The Oculesics- Ek Kahaani Junoon Ki

38.

Vote Target - 150.

Nayanika's POV-

I sat in her car, my hands steady on the wheel as I drove from the mall toward Trayambak’s mansion. The air inside the vehicle was too quiet—eerily calm, almost mocking. Then her phone rang. Dhimahi.

I glanced at it but didn’t answer.

“Maybe I am late, that is why she is calling me,” I muttered under my breath.

But in truth, my mind was spiraling. My heart pounding—but not from guilt. From fear.

The mansion's security has no idea. I made sure of it. No cameras. One clean shot. Right through his side. Enough blood to drop a bear.

He is supposed to die. He is supposed to die.

I clenched the steering wheel tighter, swallowing the dread rising up my throat like bile.

As I entered the mansion, trying to wear the face of calm, I called out for Dhimahi. She rushed toward me from the hallway, panic plastered across her face.

Her hands were shaking, voice breaking. She looked like a child caught in a nightmare.

“Mom, where were you? I called you so many times...”

I raised a hand, keeping my tone controlled. "Beta, car chala rahi thi, dhyan nahi diya." ["I was driving, sweetheart, I didn’t notice."]

"Mom, we don’t have time," she choked, reaching for my wrist, "we have to go to the hospital!"

My breath caught. "Hospital? But why?" I asked, the fear in my voice not for him—but for myself.

Her next words turned my blood cold.

“Mom… Dad has been shot,” she whispered. “He’s in the hospital. He’s alive… for now. Trayambak is there with him.”

Alive? Alive?

I felt the world tilt. My knees almost gave out. No no no. He couldn’t be alive. He wasn’t supposed to be alive.

But I had to act. I had to look like a wife losing her world.

I forced my eyes wide, let my lips tremble. "What? Lochan has been shot? Where? Is he okay? Is my Lochan okay, Dhimahi?"

She nodded, barely holding it together.

"I... I don't know anything in detail," she whispered. "Please mom, don’t panic. Dad will be fine. He has to be. He has to come back for us."

I wanted to scream. No. He doesn’t have to come back. He has to stay down. If he wakes up—if he speaks—everything I’ve built will be ashes.

But my performance had to be perfect. So I grabbed her hand, mimicking desperation.

“Chalo beta, jaldi. Bhagwan, please mere Lochan ki raksha karna.” ["Come on, sweetheart, quickly. God, please protect my Lochan."]

God, please don’t.

I felt the tears sting at the corners of my eyes—not for him—but for the thought of prison bars, headlines, disgrace, hatred.

As we rushed toward the car, all I could think was—if he lives, I’m finished.

The hospital was drenched in a sterile chill, the walls smelling of antiseptic and fear. I walked beside Dhimahi, clutching her hand like a mother desperate for strength, when in truth, I was only trying to anchor my own panic.

The blinding white corridors felt suffocating. Each step toward the ICU was like marching to the gallows.

Please let him be dead, I kept chanting in my mind. Let him be gone. Let this be over.