Aryan
“What the hell did you do?”
My father’s voice boomed across the sterile hospital corridor, sharp and scalding, echoing in my ears like a gunshot. His eyes, they were always disciplined, always in control, burned with a fury I hadn’t seen before.
“You hit a woman, Aryan! While driving drunk!” He took a step forward, and I instinctively clenched my fists, jaw tightening. His military posture towered over me even though he was shorter he had that kind of presence. The kind that demanded fear and obedience. But I wasn’t a damn soldier. I was his son.
“I didn’t see her, Father,” I said flatly, trying to stay calm. “She came out of nowhere. I just…”
He cut me off with a sharp gesture, eyes narrowing. “You were drunk,” he growled. “You don’t see anything clearly when you’re drunk, Aryan. That’s the whole point!”
“And I told you…it wasn’t intentional! I didn’t mean to…”
“You think intent matters when a girl is lying in a hospital bed because of you? You think her shattered dreams care about your guilt?” His words stabbed at me like knives. And still, beneath his rage, I saw the real reason for his fury. It wasn’t just about the accident. It was about his image.
Lieutenant General Vijay Rathore. Decorated. Respected. Unblemished. And now the tabloids would read: Son of Indian Army’s Pride Hits Woman in Drunken Driving Incident.
“What if she presses charges?” he asked, voice lowering but no less threatening. “Your wedding is in two days, Aryan. Two. Days. How do you plan to fix this mess?”
“I told you she’ll be okay…”
“Sir,” a doctor’s voice cut in, nervous and unsure. “The patient woke up… but she’s not okay.”
A cold silence fell between us. My father straightened. “Take me to her.”
I followed in silence, heart pounding, guilt weighing on every step like chains.
We turned into the ward, and the sound of her voice pierced through the walls before we even entered.
“Let me go! Leave me the hell alone!” She was fighting the nurses like a caged animal, eyes wild with panic and pain. Her IV was already ripped from her arm, the sheets kicked off the bed. “Today is my dance competition!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “Please, I have to go…I have to dance!”
“Ma’am, you won’t walk if you continue. Your knees have been severely injured,” the nurse said gently, trying to calm her.
“I. Said. Let. Go. Of. Me!”
Before anyone could stop her, she threw herself off the bed with a scream and collapsed onto the floor. I took a step forward, but my father raised an arm, blocking me.
“Watch,” he said coldly.
We watched her try to crawl, the pain written in every twitch of her body. She gritted her teeth, forced herself up again, and fell with a soft, heart-wrenching thud. And then she broke, her sobs ripping through the silence like broken glass. Helpless. Defeated. Shattered.
I looked away, jaw locked, chest tightening painfully.
“She’s not just any woman,” my father said, voice low. “Her name is Avni Parmar. She’s a professional kathak dancer. Today she was supposed to perform at the state championship and win the five-lakh cash prize. She was going to use that money to treat her mother, who’s battling cancer.”
He fished a folded pamphlet from his coat and shoved it into my hands. I stared at her name printed in bold below the photo of a smiling, graceful dancer mid-performance.
“You didn’t just break a body, Aryan. You crushed a dream. And now, you can’t even admit it.”
Footsteps echoed behind us, and we turned to see a man who was older, tired, and terrified, rushing toward the room.
“Where is my daughter?” he cried, desperation shaking his voice. A boy, no older than sixteen, followed behind him, trembling like a leaf.
The doctor pointed toward Avni’s room, and they disappeared inside, their grief soaking into the walls.
“That’s her father,” my dad said, his gaze still burning into me. “I had my team find her family the moment I got her name. Do you get it now, Aryan? This isn’t about you or me. This is about her.”
I couldn’t say anything. My mouth was dry. My heart was heavy. I had never felt so hollow.
“Maybe we can offer them money,” I said calmly. “Help with her mother’s treatment.”
He turned to me slowly. “And what about her legs?” That question hit harder than anything else. I had no answer.
I stood there, swallowed by the silence of guilt and the stench of antiseptic. I didn’t mean to do this. But it didn’t matter. Because I had done it.
And now… I had to live with it.
_____
The doctor appeared with a nervous smile and a clipboard clutched in his trembling hands.
“Sir… the girl wants to see you.” His voice was soft, careful, like he was afraid it might ignite another explosion between father and son.
“We’re coming,” my father replied curtly. He glanced at me and nodded toward the room. A silent command.
Fuck. I didn’t want to face her.
I followed him reluctantly, my stomach churning. The guilt sat like a stone in my gut, heavy and unmoving. We stepped into the room, and the harsh white lights made everything feel too real, too sharp. The moment we crossed the threshold, I winced.
There she was.
Lying in that hospital bed like a broken doll, her face devoid of life, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. I took a few slow steps closer. Her jaw tightened, her hands gripping the hospital sheets so fiercely her knuckles whitened. It wasn’t just pain but it was rage. If those fingers were on my neck instead of the sheets, I was sure she would strangle me on the spot.
Her father and brother had left an hour ago. They had broken down after seeing her state, her little brother couldn’t even look at her legs before he burst into sobs. My father insisted we stay, even as my phone buzzed again and again. Ira had called, her voice upbeat, oblivious. “Haldi’s starting in an hour, baby! Where are you?” I couldn’t even answer.
I was still tangled in this nightmare, caught in a web I spun myself the moment I got behind the wheel last night. If only I hadn’t drunk. If only I had left earlier. If only…
But fate doesn’t care for regrets. Fate threw me like a wrecking ball into Avni Parmar’s life and now all I could do was watch her world crumble.
Our eyes met.
And I froze.
There was nothing soft in her gaze. No fragility. No mercy. Just grief, burning fury, and something worse, disgust.
Shit. I shattered her dreams like glass under my tires.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, my voice stiff, clipped. It came out colder than I intended. My father shot me a warning glare and subtly squeezed my arm.
Then, like a switch had flipped, his expression softened entirely as he turned to her.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he asked gently, lowering himself onto the chair beside her bed. The softness in his voice was jarring. It was the same voice he used with my sister when she was in pain, the voice of a protector.
I knew that side of him well. My father had always held a deep reverence for women. He inspired hundreds to join the army, believing women were as powerful—if not more so than men. To him, they weren’t weaker. They were warriors.
Avni didn’t answer right away. Her lips trembled as she swallowed hard, her eyes glistening.
Then came the venom.
“Shit,” she spat, her voice brittle and broken. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I’m feeling like absolute shit, Mr. Rathore. Look at what your son has done to me.”
She turned her glare to me, and I had to steel myself not to flinch.
“He destroyed everything I worked for. My entire career. My body. My soul. I’ve always hated entitled rich sons but now, I fucking loathe them. His presence…” She jabbed a trembling finger at me.“...makes me feel sick.”
I dropped my gaze, jaw clenched tight, fingers digging into my palms until I felt skin give way. Her eyes didn’t just hate me but they made me hate myself more.
“You think people like you can ruin lives and fix it with a cheque?” she continued, voice cracking. “What do you know about living with nothing? About dancing for ten damn years, perfecting every spin, every step, hoping someday it would matter?”
My father reached for her hand, his eyes misty now. But I couldn’t take it anymore.
“The doctor said your knees will heal in a few months,” I said firmly, not meaning for it to sound as harsh as it did.
She snapped her head toward me, nostrils flaring. “A few months?” she whispered in disbelief. “I’m a dancer. I don’t just walk with those knees but I fly. You didn’t just break my legs. You clipped my wings.” Her voice rose like a scream tearing through her throat. “Get your damn son out of here!”
My body stiffened. My pulse roared. “We’ll give you money if that’s what you want,” I snapped, before I could stop myself.
“Get. Out!” Her shriek rattled the windows.
My father stood abruptly. “Aryan, leave. Now.”
I looked at him, stunned. “She asked to see me, didn’t she?”
“Leave!” he barked, and this time it wasn’t a suggestion.
Without another word, I stormed out, slamming the door behind me. The sound echoed through the corridor like a gunshot. I marched to the waiting room, rage burning under my skin.
She made me the villain. In front of him. In front of my own father. The man who had raised me with such pride, now looking at me like I was the enemy.
“What the hell is she feeding him?” I muttered under my breath. “I’m not the monster she’s painting.”
“Fuck!” I slammed my fist into the wall. Pain lanced through my knuckles, but I didn’t flinch. I’d been through worse. I’d survived covert missions in enemy territory without breaking down. But this?
This was a war and I was losing.
After what felt like an eternity, the door opened. My father walked out slowly, his face unreadable. He moved toward me with heavy steps.
“She agreed,” he said finally, voice low. “She won’t press charges.”
A small breath of relief escaped me. But then, he didn’t stop.
“But…”
My stomach dropped. I watched his face, reading the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t meet mine.
“But what?” I asked.
He hesitated. For the first time in my life, he looked unsure.
“But what, Father?” I demanded, a knot forming in my throat.
He sighed and looked up at me, voice barely above a whisper.
“You need to marry her.”
______
Write a comment ...