Chapter 13: The Mark of Love

The ride home was peaceful. Veeresh played soft music and occasionally glanced at Poornima, who looked out the window, her fingers lightly touching the edge of her saree. He loved how calm she looked in this moment — as if the world around them was slowing down just for the two of them.

They reached home, and the driveway was full.

Relatives had come — aunts, uncles, cousins — loud chatter, tea brewing, and laughter echoing from the verandah.

As Poornima stepped in with Veeresh, a few of his cousins and one of the elder aunties, Khala, noticed the slight curve of her birthmark near her neck, peeking out from under her saree’s pallu.

Khala smirked and said loudly,

“Arrey, Poornima… this mark is still there? From childhood I remember teasing you — it looks like someone slapped you with haldi!”

Others chuckled. One cousin added,

“Even after marriage, it hasn’t faded!”

Their laughs echoed.

Poornima froze.

That birthmark — something she was mocked for her whole life, something she’d tried to cover, something she hated — it came rushing back.

She quietly turned and walked toward the room, not saying a word.

The smiles on the family’s faces dimmed as Veeresh stood still, eyes fixed on Khala.

His voice was calm, but firm.

“Enough, Khala. It’s a birthmark. Not a flaw. Don’t make fun of her again — not even jokingly.”

Everyone went silent.

His mother looked at him with silent pride in her eyes.

Without another word, Veeresh followed Poornima.

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She stood near the window in their room, her back facing the door. Her hands clenched, eyes moist.

Veeresh entered quietly, walked up behind her, and gently turned her around.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned forward, pushed her hair aside, and softly kissed the birthmark.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“I love every part of you, Poornima. Don’t ever listen to anyone. Especially not to people who don’t understand you.”

She looked at him — eyes still wet, lips slightly parted.

He leaned in and kissed her deeply, passionately — not just out of love, but as if sealing his promise to protect her, to cherish her, to never let the world’s cruel words touch her again.

This time, Poornima responded — not out of confusion, but clarity.

They broke into a soft laugh, foreheads touching.

Poornima whispered,

“You really are my best friend, Veeresh…”

He grinned,

“And your husband, begum. Never forget that.”

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