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This starts a couple years after the current DMG track, so just cut off from the March 5th 2010 episode. The one where Rhidz decides to do that climbing thing.
And then forward it five years, now don't kill me! Ok just don't hurt me. PLEASE. I know some of you won't like this, in fact a lot of you probably won't like this, but I had this idea and I had to write it.
SORRY!please like this and if u dnt, please dont hate me!
also this will be reallyyyyy short and unlike that other ff which i started n then stopped well the 2 actually I WILL FINISH THIS ONE!
atleast once a week i will add! and finish! in maybe two months!
*dramtically*: yeh mera vaada hai......
Epilogue Part 1 26
Part 2 30
Entire Story complied on Page 38
PM LIST [if u want to be added, just ask]
HELP!!!! these readers:
are in the pm list, but i believe their username changed, therefore i cant pm u cuz idk what the new one is, sorry!
10. Iqbal Neha1
Five years later'..
He stood in the bangle stall at the bazaar staring at the bangles, not really seeing, lost in his thoughts. 'Armaan, what are you doing here?' he asked himself. It had been six years since he'd set foot in Mumbai. What was he doing back here? There was nothing left for him, nothing but his slowly fading memories of his life here. Of his friends, coworkers, and' her. He could never forget Rhiddima, his love, his jaan. He knew that even if he lost all physical memory of her, his love would somehow still be retained. Maybe that's why he was here, to see her. To make sure she's ok. Five years ago she'd come looking for him, despite his best efforts she'd found him. He'd hid just in time, and he'd watched from afar where later a young man carried her away in his arms. He'd felt a pang in his heart then, wishing that could be him again. Wishing it could be him holding her his arms, but he'd known it wasn't possible. So he'd left, he'd run away again. In the present Armaan laughed sardonically, how many times had he run away? One, two, three? He'd lost count; it seemed his circumstances had turned him into a coward. Now here he stood, in the middle of a bazaar in Mumbai, too much of a coward to go and meet one of his old friends, too much of a coward to go see her.
He came out of his thoughts when in his head a faint song started playing:
asmani rang hooo.........pyaaar ki boond hoo......roshni hoo dhup hooo chahaton ki gunj ho aanchal mein hain phanak chandni haathon mein woh chand hain gairon se bhi hain waastan apno mein pehchaan hain
He whipped his head around, why was this happening? Was she here? No, 'no you idiot, she's not here, it's just you, thinking about her and going crazy again. She's not here''
He looked at the bangles wistfully again; they would look so lovely on her wrists. Through the rows of bangles he could see a woman, her hair whipping around as she shook her head, throwing it back to laugh. The laugh sounded so familiar'. "Rhiddima?" he whispered, 'no- no you idiot! It's not her!' he turned away, ready to head off.
"Madam, do you want this inscribed with your name?"
Rhiddima looked at the man quizzically, why would she want to label a pot with her name?
"why?" she asked, confused. "well madam, it's not uncommon for things like this to be stolen." Rhiddima laughed at the thought of a thief coming to their house to steal her steel utensils, "ok then!" she said, "let's do that!" she wondered what Sid would have to say about her name on their utensils, Mr. Houston had probably never heard of anything like that before, heck she hadn't, how would he?
"what's your name madam?" the store clerk asked.
"Rhiddima." She said, "Mrs. Rhiddima Modi! And please write that whole name!"
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Armaan's heart stopped beating when he heard that name. Rhiddima. What were the chances that of all the girls in Mumbai the one in the next stall was named Rhiddima? 'O fate,' he mused, 'oh so cruel.' He'd thought for a minute that she had been his Rhiddima, but then the light voice with which she'd said Mrs. Rhiddima Modi had convinced him he was wrong.
Something a protective, possessive instinct in him refused to admit that yes- she could have moved on. She could be married, she could be a mother, she could be happy- without him. He refused to admit that Rhiddima, his Rhiddima would ever enjoy calling herself someone else's wife. 'It's not her Armaan,' he told himself, ready to leave again, but something kept him rooted in his spot. He had to see, he had to make sure; he had to see the woman behind the veil of bangles. He had just stepped out of the stall when he saw the excited face of a young man running towards him. It was the same man from five years ago, the same guy that had carried away Armaan's Rhiddima in his arms. And here he was again, yelling, "Rhidi!"
Rhiddima turned in the direction the voice was coming from, she saw Siddhant racing towards her with a thrilled expression, holding something in his hand. He slid to a stop next to her, and held it up. "Look what I found! Man I love these bazaars!"
Rhiddima looked at the small child's dress he held,
"Siddhant, I hate to break it to you, but we have a girl," she said grinning at the small boy's outfit he held.
"Rhiddi, I know that. This is for Yuvi and Naina's baby,"
"But we don't even know if it is a boy! It's not even born yet!" Rhiddima replied.
"It'll be a boy; trust me. You and Naina can turn Ashita into a girly girl, but my nephew's going to be a rock star!" he said determinedly.
"Siddhant, you-" Rhiddima was interrupted by the arrival of her newly engraved pressure cooker, she held in her hands grinning as Sid paid.
As they left the stall, Rhiddima paused and said pointing to her name on the cooker, "Sid, look."
Siddhant glanced at it, and then leaned in for a closer look, "Rhiddi…why is your name engraved on our pressure cooker?"
Rhiddima smiled knowingly, "well, Mr. Houston, it is not uncommon for utensils to be stolen from houses here in India. In fact-"
"Nooo, please not another one of those India lectures! Chalo, we have to get home, it's already 6!" Siddhant interrupted. Taking the bags from her he grabbed her hand with his free one and headed towards where he had parked the car.
Neither of them noticed that when they passed a bangle store, there had been a broken man standing there. Tears threatening to spill from his eyes, Armaan headed to the taxi stand nearby. His heart unwilling to accept what he had just witnessed. It was her, SHE was Mrs. Rhiddima Modi, she was Rhiddi, she… she wasn't Basket anymore. Armaan didn't know what to do, so he headed to the one place that had always sheltered him. Getting in a taxi he directed the driver to the basketball court.
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