*hyperventilates*
So...it seems the closer I get to finishing a story, the more nervous I get :s After coming this far, I really don't want to mess this up, especially since this chapter is another crucial one...and pretty long too. Hooboy.
Please keep in mind that each segment is written from the mindset of a certain character...you'll probably get why I'm saying that once you've read further into the chapter :)
Can I also take this opportunity to THANK ALL OF YOU for your immense support for this story- you guys blow me away, seriously. I mean, when I first started this, I never thought it would even surpass one thread so this...really means a lot to me. thank you!
Chapter
Forty Nine
Khushi
recognised the balding pate of the man seated to the right in the space of
milliseconds.
After
all, in the bleak, sunless aftermath of her wedding day, she had managed to
smile a little bit because of the boisterous jokes and the good-natured ribbing
with which he had directed her sign her fate alongside her husband's. It might
have been against her will then, but it made no difference now- if the family
lawyer of the Raizadas was to present another marriage certificate in front of
her she would have signed it without a second thought.
But
that was not the point.
The
point was that, today, it was evidently not as festive an occasion as a wedding
that had brought them together under the same roof.
And
fittingly, the large, amenable man was aptly sombre in the black robes of his
profession, his expression grave, his mouth pinched in seriousness, a pair of
thin, gold-rimmed glasses set over a shrewd pair of eyes.
He
fit in perfectly with the backdrop of the scene- seated before an inspector's
desk in the ascetic, Spartan interior of the police station.
Beside
him, Di sat turned halfway around her chair- watching them.
Regarding
them almost warily. Almost...cautiously.
Khushi's
breath was coming in short pants; it did not take her long to realise that a
panic attack was upon her, her mind a convoluted mess in an attempt to
comprehend just what was going on here. All the way to the police station,
panic had bubbled up between them, surging through the car's interior and
straining against the floodgates to burst out. The need for words hung like
missing faces in photographs between them, but they had been helpless- they did
not know what words to use, what to say.
Or
even what to think.
And
throughout the entire journey, Khushi kept her hand latched firmly on to his, clasped
over the gear-shift- so tightly that her knuckles ached, that the pressure of
her grip had dulled the feeling up the rest of her arm. But she was adamant-
she was not going to let go. She could feel it all, even as the two them stood
just a step over the threshold of the chief inspector's office, having barged
in there against the protests of subordinates who had faltered at the mere
mention of her husband's name. She could feel the dread, the terror, the
anxiety, the helplessness, the confusion, vibrating off of him, even though he
was so stiff Khushi feared he might shatter on the spot. And so she clasped on
to his hands, and even if he were to try to wrench it out of her grip she was
not going to let go. For his sake, she diminished her own qualms and her own
misgivings, and channelled her patience, her resilience, her support, her
reassurance, everything he might need to help him through this ordeal, into her
grasp on his hand.
And
perhaps he could feel all of it, because even though his fingers were already
firmly wrapped about hers, they dug harder into her flesh now, as the seven of
them, she and her husband at the door, a constable hovering sheepishly at their
shoulder, an able looking inspector facing Di and the lawyer, with another
constable seated close by with a notepad on his lap, all sized one another up-
all trying to construe the meaning of their circumstances.
This
was surreal. This was almost like stepping into an alternate dimension- a
parallel world. Khushi had seen her fair share of police stations on the silver
screen before, and even she had gradually come to the realisation that many
aspects of it and how it worked were probably exaggerated or misrepresented,
but even that could not have prepared her for this moment, and the significance
of it all assailed her until she was clinging to Arnavji's arm, possibly
cutting off his blood circulation, in an attempt not to be blasted away by the
chaos that had befallen their little world.
Di
had not actually spoken to Shyam when she had said she had spoken to Shyam. Di
had lied to them about him coming back. Di was at the police station, and they
did not know why.
If
it were not for the man next to her, who she could practically feel warring
with what was happening around him, with the way the niche he had so carefully
created to keep all that he cherished safe suddenly being exposed to
uncertainties with daunting consequences, she might have succumbed to the pull
of her fear and let it suck her into its ice-cold, ravenous depths.
Instead,
she squared her shoulders, taking in a deep breath, and readied herself to
brave whatever might happen next. She addressed her sister-in-law.
"Anjali...ji...?"
The
look Anjali gave her then stopped the rest of her words.
It
was so...sad. So miserable. Even the barely pulled up edges of her mouth looked
too melancholy to be called a smile.
"Are
we going to fall back on that again?" her sister-in-law asked her almost dejectedly,
and Khushi only realised a split second later that she had reverted to calling
her "Anjaliji" instead of "Di", as she had used to before the light had started
to filter back into her shadowed existence, barely a week ago. It was almost as
though, fearful that everything they had managed to knit together would begin
to unwind, she had fallen back on old habits to spare herself the anguish.
But
Anjali was shaking her head at her, and even though she was admonished her
next, she sounded so gentle.
"Di," she said quietly, emphasising the
single syllable and letting it draw out, "I told you to call me Di, remember?"
Khushi's
sinuses were smarting, but she was not going to try to alleviate the pain.
"Di,"
she croaked, and she marvelled at how fragile the word sounded in her mouth.
Whether or not her coming here to the police station had anything to do with
Shyam and everything they had resolved to tell her the night before, it did not
change the fact that the truth was to be laid bare today. And she did not know
whether the relationship that had flourished under the single title she had
been granted the privilege of using would survive that storm.
But
she had to hope. For him. For herself. For them.
She
took over for Arnav, because the resonance between their clasped hands was
enough evidence of how numb he had become- how shell-shocked. Paralysed by the
possibility that everything could go fall apart.
"Di,
what is...what are you doing here?"
A
shadow fell across her face that extinguished her sad little smile, and Anjali
waved a vague hand toward the inspector and the constable seated and observing
the curious scene unfolding before them.
"I
just finished making my statement," Anjali said a little faintly; she sounded
tired, and Arnavji's fingers flexed beneath hers, but he did not move to speak,
nor walk toward his sister. "And now this gentleman is going to read back what
I just said."
And
then, as though frightened to her wits end and thoroughly unwilling to say what
she was about to, Anjali braced a shaky palm over her barely visible baby bump
and whispered, "I think...the two of you should listen."
***
His
watch told him it was almost past afternoon, and he knew that he had to leave
the bed at some point, but his attempts to get his limbs moving were too
half-hearted to have an effect.
There
was a reason behind how sluggish everything felt, from the immovable mass of
his muscles to the thick fog obscuring his mind, and that reason was not
laziness. He had never been a lazy man. If anything, he considered himself more
astute than the average individual- it took masterful control of one's own wits
to come as far as he had, with his brains being his only asset.
No,
there was an entirely different reason he was spread-eagled across cheap covers
smelling strongly of mothballs, on a bed that was so dilapidated it threatened
to give way under his weight at any moment.
Hunger.
At
the thought his stomach growled audibly, and it was such an undignified sound
even in the loneliness of his single, small bedroom that it made him cringe.
Humiliation laced with spite boiled hot in his veins at how low he had had to
fall, his head so heavy he could barely lift it off the flat pillow, his
thoughts disjointed and slow as the emptiness behind his abdomen echoed its
need for nourishment.
He
would have to get out eventually, he knew that. He would have to go through the
motions he had been going through for nearly a week now, changing into a
presentable set of clothes and making his way out of the cramped, one-storey
house he had had occasion to stay in before. He would have to search through
all his pockets for any loose change, and he would have to forage for what food
he could afford with his pitiable allowance. After all, for all intents and
purposes, as long as he did not know for certain where he stood, the show had
to go on. He could not abandon character just. He could not let his so-called
friend, whose hospitality he was depending on right now, know that this time
his visit was not for business, but for something far from innocent.
Hunger.
He
was starving. He could feel his pulse drop, could feel his muscles loosen up
and disconnect with his brain, could feel consciousness at the fringes of
unconsciousness. He had not been able to help it- the money he had had in his
wallet was bound to run out sooner or later, and being the calculating person
he was, he had spent accordingly, stingy down to the last coin. He could not
afford to raise the suspicions of the person whose home he was lodging in- he
had accepted the man's invitations for meals one or two times; any more
frequently, and he might have given something away. Whatever else may be said
of him, he was a proud man- and proud men do not let themselves openly depend
on the compassion of others if they can help it.
Hunger.
His
eyes are opened to half-slits, but it made little difference- he could barely
see, his vision muggy. The ceiling fan above him, a flimsy contraption that
made more sound than gave out air, was off- but to his half-blind sight it
appeared to swirl, and move from its place and drift across the ceiling.
He
needed to get something to eat. He did not know how much longer he could keep
himself awake if this kept on. He shouldn't have forgone dinner last
night...and then what with missing breakfast this morning...
And
at some point, as he lay prone and on the verge of being insensate in the bed,
knowing that his "friend" would wonder why he had not emerged from his room
even though noon was heading steadily
toward evening, he even considered just giving in, and using one of his bank
cards to withdraw some money.
When
a man battles with nature, nature has a way of retaliating by stripping one
down to their basest of instincts, and just then, Shyam Manohar Jha was battling
temptation to end his self-imposed fast.
But
he couldn't do that...they might find him...
If
they were looking for him...
Were
they?
Were
they looking for him?
He
had to get up.
He
needed to get up...he could feel himself drifting into the black nothing residing
beyond his conscious mind.
No...have to stay up...
Have to stay...
Up...wake up...
He
had not even known he had fallen asleep.
Get up...
He
was not sure he wanted to. At least in the darkness of sleep, or perhaps he
really had blacked out, he was spared the torture his body was meting out to
him.
Wake up already!
There
was more clarity here in the darkness than there had been in the daylight.
He
pondered, with a curious lack of feeling, whether there was going to be any
change in the pitiful lifestyle he had been forced to adopt. A week was the
time he had given himself, to stay back, test the waters, gauge what was
happening at a distance before he acted once more.
But
a week was nearly over, and he knew as little as he had known when he had first
fled to Lucknow.
He
knew that Shashi Gupta was on the way to recovery, and if the guards planted
outside his ward were anything to go by, he had told his brother-in-law about
his involvement in his paralysis as well.
Hey! Hey, you! UP!
He
shouldn't have run. That only confirmed his guilt, didn't it? Perhaps he could
have stayed...perhaps he could have manipulated the situation, perhaps he could
have blackmailed the Guptas into keeping mum...perhaps he could have milked
Rani Sahiba's unwavering faith in him for his own advantage...
Shyam Jha, either you wake up, or I'm going to drag
you to the police station just like this.
In
the bleary seconds it took him to peel his eyelids open and take in his
surroundings again, the first thought his teetering mind conjured was the belief
that dreams during the day do come true.
That
was the only explanation he could come up with in his fractured state of mind
for the figures looming over him, because his fissured concentration could only
focus on their garb.
Uniforms.
More,
specifically, police uniforms.
The
last of his stability broke down.
"I
didn't do it!" he screeched, and his voice burst out of his throat like a
blister, thick and throaty and rasping, "I didn't do it!"
"What didn't you do?"
Shyam
faltered; he peered short-sightedly up at the face of the person closest to
him- a man who was not all that tall, per se, but was brawny enough to be of a
formidable build as he loomed over him.
The
man had a bristling moustache almost shrouding his mouth, and perhaps by then
he was just paranoid, but the moustache looked entirely too reminiscent of the
one sported by the man he had tried to kill in cold blood.
Weaving
in and out of consciousness, dizzy and nauseous and famished, Shyam blurted out
heedlessly, "I didn't hurt him!"
Before
he could bring himself to blink, the Inspector was crouching in front of his
bed. The sudden movement appeared too fast to his slowed-down senses- it made
his gut leap, and with a groan he clamped a hand over his mouth, afraid that he
might be sick.
"Now
who," questioned the policeman, eyeing him with deceptive calm, "is this him?"
And
even in his pathetic state, Shyam was conscious of the uneasy burst of cold
blowing into his skull- the unmistakeable feeling that he'd just done something
wrong.
It
was enough to slap him sober.
With
some effort, Shyam managed to haul himself upright, leaning his spine into the
wall for support. Passing a slightly shaking hand over his face, Shyam tried to
ignore, for the time being, the specks of black swimming about in his vision- a
symptom, he knew, of falling blood sugar.
"I'm...sorry..."
he rasped out again, fervently hoping that he if he did this right, he could
play off his unwitting incriminations as the ramblings of a sick man, "I don't
know...what I'm talking about..."
There
was no response to his hoarse words, and all the while the panic jostled for
space inside him, knocking his lungs out of order in the process. The hollow in
his stomach only seemed to gape wider open, an acid burn irritating the back of
his throat.
"...I
suppose..." he tried again, thankful that his voice wavered unsteady on its
own, adding a little more credence to the charade he was hoping to pull off,
"that...I got...disconcerted...when I saw so many...police officers...here...been
sick..."
Perhaps,
if he had been in proper possession of his faculties, he would have known how
abysmally unconvincing his excuses sounded. But a proud man falls back on his
pride when there is nothing else to hold on to- and Shyam did just the same,
harnessing the long disused confidence he had in himself to tiptoe round even
the most perilous of situations.
"Is
it now?" came the cultured tones of the police-man still balanced on his
haunches by the bed; by the looks of his garb and the badges clipped to his
chest, he had to be the superior officer, "Yes...I suppose we've been known to
have that effect on people before."
Emboldened
by this almost amiable response, Shyam hazarded a look in his direction,
regretting the way the world kept tipping and wobbling before his eyes- it kept
him from discerning the officer's expression.
"Ah...how
can I help you, Officer?" he inquired, falling back on the simpering politeness
that had always worked so well in the past; he could do it, he told himself,
whatever it was that had sent these policemen barging into his bedroom, he
could weasel his way out of it. They had evidently not caught on to the slip he
had made earlier- if they did not know which "him" he was referring to, or why,
then there was a mighty chance he could still get away with some more damage
control.
Thoroughly
pleased with himself, he missed the way two of the policemen hovered at
opposite ends of his bend, zeroed in on him with the focus of a pair of hawks.
"Yes..."
the Officer hefted himself back to his feet, holding out a peremptory hand to
someone behind him; the fourth guest in his erstwhile home swiftly handed him
something, which, as the Officer perused it, Shyam could recognise as a sheaf
of papers stapled together, "Yes...yes, you can help us...by coming to the
police station."
Panic
began to burgeon again, but Shyam tried to quell it. Keep a cool head, he instructed himself, donning what he hoped was
an expression of bewildered oblivion.
"I
would certainly come along," he responded, inwardly pleased that he had managed
to make that sound utterly guileless, "But, if you don't mind my asking, what's
wrong?"
And
then, for added effect, he let his eyes grow wide, his mouth grow slack, and
threw his body into a frenzy of movement as he attempted to scramble back off
the bed, in spite of the rubbery clumsiness of his limbs.
"Devi
Maiyya- don't tell me someone is hurt! What- what- what happened? Was there an
accident? Was there-"
"You
don't need to work yourself up, Mr. Jha-" The two policemen standing like sentinels
at his bedposts leapt lithely forward, each catching hold of one of his arms
before he toppled face-forward into the floor, "You see...your wife sent us to
find you."
And through
the excruciating burn of hunger rooted deep into his stomach, and the leaden
pain reverberating from it through his listless body and into his throbbing
head, Shyam experienced the relief he had been hoping for, for what had felt
like eons.
Finally, he purred
mentally, salvation.
Perhaps
his sacrifices had not gone in vain.
At
the beginning of his exile, he had blown a lot of his money simply in the
acquisition of newspapers. To keep up the act of attending business affairs, he
would punctually leave the house in the morning, and spend hours loitering
around the crowded streets thronging with people around the marketplaces, his
paper in hand. And as the days passed by, a large chunk of his aimless days
were spent in the repeated, thorough scanning of newspapers, sometimes multiple
broadsheets- scouring the columns for something, any mention of a relevant name
or place.
But
there was nothing.
A
very disquieting mass of nothing.
There
were no "Wanted" notices, which ought to have reassured him- but there were
also no reports declaring him missing. He had left Delhi in a pell-mell rush to
save his skin, barely stopping to think- he was onboard a train and halfway to
Lucknow by the time he had calmed down enough to consider the ramifications of
his impulsive actions.
He had
already begun to fear that bolting at the first sight of the guards in the
hospital had been a poor, thoughtless decision, and when he had first arrived
on the doorstep of his Lucknowi contact, he had been caught in a fit of
indecision the likes of which he had never experienced before, and which
therefore caught him thoroughly off guard.
If
he kept running, he would definitely seal any remaining holes in the evidence
validating his guilt- but if he stayed, there was a very definite change that
he would be cornered and caught out like a rat.
With
his SIM-card discarded, Shyam had suddenly felt as though he had severed the
lifeline that had kept him anchored to the shore, and now he had been washed
away by a sea that was far more vast and far more tumultuous than he could have
anticipated.
And
so, hounded the entire time by the gnawing, crippling doubt that he was making
a grave mistake, he waited.
And
waited.
And
waited.
And
he had begun to fear the worst.
Because
even though the bloodhounds of the police-force might not have been set loose
on his heels, there was also the fact that the bloodhounds had not been
released to trace his scent. It was almost as though no one realised that he
was lost.
Which
was a ludicrous prospect. His ever-doting, besotted wife would turn the house
upside down if he were missing for an hour without letting her know where he
was- and here he had been gone for days and there was not so much as a whisper
anywhere, in the papers, on radio, that she was looking for him.
Maybe
her brother had told her the truth...maybe they had decided to just let him
go...maybe they actually were searching, but more discreetly...maybe they just
had not thought to check in Lucknow yet...
The
possibilities were endless, and the long list of them made them more daunting,
because he had absolutely no idea what was happening. And therefore, he had no
clue what he should do.
But
it was alright now- it was alright, because the police-men had come to look for
him, because Rani Sahiba had sent them. Of course she had. He ought never to
have doubted her. She was blindly in love with him- so blindly that she would
never believe him capable of hurting a fly, much less committing murder- and
then again, he might have overreacted and thoroughly misjudged the situation...Saale
Sahab adored his sister...worshipped the ground she walked on. If Shyam could
feed off her devotion for him, he was confident that he could wheedle his way out
of anything Arnav Singh Raizada had planned for him.
Yes...yes, all would be well.
But
for now he needed to be tactful- he needed to tease some more information out
before he said something that would instantly tip them off about his duplicity.
"My
wife..." he repeated, stalling under the pretence of bracing his forehead
against his palm, exaggerating the effects of his spinning head.
From
somewhere overhead, he heard the booming, gravelly voice of the Inspector.
"Yes...your
wife, Anjali Raizada."
Almost
automatically, Shyam corrected him.
"Anjali
Jha."
"No,"
the Inspector rebuffed curtly. The impertinence of it made his neck snap up,
and he instantly regretted it as the world tilted so precariously it was almost
upside down. Before he could say anything further though, the man had
continued, "She filed the F.I.R. under the name Anjali Raizada."
Shyam
froze.
Even
though there were five people crammed into a tiny room, the quiet that followed
could not be more absolute.
"F-
F.I.R.?"
"Yes,"
the Inspector confirmed for the umpteenth time; though this time, the sugary
courtesy had dribbled off his voice, and there was only cold steel left
underneath it, "Shyam Manohar Jha, you are hereby taken into custody under the
charges of attempted murder of Anjali Raizada, on February 14th,
2012."
Shyam
might have been delusional, or desperate, or deranged enough to try and escape.
But
he passed out before he could.
***
*A few hours ago*
She had
lost the feeling in her hand, and she suspected that it was as deadly cold as
his in her vice-like grip, but she did not let go. She could not let go.
The five
minutes, two seconds of blurry footage recorded on a phone and then blown up on
a laptop screen kept replaying, again and again, before her eyes.
The
date at the bottom right corner had been so distinct.
14th February, 2012.
The
day Jiji and Jeeju had been married. The day Arnavji had stumbled upon Shyam
and herself on the terrace, and triggered off a misunderstanding so colossal, the
aftershocks had not yet petered out completely.
The day
Anjaliji survived a car accident by a hair's breadth.
The
insipid voice of the constable droned on as he read aloud the words Di had
spoken just moments before they had arrived.
Words
that took on a peculiar, grotesque note in the timbre of someone else, someone
they did not belong to- it only enhanced how ethereal, how nightmarish and
warped, the whole thing had been mangled into.
My husband tried to kill me. I have video footage as
proof of him tampering with the car I was in, which later got into an accident.
The accident was recorded with the police. I also overheard him speaking to
someone, about three weeks ago, who was evidently blackmailing him with the
recording. He wanted money- money that my husband later in the evening asked me
to write him a cheque for. He said it was for a friend who was badly in need of
surgery. I think the person who called him was someone my husband put in jail
before. I don't know who it was. I didn't think to keep the number. At the
time, I didn't even think to come to the police, or of doing anything. Maybe I
was in shock. Maybe I was in denial. I was so much in love with him that his
betrayal almost destroyed me. I was afraid that he might do something else if
he found out I knew- I thought he might try to harm me or my baby.
Recently, he disappeared. He did not try to contact me
at all. And I was relieved. I was able to think clearly about everything that
had happened without fearing for my life or the lives of the people I love. He
is a dangerous man- he is the complete opposite of the person he made himself
out to be. I am terrified of him, and I don't want him to come to our lives. I
don't want to live constantly fearing for the safety of my family. He has to be
arrested- he needs to be punished for the things he has done.
Halfway
through the narration, the monotone grating against Khushi's ears as she
struggled to reconcile the gravity, the horror, the calamity unfolding in those
words to the unwavering tenor of the constable, Arnavji's phone rang.
It
was Amanji, but they did not have to pick up to discover just who Di had called
the night before.
The
answer was there, in the yellowish notepad, balanced on a young police officer's
knee.
I thought he might have escaped to Lucknow. As far as
I know, he does not have many contacts outside Delhi or Lucknow, but there's a
fair chance now that I might be wrong.
What
must she have been feeling when she was saying these words?
Did
her voice shake? Did she cry? Did she tremble, or hesitate, or stutter? Hearing
the echoes of her memories, robbed of their emotions, was haunting. They made
goosebumps break out over her skin, even as, immobile, insensible, she sat in
the seat pulled close to Di, with Arnavji's hand locked in hers.
I tried to call one of his contacts in Lucknow- and I
found out that he indeed is staying in that house. He had told his friend that
he was over there for business purposes, but his friend appeared sceptical,
because he had not brought any luggage, and had been acting oddly for the past
few days. I told him not to tell anyone that I had called- I told him there
might be trouble if he did. And then this morning I called our lawyer for his
advice, and he agreed to come with me here so I could file a report against
him, based on the evidence I have, in the form of the video on my phone. I
would like to have that man arrested for attempted murder.
The
reading came to a stop.
Attempted...murder...
Pause.
Shift.
Fidget.
Silence.
There
was a clearing of throat, some brisk words exchanged out of earshot, the
scraping of chairs- and then the Inspector, his subordinate excused themselves,
led outside by their lawyer.
Khushi
barely noticed.
She had
to drag her eyes to Arnav, even though every tendon in her body had grown
unrelenting and stiff. Something unpleasant squelched inside her stomach- so
unpleasant, Khushi felt like crawling out her skin, felt like throwing up.
He had almost killed Di...almost killed Bauji...
Because of me.
Her
hand snapped open of its own accord, the unpleasantness, cold and slimy and
revolting, welling up in her throat and choking her, icy tears biting at her
eyes, and she yanked her hand away as though scalded.
Or,
at least, she tried to.
The
man who had sat motionless beside her, the man who had resembled so eerily a
statue carved to depict the anguish of the soul, moved.
When
he looked at her, she could not keep the tears in any more.
My fault. My fault. Because of me...
They
were clouding over her sight and her guilt morphed into obstinacy. She tugged
her hand again- every minute their skin touched felt like treachery, felt as
though she were sullying him somehow, as though she were betraying him.
But
he would not let go.
In a
harsh voice that snapped out at her like a bullet fired, he hissed, "What do
you think you're doing?"
She
did not know. The floodgates had burst, and all the emotion she had been trying
to keep at bay had come cascading down over her head and it was going to ruin
everything, everything-
He
had tried to kill Di. He had tried to kill
her. He tried to murder the person Arnavji loved more than anyone else in
the world- the person whose happiness he had striven to save by forsaking his
and her own...
Because
of her...
And
then his face was three inches away from hers and that look he was giving her-
tormented, pained but still so intense- pierced through the haze she had
steadily been retreating behind.
"You
said you weren't going to let go of my hand," the accusation was plain and loud
even in his rough undertone, and it cleaved through her and almost split her
heart in half, "Are you going back on your promise, Khushi?"
What
he asked was so preposterous, so hurtful, so impossible that she was shaking
her head vigorously before she could stop herself.
Don't you understand? He almost killed Di because of
me!
He almost...ruined you...
Her
mouth parted, quivered, and she spoke around a sob crowding her mouth.
"My fault," she quavered, and there was
no taking it back. Watery-eyed, her throat convulsing, her heart shattering
into smaller and smaller pieces with each excruciating beat, the remorse and
the culpability that had been loosely hanging round her neck like a noose, tightening
and slackening over the past month, ever since her marriage, ever since she had
discovered the vile nature of Shyam Manohar Jha, ever since she had learnt he
had almost murdered her father- it closed round her windpipe and asphyxiated
her.
She
whipped around in her seat almost, blindly reaching for Anjaliji, terrified
that she would be shunned, "Di...it's...my
fault...I'm so so-"
"It's
not your fault-"
The interruption
echoed oddly.
It
had something to do with the fact that two people had spoken at once.
Blinking
away some of her tears, Khushi fought to focus on Anjali, seated not too far
from her. Her expression was despondent, it was miserable, and she looked older
beyond her years, as she whispered back what she had stated in unison with her
brother, "It's not your fault, Khushi."
Anjali
looked as though she were going to say more, but then the hand obdurately
trapping hers clenched and Khushi's eyes flew back to her husband in response
to her demand.
He was
breathing heavily- raggedly even, as though he had run all the way from Laxmi
Nagar to the police-station. With her own distress bleeding out of her eyes,
her vision cleared enough to catch what she had not been able to catch a few
seconds back, embedded so deeply into his features that it seemed at one with
his skin.
Hurt.
Defeat. Failure.
"It's
not your fault," he echoed his sister, but the hollowness of his voice sent a
chill down her spine, which pooled forebodingly in her gut.
And
then, he had called the Inspector back.
The
whole time, he did not look at Di even once.
And
with the ephemeral disturbance to the link that somehow connected them gone,
Khushi could feel the emotions, poignant and aching, that ran through his
veins, at one with his blood.
She
hadn't told him.
Di
hadn't told him.
Even
though she had known about Shyam, known that he had tried to kill her- she
had not said anything to him.
And
for the man who had almost gambled away everything, sacrificed everything, for
the stability and security of his sister...
...he
was hurt.
He was
betrayed.
Khushi
could feel the pain of it coursing down their linked arms, in the white
knuckles of his grip, in the tight set of his mouth, and most of all, the sight
that broke the last of her heart- the harrowing despair glimmering in his
soulful eyes, but not finding a way out.
And
then the inspector was back in his seat, and he was leaning forward, hands
braced on the edge of his desk, and Arnavji spoke.
His
timbre was even. Calm. Stoic.
"I
want to file an F.I.R. charging Shyam Manohar Jha with the attempted murder of
my father-in-law, Shashi Gupta."
And
because she did not know what to do, how to react, what to think, what to feel,
her head tilted automatically to the woman she had made it her mission to
protect since she had been married into their family- a woman who had grown to
be an older sister, a friend, a dear companion.
And her
breath caught in her throat and through the plethora of conflicting emotions
besieging her from all sides, surprise registered crisp and clear.
Di
still sat there, the sadness hanging like a veil over a face that was almost
always beaming and cheerful, guilt bright in her eyes, and a pain that mirrored
that of her brother's...
But
even though she must have heard what her husband had just said...what, save for
the two of them, the private investigators and Amanji, nobody else should have
known...she did not appear startled in the least.
As
though sensing her eyes on her, Anjali slowly moved her wounded gaze from her
brother, who had not spoken to her, not even looked at her, since her F.I.R had
been read aloud.
And
with that same heartbreakingly melancholy smile, she mouthed, her eyes flicking
back to her brother to include him in the promise-
Later.
Next chapter is intended to be the last...the big brother-sister confrontation happens then and I intend to answer all remaining questions in that chapter.
Hope psycho-Shyam was...er...sufficiently psycho. There have been hints throughout the story that he's not very alright in the head.
As always, I'll be super glad if you would leave your feedback and thoughts of this chapter! The next I'll try to finish ASAP but as I mentioned in a previous note, I'm going to be out of town for two days max, so that might delay things a bit.
I reserve all rights over this work of fiction and request readers do not reproduce/copy/modify elsewhere, and/or claim credit.
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