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First of all...Eid Mubarak!!! I wanted to have a special update for Eid, but there's too much going on right now, so I'll probably post one in a couple of days- and it shall be full of Arhi, I can promise that :)
This was seriously one of the hardest chapters I've ever written...I have no idea if I've been able to do justice to the complexity of Anjali's character...she's as broken by her past as Arnav, so yeah, I ended up with a headache after I was done. Sorry for any mistakes- this was done in a hurry...Please let me know how you thought this one went...
Chapter Thirty Nine
It was very quiet in the mandir of Shantivan.
This was not unusual. It was well before time for the morning aarti; the sun had only just peeped its drowsy head over the horizon, spreading its reddish fingers over the stretch of land lying asleep below. Everything was still, silent, in the temple, the only signs of life the swaying flames of the diyas alight before the idol of Devi Maiyya.
Even the woman sitting before the idol, staring intently at the serenely smiling face, appeared to blend into the scene, so immobile she could easily be mistaken as the statue of a devotee, unwavering in her submissiveness, gazing expectantly, devoutly, dutifully, at the goddess. If one chanced by the mandir at this moment, they might not even have noticed her, ensconced in the silence of the dim morning, none of the lights switched on yet, none of the curtains drawn aside.
No one could tell by looking at her now that there was a tempest ranting and raving tirelessly within her, peace a sorry stranger.
But here, at least, she was not alone. The desolation that haunted her like a phantom had for once been dispelled by that aura of ethereal bliss that enveloped her whenever she stepped into the domain of Devi Maiyya. Shadows danced across the idol's gently smiling face, cast by the flickering flames of the diyas Anjali had carefully fed with oil moments before, making her look almost eerily alive. Anjali could definitely feel her presence; perhaps she was being fanciful, but that notion, that conviction, allowed her to draw the strength that had been hopelessly amiss in the past three weeks.
The strength to face reality.
Anjali still believed, with defiant defensiveness, that opting to ignore realism, residing instead in a kinder, compassionate realm, albeit in her mind, was not a vice. How could one be blamed for trying to escape the ugly visage of truth, leering out at her, promising nothing but devastation, calamity? No, Anjali did not believe that weaving a fantasy for herself as she had done, as she could no longer deny she had done, was a crime.
There was one sin that Anjali could accuse herself of, however.
That sin was cowardice.
Yes, Anjali hung her head in shame before Devi Maiyya, almost expecting that glow in her eyes, reflecting the flickering light of the diyas, to transform to one of disappointment, reproach. Yes, Anjali had been a coward. And her cowardice had brought her here, in the heart of a gigantic spider's web she had aided unknowingly to spin, each strand a lie she had fabricated helplessly, fabricated instinctively, in an ill-fated attempt to keep her world intact. And now, she was caught in that same web, helpless as a fly trapped by the invisible threads, left to struggle feebly, or await the arrival of its predator.
She couldn't control herself. One lie followed fast in the footsteps of another, tripping helplessly from her lips, the reins of control having slipped out of her numb hands when the pillar of her existence had crumbled. The one man whom she had trusted her life with...had conspired to steal it from her. Had wanted to kill her.
The memory was still fresh, the wound still bleeding, the pain raw, stinging.
Anjali Singh Raizada did not need her mobile phone to replay the one scene that revolved within her head, committed to memory as though seared into the inner walls of her skull. Five minutes and two seconds of footage...that ripped off the magician's cloak, revealing a bag of cheap, two-penny magic tricks that she had been gullible enough to believe.
In those five minutes, two seconds of footage, she had more than she could have bargained for.
There was no mistaking the car. It was one of their cars. One of the cars that Chote had acquisitioned for the use of the family, primarily for her, so that she could visit mandirs or go shopping or visit friends and relatives at will, without any hassle, without having to seek permission from him every time she sought to venture out.
In fact, it was the same car Anjali had embarked on the day of Akash's wedding.
The same car that had been involved in a fatal accident. An accident which had passed dangerously close to being deadly. Life threatening.
Yes. It was undoubtedly that same car. And even if Anjali had mistaken the car, she could not mistake the backdrop in the video, in spite of the distance from which the clip was obviously taken, in spite of the way the flashing, moving images across the screen wobbled as though the arm of the man who had captured them had been unsteady.
It was Shantivan. The car was parked outside the gates of what was indisputably her home.
But it was neither the car nor its location that had piqued the camera-man's interest. The object of his attention had been obvious, unmistakeable. The lense of the camera must have zoomed to its fullest extent, the slow, wide arc it swept across indicating the cautious movements of its wielder as he moved to a spot offering a better, uninterrupted view, while remaining out of sight himself. And his efforts had borne fruit.
For there, in those five minutes and two seconds of precious time captured, bottled and made immemorial, irrefutable, was the man Anjali had known as her husband, sprawled on all fours beside the vehicle.
Busily tinkering away with something underneath it.
Wearing the same clothes he had worn that day...that day when he had seen her off on the eve of her pilgrimage to the temples around the city, the same clothes that he had been wearing when he had embraced her in goodbye...she had seen his gestures as solicitous then, as tenderly affectionate, befitting a doting, loving husband...
Anjali had always been very adept at ignoring things. She did not do it deliberately, never on purpose. It was as though time had conditioned her mind in such a way that whenever anything threatened to tip over the flimsy life-raft she clung to, it would erase the threat from existence, choose not to see it. A worthy alternative would always be ready and waiting to take its place. And three weeks ago, that was exactly what she had happened.
She could not deny that the car was her car. She could not deny that the edifice it stood before was her home. She could not deny that the man evidently sabotaging the vehicle was her husband. The same husband who had, moments later, made her blush straight to the roots of her hair whispering sweet nothings in her ear before bidding her adieu.
But she had tried. Tried to deny to it all. Because that was the only way she could survive. She had lied to the man she had considered her husband for three years, lied that she had not seen proof, proof which no amount of sceptical scrutiny could refute. And that had only been the beginning.
She had begun to lie to herself.
For instance, that day, three weeks ago, when Anjali had hobbled out of the bedroom and found herself rooted to the spot outside the slightly open door, she had lied to herself that she only wanted confirmation for her insubstantial theory. The theory that the man whose one phone call had planted that deadly seed of doubt in her mind, the saplings already budding open, was merely a spiteful, vengeful creature, hoping to siphon money out of her husband with his despicable, outrageous slander. She had told herself that she only wanted to quieten her enraged heart, pumping blood around her body so hard that she felt feverish, cold beads of perspiration clinging to her icy skin as she shivered, chanting her belief in her husband over and over again even while the rest of her body contradicted her, remaining frozen in place, each of her senses razor-sharpened as she waited.
Even now, Anjali could hear the timbre of that voice that she had once found mesmerising, the voice that had tweaked at her heart, made it grow wings, made her feel like the princess in those fairy-tales she adored in her childhood. But the words which bounced along inside her mind, kicking up a strident din which jarred her senses, made her head feel as though it would burst from the pain, were not of the honey-coated, butterfly-light tenor she was used to.
The barely suppressed, bristling wrath, that icy-cold vindictiveness that veneered each and every syllable had made her soul recoil in fear that was lethal.
'How dare you threaten me, ME, you low-life! Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do to you if I get my hands on you?' Silence. 'So? How are you going to prove that? No one here is going to believe you- you are already quite infamous in the Delhi police stations...one phone call, and they will confirm that you're a criminal I had put in jail, and now you're out to get revenge...'
Anjali had felt faint then, faint with relief, faint from having the invention of a mind in denial confirmed, as though a hammer had decisively tapped the head of a nail, fixing it into place. She had fallen back against the wall, knees weak, breathing deeply, a tiny, unnoticed part of her cringing with guilt, unable to overlook the fact that it had allowed her comatose mind to nurture that seed of doubt, allowed it to sprout.
And then his voice had risen again. And this time, Anjali could barely recognise it. Underneath that frigid fury, she could detect the tremors of panic. He sounded suddenly frantic.
'I will have you arrested for blackmail! I will have you hanged!' And then...
'No! No, please, please don't send that video to him...he'll kill me...what do you want me to do...I'll have your records cleared...cleared of all charges...
'What? How much? I- I don't have that kind of money...no, wait! Dammit, I don't have any cash of my own! Why do you think I'm staying here- as the Raizaidas' dog? Do you think I enjoy crawling up to them for money, enjoy this humiliation?'
He was getting louder- Anjali did not have to strain her ears much to catch what he was saying anymore. But Anjali was benumbed. Anjali was paralysed. Her mind had dug in its heels and ground to an obstinate halt. It did not notice the sudden switch in his tone, as though something had snapped- from breathless pleading to manic rage, bitter resentment. It refused to note the acidic viscosity in that voice, so different from the one she knew. It refused to note the wounded, throbbing powerlessness in that voice, a powerlessness which its owner clearly loathed. It refused to note the venom, the climbing fury, the abandonment of composure, the loss of self-control.
'Hah! Just because they are so ostentatious about their wealth doesn't mean they give it away for free!'
'Yes, yes, I hate it! I hate them, I hate all of them! So what? What are you going to do about it?'
Anjali felt herself unravelling. A haze had lowered itself before her eyes; she could not see. Her ribcage seemed to have constricted; she could not breathe. Something tightened like an iron shackle about her neck, smothering her. Blood had seeped out of her veins, a thousand cubes of ice tumbling into her stomach...the cold made her numb, raised goosebumps up her skin...
If she had been in better control of herself, perhaps she would have noticed that the voice rising higher and higher with its embittered professions sounded almost maniacal. Almost...unhinged. Hysterical.
'Yes! Yes, I tried to kill her! So what? She's not dead, is she? So how are you going to prove that I was trying to kill her? How? You won't be able to, you'll never be able to! She trusts me more than anyone else in this world, she'll swallow whatever lie I feed her! Yes, even if she sees that godforsaken video! I will ruin you, ruin you- I will make you rue the day you decided to cross my path!'
And yet, later that same evening, Shyam Manohar Jha had sweetly requested a cheque of ten lakh rupees for the treatment of a gravely injured friend, already suffering from a life-threatening disease that required prompt surgery. With profuse apologies and reassurances that if only the matter had not been at such short notice, he would not have deemed it right to bother her.
She had not heard of this friend, the caller, or the five lakhs, ever since.
And what had Anjali done? She had done nothing. As the hideous face of reality had shed its cloak in an elaborate flourish, Anjali had retreated further into her makeshift refuge. Her mind had severed its ties with reason. Her sin was cowardice. She was too afraid to learn more. Afraid that if the few missing pieces of the puzzle only partially assembled materialised, the image it would create would destroy the very foundation her world hinged upon. That it would confirm beyond doubt that she had been living a lie.
So Anjali had not tried to find those pieces. She had not tried to find out why her husband wanted to kill her. She had not tried to find out where the five lakh rupees had gone. She had not tried to find out who the man was whose one phone call had upset the balance between heaven and hell. She had gone on with life as though nothing had happened.
Why? Because she was afraid. Because she did not know what to do. Because for once the decision lay with her, a vital, crucial decision on which hinged far more than she was willing to wager. This time, she would not be playing only the role of the victim. This time, she held the key which would unlock a Pandora's box of catastrophes upon the people she held closest to her heart. And the fear crippled her. Spurred by a reflex no different from snatching one's hand back from naked flame, Anjali responded to the knock of reality on the doors of her conscience by elucidating what ought to be the truth, instead of the truth itself.
She had lied about calling her husband. She had not spoken to him once since he had left.
She had lied about his saying he was going to return soon. She had no idea where he had gone, or when he would come back.
Even when Khushi had asked her to call him, that day when they had both emerged from her appointment with the gynaecologist, she had, without thinking, without stopping to question why, found herself punching in her old number, de-activated now, knowing there was no way anyone would pick up. She had lied glibly, lied with ease. He was busy, he was engrossed in his work and therefore not reachable.
The truth, which she had trampled underfoot till it was out of sight, had been simple enough. She had not called him at all. She had not tried.
Because in her heart she housed that almost burning desire that he never return.
But enough was enough. Perhaps without his constant sickly shadow enshrouding her, Anjali felt safer in taking the first tentative steps out of her make-believe world, gallant enough to face the threat whose constant presence had petrified her into a state of perpetual limbo. Without the need to constantly be on her guard lest her carefully created defence system slip, Anjali could harness the strength to switch the lights back on her jaded existence without fearing what she might have to see.
He would return someday. And when he did, he would bring that unspoken menace with him. And she could not pretend it wasn't there. Because the jammed clockwork of her brain had been thrust into momentum with the relief of his absence, and Anjali had finally seen one undeniable fact.
She was not the only one at risk. If the man who professed to love her more than life itself went so far as to kill her, went so far as to hate the family he supposedly venerated...then everyone she loved was in danger.
Including her child. Her poor, innocent, unborn child.
Something needed to be done. Anjali had to tell someone.
Because every time Anjali had watched that video clip, one fact had been confirmed again and again and again.
And that fact was this. She despised the man named Shyam Manohar Jha- the one man that posed a threat to everything she lived for.
Anjali Singh Raizada prayed to Devi Maiyya for strength.
Khushi was seated on one edge of the bed in the room she had shared with Jiji, before the two of them had gotten married.
Beside her was a small bag, packed with the few things she would need for her short stay at Buaji's house. Khushi had been in the process of rifling through the clothes she had stuffed inside in a hurry that morning, searching for the mithai Naniji had sent with her to give to Buaji, when her efforts were stalled by the discovery of a little black cardboard box.
Khushi did not know what had made her sneak it out of the hiding place she had taken particular pains to create inside the closet, back in Shantivan. She simply remembered that, the minute she had clapped eyes on the seemingly insignificant, ordinary looking cardboard box, her hand had shot out as though on impulse and buried it beneath the few changes in attire she had packed.
In the past month, Khushi had often found herself staring at this box on more than one occasion. It had resided in one corner of the trunk she used to keep her things in. She used to stare at it, stare at it with a strange, almost pathetic, wistfulness which clutched about her heart like a fist, wringing it, as though in the futile hope of mending the severed connection between herself and it. For her, it was like a relic, a sad little token from a lost time, a lost world, one which she had grown to believe she would never find again. Back then, little more than a soulless, hollow shell, numb, unfeeling, with the wreckage of the past smoking behind her and the drear of a bleak future stretching endlessly before her, Khushi had never been able to pluck up the courage to lift the lid of that box. She was not sure she could survive the deluge of memories that were bound to come crashing back the minute she did, gut-wrenching, dealing blows upon blows upon her, mocking her pointless existence with remembrances of a more beautiful age gone irretrievably by.
Today, as Khushi pulled the same box out of her bag, it took her less than a second to yank off its lid.
And nestled within the dark-coloured tissue paper, twinkling merrily up at her, were several bands of glass, bright scarlet and gold.
Her most treasured possession.
Well...after the kangans enclosing her wrists.
Her favourite bangles...
The first gift he had given her.
The tips of her fingers grazed gently over the bangles, a faraway look stealing into her eyes, a vague smile lifting up her lips. None of the trepidation, none of the dread that she anticipated visited her. Instead, the locomotives of Khushi's mind, puffing indolently, lazily, chugged back in time to when Arnav had bid her goodbye before leaving for work.
To the goodbye kiss that he had bestowed upon her cheek before he had left. On the veranda in front of the house. Probably in full view of the whole street. And then he had locked eyes with her once, whispering 'Afternoon. Don't forget.'
The horde of butterflies, the tenants clustering about her heart, exploded into a flurry, spinning in cartwheels and loop-the-loops, making her feel so light she might have flown, so giddy that tears had gathered in her eyes. Tears of happiness.
She loved him. She loved him.
She was in love.
What had Jiji said about love?
... you know you love someone...I mean really love someone...when they don't just become a habit. Because habits can be broken, habits can be forgotten, over time... when you fall in love with someone, that person becomes a necessity...that person becomes necessary for you to live, for you to survive...
Was he a habit? Was she used to him? Definitely not. Why else, whenever he got close to her, whenever he gazed at her with his tender yet playful, adoring yet mischievous eyes, whenever he touched her, pulled her towards him...why else did she feel, every single time, that there was no one else in the world except the two of them? Why else did she feel as though she was being scorched by fire with which she would willingly set herself alight? Why else did she feel countless electrfying thrills rampaging through her, her dhak dhak clamouring with every intent of breaking free of the prison of her body? Why did he, only he, make her feel like that? This strange, this unknown exhilaration...she could never, never get used to this...
Was he a necessity? Could she not live without him, survive without him? The answer was obvious. It had always been. She couldn't. She needed him, needed him to keep breath in her body, a beat to her heart. Why else would she feel pain, acute, bitter, jagged pain, clawing at her from within, shredding her apart, when even the shadow of it flickered in his eyes? Why else would one smile upon his lips make her feel as though life had suddenly been set alight with colour, all those vivid shades she adored? Why else, now, perhaps only half an hour after he had left, and with the prospect of seeing him again in a matter of a few hours, did Khushi feel this nagging feeling of being incomplete, of inexplicable impatience, eagerness, anticipation?
She missed him.
She loved him.
Khushi felt a rather crazy urge to leap to her feet and twirl about. Already, only moments before, she had spent a good five minutes waltzing with a vehemently protesting Buaji about the room, singing Pyar Huwa, Ikraar Huwa Hai at the top of her lungs, not bothered by Buaji's pointed exasperation, unaware of Payal taking a video recording of her antics, of Amma and Bauji laughing heartily away. It all felt so right. Everything felt so right.
Even now, as Khushi slipped the bangles on to her wrist, her haste making them jingle cheerily, it felt right. She did not wait to understand why, did not know what made her do so, as she shook her wrists before her eyes delightedly, a wide smile stretching across her face. If felt right to listen to her heart, do what her heart told her, just as she had always done, always used to do.
Her Bauji had been right. She had only needed to listen to her heart. It had all the answers.
Still smiling away, Khushi stuck her fist into one of the side-pockets of her bag, rummaging around for a little piece of paper that she had slipped in there before leaving. A piece of paper she could not bring herself to leave without.
It was Maa's blessing for her, after all.
She unfolded it almost reverently, fancying the warmth of the hand that had scrawled the letters now engraved into the parchment of her mind smoothing over her forehead, resting on her head, pulling her into its comforting shelter.
"Hamare Chote ki bahu ke naam,
Waise to hum ye kangan aapko khud hi pehnane waale hain.
Par aapko ek raaz ki baat bataani hai, isiliye likh rahe hain. Dhyaan rakhiyega. Aur savdhaan rahiyega.
Hamare chote ki naak pe bahut saara gussa rehta hai. Aur dil mein...dil mein bahut saara pyaar.
Gussa bardasht karna. Aur pyar...pyar sood samet lautana".
She could not see him punish himself any longer. It hurt. It hurt so bad. Khushi could not bring herself to look back, back into the past. Not when the present, the future, decked with flowers, brightly aglow, warmly lit, beckoned her forward. She did not know whether she thought he deserved to suffer, whether she thought she deserved compensation for time she had lost. Right now, none of that mattered.
All that mattered was that she loved him, and time was too precious. Bauji had been right.
If you let yourself live in the past, you will end up wasting your present, because no matter how much we want we cannot go back to the past to change it... And the same goes for thinking about what could have happened, but didn't- thinking about it only wears away at your present, bitiya, losing precious time...
Maa was up there, sitting amidst the stars with her parents, watching her, watching him, looking over them...she had given her a responsibility, to cherish the existence of her son, to fill the void that had gaped open in his life...
Aur pyar...pyar sood samet lautana...
Khushi suddenly grinned broadly.
An ingenious plan had struck her.
Arnav Singh Raizada was not the only one who could give surprises.
The next chapter is gonna be a sort of Eid special update, with both Khushi and Arnav's surprises to each other. Oh, and well, Anji might do a few things that are unexpected too :P
Please do comment...I've replied to a huge chunk of comments since the last update, and I hope to get round to the rest soon, hopefully after the Eid hassle is over :)
I reserve all rights over this work of fiction, and request that readers do not reproduce/copy/modify it elsewhere and/or claim credit. Thanks :)
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MAANEET FF JAANE TU YA JAANE NA #10 EPILOGUE PG 40
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