Chapter Two: The Accident*

What else could she desire?

Later that evening, as she rested beside Karan with her head on his chest, she murmured, “Do you ever get the feeling… that this is too perfect? Like, our happiness is overwhelming?”

Karan gently brushed his fingers through her hair. “No, I believe we've waited long enough for this. You, me, and perhaps one day… a little version of us.”

Ashima beamed, feeling a slight flutter in her stomach. At that moment, she did not realize that life was paying attention.

And that it would soon challenge every bit of the love they shared.

It was a Thursday.

Ashima recalled every detail of that day. The precise way the light streamed through the window. The scent of rain lingered in the air — that earthy petrichor fragrance that Karan adored. He had been particularly hurried that morning, brushing her cheek with a kiss instead of sharing their usual breakfast.

“I’ll be back by lunchtime, okay?” he said, one shoe on, one hand clutching his bag.

“You mentioned that yesterday too,” she teased, playfully crossing her arms.

“This time I truly mean it,” he grinned, pulling her in for a swift hug. “We’ll go out for chaat tonight. Just the two of us.”

“Pinkie promise?” she inquired, extending her pinky like a child.

He entwined his finger with hers. “Pakki baat. Now smile, madam. You look your best when you smile.”

She waved him off with a grin. That was the final time she laid eyes on him.

It was around noon when the phone rang.

Ashima was folding laundry, keeping an eye on the news playing in the background. She didn’t recognize the number flashing on the screen, but something within her froze.

“Mrs. Ashima Malhotra?” the voice on the other end inquired.

“Yes…?”

“There’s been an accident. Your husband… he’s been taken to City Hospital. Please come right away.”

The world didn’t spin. It halted. Just like that.

She didn’t cry, not yet. She instructed Ronit to grab the keys. Her hands moved on autopilot. Her body became a machine, performing the task of reaching him.

The hospital hallways reeked of antiseptic and despair. She dashed barefoot — her slippers were left somewhere in the car. The receptionist directed her toward the emergency wing, and she caught sight of a blood-splattered stretcher being wheeled out. For a brief moment, she hoped it couldn’t be him.

But it was.

Karan's face was hardly visible, half-covered in gauze, with the rest bruised and broken. Machines beeped around him like harsh timers.

A doctor approached softly. “We tried everything. Internal bleeding… his head injuries were too severe. I’m sorry.”

The word “sorry” reverberated, but never truly reached her.

The funeral was a haze of faces, sobs, and the scent of marigolds. Ashima remained motionless, expressionless, as people touched her feet, whispered condolences, and wept around her. She didn’t cry. Not yet.

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