Shadows Of The Stumps

Pyaar & Punishment

The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn to keep the Mumbai heat at bay. A soft hum of life echoed faintly from the house beyond — muffled voices, the clinking of utensils, a baby’s distant coo.

Meera stirred.

Then jolted upright with a gasp.

Her breath caught, her chest heaved, panic rising in waves. Her hands scrambled at the sheets, and a low cry escaped her lips as pain tore through her leg — sharp, blinding.

“Rahul,” she gasped, barely able to find the air. “Rahul—he was calling—I heard him—”

Hardik was up in an instant from the edge of her bed, where he’d dozed off, half-slumped against the pillows. His eyes widened at the sight of her struggling, tears already springing to his lashes.

“Meera,” he said, rushing to her side, voice trembling, “Meera, no—don’t do that, don’t move—your leg—!”

But she kept trying to rise, her voice cracking, “He called me—he—he sounded like—like something’s wrong—”

“No,” Hardik said firmly now, his hands gently holding her shoulders, grounding her, steadying her. “Hey, look at me. He’s fine. Rahul is right here—in the next room. You’re safe. You’re home.”

Meera’s breaths came fast, uneven. Her eyes were wild with fear, as if she hadn’t fully returned from where she'd been. As if part of her was still back there — in the smoke, the blood, the silence that followed screams.

“Don’t lie,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Don’t lie to me—don’t—”

“I’m not,” Hardik said softly, lowering himself beside her. He cupped her face, thumbs gently wiping the sweat from her brow. “You came back, Meer. You kept your promise. Rahul’s here. Athiya’s here. Everyone’s here.”

Still shaking, she looked into his eyes, searching. “You’re here?”

His voice broke as he nodded. “Of course I am.”

And that was it.

The tension snapped. Her chest crumpled into his as she sobbed silently, unable to speak. Hardik leaned forward, ever so carefully, resting his forehead against hers. One of his hands slipped into hers, fingers lacing with instinct.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Just breathe. We’ll get through this. Together.”

Her grip tightened weakly. Her body still shook. Her tears were still falling.

She didn’t close her eyes.

She was holding on.

Staying awake.

Hardik slowly pulled back, his hand brushing the tears from her cheeks, checking her breathing again before asking gently, “You want to sit up a little?”

She gave a weak nod.

With all the care in the world, he helped her shift — one arm cradling behind her back, the other stabilizing her legs. The movement was excruciatingly slow, every inch monitored, his own breath caught every time she winced. But eventually, Meera was sitting up, back resting against a soft wall of pillows, the heavy cast on her leg propped with extra cushioning.

Her hand hadn’t left his.

Her voice was quiet, raw. “You were here the whole time?”

Hardik smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Where else would I be, stupid?”

She blinked at him — tired, broken, but alive — and nodded. Just once. That was enough.

“I’ll call them in,” he said finally, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. “They’ve been waiting for this moment.”