his final rites—and someone, I don't even remember who, whispered the words that split me wide open:
"Sohini's getting married today."
It felt like a punch to the stomach.
No.
No, that couldn't be true. She couldn't—But it was.
While my father's body was being laid on the pyre, her wrists were being decorated with bangles.
While I watched fire consume the man who raised me, she walked around a wedding fire with another man.
My mother begged me not to go.
"Have some shame," she cried. "Let your father go in peace. Don't chase after the ghost that killed him."
But I had to see her. I needed to.
I borrowed a relative's old clothes, draped myself in a shawl, pulled a cap low over my freshly shaved head, and wore a surgical mask to hide the grief that had deformed my face. I snuck into her wedding like a thief sneaking into a home he used to own.
The venue was grand, lit up like Durga Puja pandal. Strings of orange marigolds hung from the entrance, and the air smelled of sandalwood, fresh flowers, and betrayal.
I stood in a corner, unnoticed among distant relatives and smiling faces.
Then I saw her. Sohini.
Dressed in a traditional red Benarasi saree, her hair adorned with white flowers and gold clips, eyes lined with kajal, forehead marked with chandan, and a heavy mukut veil resting on her head. She looked divine. Like a goddess carved into reality.
I waited for sorrow. For hesitation. For a flicker of the pain that was burning me alive.
But instead—She smiled.
She giggled, even—when the groom tried to fix the garland that tilted sideways. She looked—in love. She looked radiant.
While I—I was in a mask soaked with tears, smelling like funeral smoke.
The man beside her—tall, fair, clean-shaven, perfect in every way I was not—placed sindoor in her parting. She closed her eyes and smiled.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I left before the pheras ended.I wandered the streets like a drunk ghost. Bought whatever alcohol I could find. Didn't even know what it was—cheap whisky, maybe. Maybe poison.
When I reached home, I tore everything in my room apart.The bedframe. The mirror. My father's photo.
I screamed into the silence.
"She ruined me!" I roared.
"She destroyed my family!" My fists slammed into the wall.
"She killed my dad!"
The photo of her in my drawer—one I had hidden even from myself—I burned it. I watched her face curl and blacken.
I had loved her so much. I had begged. Fallen to my knees. Sacrificed my dignity. Watched my parents get insulted. Buried my father.
And she smiled through her wedding.
Something inside me snapped that night. Something fragile. Human.
I wiped the blood from my lips, looked at my reflection—wild-eyed, broken, pathetic—and made a promise:
She will pay.
For every tear. Every humiliation. Every ounce of grief she handed me like poison wrapped in love.
I will destroy her. Just like she destroyed me.