Jaanam
IG Tarun Ahlawat (Drishyam 2, 2022) x fem reader
A/N - TRIGGER WARNINGS for mentions of SA and Police Brutality. Once again, my reader is primarily set as a darker-skinned, chubbier woman. But I will keep physical descriptions as vague as possible so that everyone may enjoy it. Please make sure to comment and reblog if possible.
If one were to ever venture into the private sphere of IG Tarun Ahlawat's bungalow, they would find rows upon rows of jasmine flowers - or mogra as they were called - kept in small pots around the house, or planted across the garden just around the bungalow. Doctors often recommended them for their calming effect on stress. Unfortunately for the IG, both him and his wife needed it.
It had been another long day for Tarun. He had gone for a visit to the Salgaonkars, hoping to intimidate them under the pretext of making a friendly visit. Yet, he managed to return home earlier than expected, carrying the lunchbox his wife had sent over earlier, now empty.
He freshened up quickly after his return, his steps carrying him to their garden, now clad in a pair of pyjamas, a polo t-shirt and his favourite chappals. He could see her, kneeling by one of the jasmine bushes, tending to it.
He cleared his throat, not wanting to startle her. Most people had their own demons. Most women even more so. And sometimes, their demons came in the form of men. The demons arrived, and they scratched away into the minds of their victims, leaving behind injuries that refused to ever truly heal, even if decades passed between.
Hearing his familiar sound, she turned, nodding at him with a soft smile. A streak of dirt marred her forehead, her entire face dotted with sweat. The humid weather of Pondolem was not helpful at all.
Tarun took off his chappals, stepping into the grass barefoot as he approached her. It was grounding. His shoulders relaxed almost instantly, the scent of the jasmine flowers starting their work almost immediately.
"I went by your office today," his wife finally spoke, slowly standing up, "Aapka lunch lekey. Aapkey ek constable ne bataya aap bahar gaye ho. Kahan they aap?”
He looked at her light green, bengal taant saree, the pleats of it mussed and messed up from how long she must have kneeling there, caring for their plants. He was distracted, his mind wandering from bud to butterflies to the bees then the leaves... until he finally answered, looking back at her.
"Hmm? Main? Kahin gaya tha. Kisise milney. Sorry aap ko aj mil nahi paya main," he slowly spoke, his hands reaching out to gently take one of her hands, still streaked with mud near her elbow's underside. He carefully pulled her hand, she stepped forward, her eyes trained on him as he brushed off the dirt of her face and elbow.
"Kisse milney gaye they aap?”
"Salgaonkar parivaar se," he smiled. Not the kind smile that was reserved for her and a rare few others, but the purely professional one he reserved for anyone he interacted with at his workspace. He sat down on one of the garden chairs, pulling her down with him to sit on his lap. She protested, immediately moving to sit on the chair beside him. It made him frown, but he adjusted, making do with her insistent refusal on not putting her body weight atop his, by grabbing her legs and pulling them over his lap.
She didn't protest, but instead she held onto their conversation, "kyun?”
"Bas aisehi," he spoke as if he was talking about why he smoked his favourite Marlboro Black over something else, too casual to the apathy that often grew in people like him after staying at their jobs long enough. "Sundar parivaar hay unka," he continued, huffing.
"You know, well, I don't like this," she protested, the same as she had a couple of times ever since he got posted at Pondolem, "you sending shadow police, tapping their entire home, violating their privacy. Now you are intimidating them, Tarun. Ye saab thik nahi hay”
"Unhoney galti ki hay. Sazaa toh milni chahiye unhey. They didn't come forward when they killed Sam.”
"Tarun, you and I both read the case file. Sam videoed that young girl. That is a crime. And he wanted to get away with it because he is rich and his mother was the IG back then. Uska kya?”
"Well, if Sam was blackmailing Anju, they should have come to us," he shrugged. His hands left her ankles, moving in his pocket to get out a cigarette and his lighter. He lit his cigarette, staring at the lighter as the flame flicked open and then put itself away - numerous eyes were etched onto it - she had made it herself, using air dry clay. He liked using it, making sure to fill it up with lighter fluid instead of throwing away his lighters like he usually did.
"Tarun," she sighed, pulling away her legs from his lap. They have had this conversation a couple times before. He never understood. She would still like to repeat herself, the entire case and the treatment of the Salgaonkar family at the hands of the police stuck in her throat like a sharp fishbone, digging in more, the longer the case stretched on. He didn't appreciate her pulling away. He simply grabbed her legs, pulling them back on his lap, one hand gently rubbing the payals on her ankles and he went back to smoking, as if this was a normal conversation for them.
She continued, even if her heart wanted to be distracted by him - his arms under that polo, that calm expression on his face, the way he smoked - "Tumhe pata hay woh log kyun nahi aa paye. Look at the way sexual assault survivors are treated in our country, how the judiciary stretches on the cases. Things like this get even more complicated when caste and class get involved. Kaun karta uss bacchi ka madaat? Gaitonde? Jisko dal chawal se zyada rishwat khana pasand hay? Ya phir tumhari dost Meera, joh abhi bhi apney betey ki kiyi hui galti ko accept hi nahi kar payi kyunki woh unka beta hay?”
He listened to her, taking another drag of his cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs, the nicotine induced haze lulling him into a sense of languidness. There were very few people who would reprimand him, or even put their opposing opinion before him - his wife topped that list.
"Tum meri baat sun bhi rahey ho?" She asked rhetorically, although well aware of the answer. She just wanted him to respond with something, anything.
"Sun raha hoon," he finally looked at her. His hand on her ankles pulled one of her legs up, his mouth leaning down to press a soft kiss on her feet.
"Tarun," came her protest, which he shushed out, "Aap kuch keh rahi thi? I am listening.”
She huffed, "my point is, no one would have helped her. Not with Meera being the IG, and Sam being the culprit. Maybe they didn't even want to kill him. Sayad accidentally ho gaya ho.”
“One wrong does not immediately fix another wrong. And he got murdered,” Tarun finally spoke, tapping away at the ashes. They fell on the grass, disintegrating, “had the Salgaonkar family come forward, we would have perhaps been more lenient with them. But they lied.”
She listened to him, with the same grace and calm that he listened to her with. She knew that her husband was partially right. The entire case was not as black and white as she viewed it to be. Perhaps she was more emotionally involved, despite her physical distance from the entire ordeal. Perhaps she felt more empathy for Anju, having faced sexual assault at a young age herself like Anju too.
“Aur mujhe Meera ka bhi sochna hoga,” Tarun continued, dropping the cigarette onto the grass, watching the lit tip slowly extinguish, “woh dost hay meri. Her son was murdered. As her friend, it is my responsibility that I help her get justice.”
His words made her take a deep breath. She nodded, reaching out to brush her fingers against the corner of his polo’s collar. He gazed at her, his breath fanning against her forehead. She looked up as well, meeting his gaze, “I am proud of you for being such a good friend to Meera. Agara hamara koi baccha hota aur uskey saath aisa kuch hota toh sayad, I, too would have expected her to do for us, what you are doing for them. But somewhere along, kuch thik nahi laag raha, Tarun. Anju ko PTSD hay. That child suffers from epileptic seizures. Hum dono ko pata hay ki it is because of what happened during the previous investigation. Tumhe khud mujhe padh k sunaya tha Jenny ka report. I know mujhe ye koi haq nahi banta - Meera Sam ki ma hay… none of us will ever feel the depth of her grief and anger… lekin don't you think it is time that Meera lets go. She will never find peace if she continues down this path.”
He nodded. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. He was worried for his friend too. But he knew that speaking too much about this case would only bring more stress to the two of them. He couldn't help but lean closer, his lips brushing against her own, “let’s drop it. Hmm? Discussing this case never really gets better. You have your views. I have my duty.”
His words made her purse her lips. He was right. They would never agree on this and it would lead nowhere. She nodded, leaning to press another kiss to his lips. He savoured the kiss, his other hand trailing to gently grab her at the nape of her neck. When he felt her pull away, he let go, tucking a strand of her hair behind her instead, “Aapka tabiyat kaisi hay aaj? BP check kiya?”
“Thik hay,” she nodded, “BP bhi thik hi hay. Aj kahin bahar chalein? You are home early.”
And he found himself smiling at that.
It was past 8 when the two found themselves at the beach, hands held together, walking barefoot. Tourists were scattered here and there, less in number due to it being off season. They could hear music come in from a pub nearby, the live band playing inside.
“Khana accha tha na?” She asked, remembering the meal they had just shared at a restaurant that opened recently.
“Hmm. I liked their lemon butter fish. Aapka birthday aa raha hay. Yahan celebrate karney aana chahengi?” He pulled her closer, leaving her hand to wrap her shoulders instead.
She leaned her head by his shoulders, even as they walked by the beach, this time changing their direction to walk towards the ocean. She could feel the waves crashing and breaking near her feet, touching the hem of her saree.
“I was hoping for perhaps a weekend getaway. It's been a while since we went somewhere,” she spoke, as the two came to a stop, enjoying the breeze, the moonlight, the waves breaking at their feet, their ankles dipped in the water.
“Just a weekend gateway?” He could help but ask, voice lower than usual, his nose nuzzling against her temple. His arms moved from her shoulders, wrapping themselves lightly around her neck.
It made her smile, her cheeks almost aching as she tried to suppress it.
“Hmm? Jaan?” He asked again, this time tilting her chin up, her eyes hooded with something deeper than love and adoration.
“Dhaat. Aap bhi na,” she suddenly pushed him away, and with a burst, she was running, barefoot by the water, one hand pulling her saree up. He laughed, his dimples showing. It was nice to see her so happy, even between everything that their lives entailed. He chose to give her a few seconds as a headstart, to make her feel that she would win. It was more fun that way. When she had gotten a few metres away from him, he leaped into action, running after her laughing self, chasing her down. It didn't take him long to catch up with her.She let out a shriek, trying to increase her pace as she felt him just behind her. His hands reached out to wrap around her waist, almost lifting her and then bringing her close.
“Pakad liya,” he was triumphant, a shit eating grin on his face.
“Gande,” she hit his chest, the force light, the blow barely brushing him, “bure,” she hit him again, “aap mujhe kabhi jeetney nahi detey ho.”
“Jaan, aapney hamara dil jeet liya. Atleast ye toh haamey jeetney dey,” he gently grabbed her wrist, pressing a kiss to her knuckles instead.
“Ha toh aapney hamara dil nahi jeeta kya?” She asked him, pouting, even though her round cheeks threatened to curve into a smile.
“Accha ji?” He pulled her closer.
“Hanji,” she nodded. He immediately leaned down, sealing their lips together. This time hungrier. She responded with equal enthusiasm, freeing her wrist from his grip to pull him close by his collar. He stepped closer, wrapping his hand around her waist.
Somewhere in the distance, someone whistled. They immediately pulled away. He looked up with a cold glare. There were a few teenagers nearby.
“Nice going, Uncle,” one of them whistled.
“Biwi hay meri,” he stared at them.
“Tarun,” her eyes grew wider and she pulled him away.
“Kya?” He protested, “can’t a man kiss his wife?”
“Ghar chalo aap,” she pulled at him, walking towards their car.
The drive back home was silent, even if his hands trailed from the gear to holding her thighs. It had been close to a decade to their marriage, yet somehow it felt like they were still young. He liked going on dates with her. He liked putting things up on the top shelf so that she would call him to get them for her. He liked tightening the mouths of the jars, so she would barge in randomly at his home office to get opened. He liked getting her those shitty chicken sandwiches from Martin’s corner that she seemed to adore. He loved her. He knew he wasn't the most expressive man. Neither was he the easiest to be with. But he wanted her to feel her safest and happiest with her. So even after a decade of marriage, he tried his best, the same way she did. Love was not easy. Neither was marriage. But with the right person, all the work was worth it.
In their bedroom, two bodies laid tangled against one another, asleep. It rained outside accompanied by thunder. Suddenly, a mobile rang. Tarun groggily woke up, taking the call.
“Hello?” The person on the other end of the call spoke something. In an instant, all sleep evaded him. He felt suddenly alert.
Carefully, he left the bed, not wishing to wake his wife. In the darkness, he dressed, eyes cold. He did not notice when she stirred awake. Her hand reached out and the bedside lamp was switched on. She sat up, a sheet pulled up to her chest, “Kahan jaa rahey ho aap?”
“There is someone at the station. He knows where Sam’s body is,” he answered with a deep sigh, putting on his watch. She sat up, grabbing her night robe.
“It's ok,” he stopped her, sitting beside her as he put on his socks, “stay. Get back to sleep. I will lock the door on my way out.”
She refused with a soft shake of her head. He walked down the stairs and out the main doors, everything falling into place in his head. Before getting in the car, he pressed his lips to her knuckles, “make sure to lock up well. Don't wait for me.”
She watched from their porch, letting his car get out of her sight before walking in. Tarun was heading towards a battle. But this time around, she was not sure if he would win. Neither was she sure, if she would like him to win this time.
