Chronicles Of My Darling Husband | ✓

147. Kshama (Part 2)

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Ten days.

Ten excruciating days that crawled by like wounded snails. Jagdish had left the hospital, his body a roadmap of healing gashes and bruises, mere whispers compared to the emotional torment he endured, all those invisible wounds that tore at his soul. Each sunrise brought a fresh assault of memories—the accident, the blood, and most horrifyingly, the vacant look in Nishita's eyes.

Nishita.

She was gone, whisked away to Pune to recuperate amidst the worried presence of her parents. Jagdish couldn't bring himself to face her yet. Every thought of a visit, of meeting her gaze, ignited an inferno of guilt and shame. What words could he possibly offer? The dream they'd nurtured together, the child she craved—he'd failed to protect it all. The image of blood gushing over her skin, life draining with each passing second, haunted him relentlessly, a cruel echo of his inadequacy.

The blame, a suffocating shroud, clung to him. If he hadn't been so selfish, so focused on his own happiness, perhaps she'd have found a better life, a partner who could offer the security and joy she deserved. He cursed the day he'd intertwined their destinies, convinced he'd brought nothing but misery into her world. His chosen profession, once a badge of honor, now mocked him with its cruel irony. He had promised her that he would be her protector, the shield—and he'd failed her utterly. The shattered fragments of her dreams, the life she envisioned for them, all lay scattered around him, a constant accusation echoing in the desolate silence.

Guilt, a barbed whip, lashed him mercilessly. How could he look at her, the woman whose trust he'd so spectacularly betrayed? He was a pathetic failure, a fraud who didn't deserve the love she'd so freely given. The accident, a horrific film reel on repeat, played on a loop in his fractured mind, each scene reinforcing his self-loathing. He was the villain, the sole architect of her destruction.

This consuming self-hatred seeped into every corner of his being, poisoning his thoughts and actions. He retreated from the world, a hermit in a prison of his own making. The once lively home they shared became a tomb of silence, the walls closing in on him, suffocating him with the weight of his mistakes. Chandrakant and Prasanna, their attempts to reach out met with a wall of silence, were mere ghosts at the periphery of his self-imposed exile. Every ring of the phone, every knock on the door, was an unwelcome intrusion, a jarring reminder of a life he felt utterly undeserving of.

Exhaustion gnawed at Jagdish, but sleep refused to come. Every time he drifted off, a parade of horrors jolted him awake. Night after night, the accident replayed, the way his world had turned into a bloody mess. His mother, a worried shadow by his bedside, tried to comfort him with gentle words. But her voice, filled with love and concern, couldn't reach him through the storm raging inside. His nights morphed into an endless cycle—nightmares so vivid they felt real, punctuated by fitful awakenings that offered no solace. Every morning, he woke up looking worse than the day before, dark circles under his eyes marking the battles fought within his own head.

Days bled into nights, a monotonous blur devoid of hope. His world had shrunk to the suffocating confines of his guilt, and he saw no escape. He craved this torment, a penance for the devastation he'd wrought. The future resembled a desolate wasteland, stretching endlessly into bleak oblivion.

Death might have been a more merciful companion... But he chose to torture himself.

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"Sher."

A knock on the door jolted Jagdish from his distant thoughts. It was the only sound that could pierce the thick fog of exhaustion that clung to him. With a sigh, he stumbled to the door. His mother was the only person he allowed past the threshold of his room these days.

Nearly a month had passed since he had returned home. Neelesh had called, relaying the news that Nishita was recovering physically, though the emotional scars lingered. She was seeing a therapist, each session a step towards healing. Jagdish, however, remained stubbornly closed off. His days were spent in a vegetative state, the confines of his room a self-imposed prison.

He'd quit his job at the firm. Mr. Gaikwad's disapproval echoed in his ears, but it was a distant rumble compared to the pain that stung his life. Work had become a constant reminder of the accident, the place where he should have been protecting Nishita, where his failure had cost her the baby she hoped for. He yearned for nothing more than to escape the suffocating weight of his actions.

As he reached for the doorknob, a shadow shifted behind his mother. He panicked. He didn't want to meet anyone, he had no energy.

It was his father.

Jagdish's hand instinctively reached for the door, a desperate attempt to slam it shut and retreat into the haven of his self-imposed isolation.

"Stop." Veer's voice, a deep rumble, sliced through the tense silence. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around the doorframe to prevent it from closing.

Jagdish locked eyes with the hand, his own narrowing with a flicker of defiance. "I don't want to see anyone," he muttered.

"Balcony," Veer commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned away, his broad back retreating down the hallway without a backward glance.

Yashoda, caught in the sudden shift of power, pivoted towards her husband, her lips parting in a silent plea. "Veer..." she began, her voice barely a whisper.

Veer didn't pause, his voice floating back over his shoulder. "It's between me and my Sher, Yasho. Not today."

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A/N

"Zaroorat" for this chapter.

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