The Unwanted Bride

17 - Her Back

Note: I have warned readers in the 'copyrights' chapter but for those that haven't read it; this book is abusive, emotionally wrecking and has mature content. So if that's something that you're sensitive towards, please don't read it or skip over those parts.

Typed: 16/12/2023
Chapter 17:  Her Back

Author's POV:

They had been married for nearly two weeks when the first incident happened. The first of many. Khushi and Samar were in Delhi for only three days after they had gotten married in Court—in such a private atmosphere that nobody knew of their marriage except their families—before arriving in Pune, Samar's home.

She was eighteen—just turned eighteen—when Samar and his family had asked her hand in marriage. Khushi, like any other girl who wants to study and become independent refused. She repeatedly tried to communicate, reason with her father and plead with him to not marry her off. Her father was nearly persuaded but her step-mother was firm in her decision; Khushi must be married off.

She reasoned with her husband, presenting a counter-argument to Khushi's, that one day or another, they need to marry her off, so why not now? Samar's family was suitable, he had a good job and lived separately in a house owned by his parents. He was the only son, which automatically would benefit Khushi after her in-laws died. The biggest reason, they didn't want dowry despite being on the groom's side of the family. They just wanted Khushi and a private small wedding in a Court; we'd save so much money. We have to save for Isha's education and wedding too.

So Khushi was used as a sacrifice, again. Only this wasn't about toys or trips or food, this was her marriage.

Samar was an average man with black short hair, a face that looked like he was under the sun a lot doing labour work, and shoulders that weren't broad-broad like actors but enough to catch attention. Unlike her future husband Yug's glow and smile that always lingers in his face, Samar hardly smiled and when he did, it never met his eyes.

The twenty-nine-year-old was eating dinner that Khushi had just served when the first incident took place. "We've been here for a while now," she slowly starts. "I wanted to ask," she gulps. He's not been much of a talker. He lifts his eyes, scanning her features, "when are we going to enrol me? I want to study."

She wanted to be a journalist. She would keep people up-to-date with the recent news and events but was authentic about it as much as she could. Anything that brought her close to the truth and writing—a form of expression, to express her views, her voice.

Samar lets go of the spoon in his hand and the sound it makes on the plate tells Khushi she's made a mistake. He places his fisted hands on the dining table on either side of his plate. When he sees her looking at his fisted hands, he opens them and watches her features release some tension. He hates it. He hates it that she's not worried so he fists his hands again, banging it on the table.

Khushi flinches and moves back on her seat. This is the first time he's not masking his anger. The usual seriousness of his face—this daily posture—had always made it evident that he was not a generous person. But today, he looks like he'd show her a demo.

"And why study exactly?" He questions, an underlying threat that warns Khushi with his eyes to not argue with him.

She stood her ground, gulping down the fear and straightening her posture. "Because I want to be independent. I want to work. I want to help people."

"Why don't you begin by helping your husband?" There's this boiling-up anger inside him, like a pot that's about to tick off from the heat and awaits for you to open the lid and give it air.