The courtyard was empty.
Pranati's footsteps had already faded into the warren of narrow lanes beyond, the soft sound of her retreat swallowed by the ordinary chaos of the chawl—the distant clatter of pans, a child's cry, the rise and fall of radio static from a nearby window. Life, indifferent, moved on.
Neil stood alone.
For several long seconds, he didn't move. The space still seemed to vibrate with the echo of her words, with the imprint of her unflinching gaze. It wasn't anger he felt first, but a cold, clarifying shock. He was used to resistance, to negotiation, to the flicker of fear or greed in people's eyes. He wasn't used to being seen so clearly, so calmly dismantled.
His jaw tightened minutely.
Slowly, a thin, humorless smile stretched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes.
"So that's what you think of me," he murmured, the words tasting strange in his own mouth.
He turned in a slow circle, his polished shoes scraping against the cracked concrete, as if half-expecting her to reappear from the shadows to recant. The emptiness confirmed her absence. The finality of it sparked something darker than irritation—a sharp, possessive curiosity.
"She thinks she can just walk away," he said, his voice low, almost conversational. "Just like that."
He exhaled a sharp breath through his nose, a physical reset. His hand rose to straighten his collar, then smoothed down the front of his shirt—small, precise gestures that restored the facade. The rejection hadn't wounded his pride; it had presented a puzzle. A challenge to his certainty.
"No one refuses me," he stated, the words not a boast, but a cold, ingrained belief. "Not when I've decided they belong in my world."
He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the screen. His gaze drifted toward the mouth of the lane where she'd vanished. He didn't dial. Instead, he slid the phone back, a decision made.
His eyes swept over the cramped balconies, the fraying laundry, the very air of struggle. "Chawl," he scoffed, the word barely audible. "Temporary."
But his expression wasn't one of disdain. It was one of calculation. The obstacle wasn't the place; it was her resolve. And he had decided that resolve would bend.
"You don't know it yet, Pranati Kaur," he said, his tone eerily calm, devoid of heat, full of intent. "But you will marry me."
He turned on his heel, his steps measured and unhurried as he walked out of the courtyard. He didn't look back. The planning had already begun in the quiet chambers of his mind, a blueprint of persuasion and pressure taking shape.
Behind him, the chawl breathed its dusty, ordinary breath, utterly unaware that it had just been marked by a fixation far more dangerous than desire.
---
The priest's sonorous chants filled the living room, a steady stream of Sanskrit that wrapped the gathering in a veil of sanctity. Incense smoke curled in lazy spirals toward the high ceiling.
Arnav and Ruby sat side by side on the low divan, a careful, formal inch of space between them. Silver thalis gleamed under the soft light, holding the rings that winked like promises.
"Extend your hands," the priest instructed, his voice calm.
Arnav complied immediately, his movement smooth and automatic. Ruby's hand trembled, just a faint tremor, as the priest guided the ring onto her finger. A soft, breathy gasp escaped her—a sound of disbelief made real, of a dream crystallizing.
When it was her turn, she took his ring, her fingers lingering for a heartbeat before sliding it onto his. Her smile was radiant, hopeful, utterly devoted.
Applause broke out, warm and immediate.
"Congratulations!"
"Finally!"
"What a beautiful couple they make!"
Vedshree pressed a piece of sweet into Ruby's palm, her own smile wide, but her eyes were already scanning, already mothering. Suman dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the edge of her sari, overwhelmed. Bani Dadi moved around them, her palm circling in the ancient, protective gesture against the evil eye, her lips moving in continuous, silent prayer.
Arnav played his part. He smiled when the moment demanded—a polite, closed-lipped curve. He nodded in acknowledgment of the well-wishes. His posture was correct, his demeanor flawlessly composed.
But beneath the ritual, something else shifted in the air of the room. A subtle wrongness, like a single off-key note in a harmonious melody.
Vedshree felt it first—a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. It was a prickle at the base of her skull, a cold fingertip tracing down her spine.
Her gaze, instinctively protective, drifted from her son's profile toward the large window.
Perched on the ornate iron grill outside was a bird.
It was not a crow, nor a common myna. Its plumage was a deep, unsettling shade, not quite black, shimmering with an undertone of dried blood in the afternoon sun. But it was the eyes that froze her—two beads of liquid crimson, fixed and unblinking, staring directly into the room. Directly at them.
The red partridge. The laal chakor.
The name surfaced from the depths of old warnings, from Tabeezi's grave lessons. A symbol, a harbinger. Mohana's eyes.
Vedshree's breath hitched, locked in her throat. Her fingers curled into the silk of her dupatta, knuckles whitening.
Mohana…
As if sensing her recognition, the bird tilted its head in a slow, almost deliberate arc. Not a natural movement. A knowing one. A silent communication.
The priest's chants, the laughter, the clinking of plates—all of it blurred into a meaningless drone. Vedshree's world narrowed to that window, to those burning red eyes.
"This can't be a coincidence," she whispered, the sound lost in the celebration.
The laal chakor opened its beak. No loud screech came, only a low, guttural caw that seemed to slice through the ambient noise and vibrate directly in her bones.
Then, with a swift, powerful thrust of its wings, it was gone, vanishing into the vast, indifferent sky.
Vedshree remained rooted to the spot, cold dread pooling in her stomach. Slowly, she forced her gaze back to the center of the room.
Arnav was half-smiling at something Arav had whispered, the picture of a serene, accepting groom. He looked human. He looked safe.
But the ice in Vedshree's veins told a different story.
She knows, the realization crashed into her with the force of a physical blow. Mohana knows about the wedding.
Her joy, so bright and fragile moments ago, curdled into a heavy, leaden fear. The ritual was complete, the bond formally initiated.
But somewhere far away, in the silence of petrified stone and dark water, a mother's wrath had been awakened. And her witness had just delivered the message.
The celebration continued around her, but for Vedshree, the room had suddenly grown much, much colder.