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Chapter Twenty Six
Lightning blazed an interminable path across the sky.
Even in the middle of the day, the flash was so potent Khushi felt it suck everything into a blinding brightness for a split second before it returned to perspective. Blinking to dispel the little black spots that erupted in her vision, Khushi suddenly became painfully, dreadfully aware of where they were. Aware of the increasingly chilling capsules of rain pounding insistently against her skin, the sting now replaced by numbness. Aware of the fact that she was breathing heavily, strenuously, through her mouth, panting almost as though she had swum the distance home.
Aware of the rapid staccato his heart beating away under her touch, in time with her own.
Dhak dhak. Dhak dhak.
Arnav's hand tightened on Khushi's as an exceptionally loud clap of thunder shook the heavens. He could feel her stiffen, her muscles clench in shock as the ferocious rumble, as of the sounds of a monstrous battle taking place on the clouds, the clash of steel on steel, the outburst of cannons, the thudding of a thousand feet on the march, echoing and resounding upon the earth below. Her eyes closed tightly as it deafened the two of them, drowning the hiss of rain as it ploughed into the gravel around them.
This is dangerous, a considerably muffled voice informed him, you need to get indoors before it gets worse.
Heavily, he sighed, and twining his fingers with the hand he held against his heart, he pulled her to his side, one arm instinctively draping around her shoulder as he rushed them both through the thickening downpour towards the front door, clinging to what little reason remained in his head while his heart continued to beat away in protest, and his skin continued burn where rain water and Khushi came in touch with it.
Khushi patted her hair dry agitatedly. She was shivering. Not from the rain though. Nor the slight chill that had crept into the air and now hung in patches about the house, catching anyone who had the misfortune to walk into them unawares, making teeth chatter and skin crawl. No, it wasn't the rain.
Khushi's glance dropped to her lap, to the ruffled folds of her saree.
It was a bright amber, with tea rose embroidery. One of Khushi's smaller locomotives wheeled languidly backwards. To a point where she had been standing, overcome by jitters, soaked from head to toe, in front of an open closet door, her hand making to grab the first piece of clothing it could lay hands on so she could escape the clothes now clinging to her skin, icy cold. To the point where she had lifted up something mauve and had been about to leave when something tugged her back. To the point where she had glanced back at the pale, cool, dull shade of mauve she had picked up earlier that morning with distaste. Dropping it back into the closet, Khushi's hands had ransacked the spectrum of fabric hung up in the closet, not entirely sure what they were looking for. Until they came across this.
She had forgotten what that used to feel like. To choose what she would wear on a whim. As soon as she laid eyes on the quaint aged pink sequins sewn into the sunny orange-yellow of the saree, the same surety had settled into her heart, much like a key fitting into the right lock. It was warm, to envelope her from the cold. It was bright, to ward off the gloom that had descended long before afternoon. It was soft, to comfort her stretched out nerves.
And with that old confidence that used to highlight everything that she used to do once upon a time, when she had listened assuredly to every tenor of her heart without pausing to question it, she had rushed out with it. Even if the water supply in the guest room bathroom was switched off...at least she could change there.
And then he was sneezing...he needed to get into a warm shower before he caught a cold...
There it was again. Such thoughts snuck their way into Khushi's subconscious until they had embedded themselves somewhere she would be forced to see.
Khushi wondered. She wondered how it had all changed. Up until a few days ago, she was certain she would not have found herself wearing such vibrant shades. It had been disquieting, disquieting and foreboding, how all the lively, sparkling, vivid colours she used to adore, used to string together to match her own effervescent moods, had suddenly turned gaudy, turned garish, taunting her with their vivacity the bleakness her life had fallen into. It was also disquieting now, but this time, a staggering, startling, mildly surprising type of disquiet; the transition was so natural, so right, she hadn't even thought twice.
The cold pinched away at her exposed skin, and Khushi flung her towel to one side, while with one swoop she pulled the thick, fleecy duvet up and over her as she threw herself into the warm folds of the bed. Blanketed by its warmth, Khushi snuggled in deeper into its comforting confines. At times like this, she would have run straight into the embrace of Bauji, or Amma, or Jiji, seeking to find constancy in their presence. But there was no one here to help soothe her nerves, and Khushi was forced against the wall. Forced to face what she had strived to keep beyond the boundaries of her understanding.
A week ago, even though Khushi had only managed to remain afloat on the turbulent sea by clinging for dear life to the ramshackle raft of the present, of her life in that present, she had at least known that the only chance at survival had been to hold on to it. But now, when the sea itself seemed to have inexplicably vanished, Khushi and her raft stood where the beach had been yesterday. Back then she could hear the faint crash of wave upon wave, a whispered reminder that she dare not go too far, or else the tide would come back and sweep her away forever. She could see that even though the water had retreated to some unseen horizon, it had left behind broken dreams, hopes, desires strewn across the beach, forbidding her to dare dream, hope, desire again. But they were gone now. No matter how much Khushi strained, all she could hear was silence- no more the splashing, black, thrashing sea that she had fought tooth and nail against. No matter how much she tried, she could not find those sandy dunes bearing the evidence of heartbreak again. There was nothing to keep her from moving forward anymore, nothing threatening her to stay away.
That did not make anything easier. Even surrounded by those deadly waves, mercilessly tossing her this way and that until she lost all sense of time, place, existence, Khushi had at least known what to think. She had known that she had been betrayed. She had known that she had been wronged. She had known that she had been right. She had known that no matter what happened, she had to hold on, clinging to every last foothold, to save those she had taken the plunge for in the first place. She had embraced that knowledge tightly, had fed off it to keep her alive, to remind her that she was suffering for no fault of hers and to give up, to let the darkness claim her, would be her final, pathetic defeat.
But what was she to do now? Now, when the windows into that corridor she stood diffidently at the end of were thrown wide open? When every crevice, every corner where ominous shadows had lurked were lit with beautiful moist light, as though day had broken on her horizon? When every cobweb that had sheathed the dank walls had withered away without trace? When suddenly the sunlight shimmered against the walls, bouncing off every surface to light up everything, leaving no trace of the perpetual blackness behind? Try as she might, Khushi could not find any sign of camouflage, any smokescreen, anything that could possibly threaten her fragile existence in that passageway.
There was a door on the other end of that corridor. Polished dark wood, very tall and magnificently carved, welcomingly warm. Rosewood. Its musky fragrance lured Khushi forward. She realised there was no lock on that door, no bolt.
Waiting for her to take those final decisive steps and throw it open to see what was beyond.
But she was scared. She was so scared. She had nothing more to weigh her down, nothing more to keep her from floating toward temptation without the vaguest of notions of where it would lead her. Before she had been unable to venture into that passage because of the dark. Because she was terrified that hoping would lead to everything falling apiece once more. She had reminded herself, painstakingly, painfully, of every horrific act of cruelty that- he- had committed against her. She had reminded herself that he hated her. Reminded herself that whatever it was that kept enticing her toward him would lead to her own demise. Her mind had screamed at her, screamed at her maniacally to man the defences, to fend off any and all offensives.
Yet how was she to survive now when each and every fact of life that she counted as a checkpoint of existence was being refuted, battered to non-existence? He hadn't trusted her...and this morning he had calmly left his sister, the core of his existence, in her charge. Never, never in a thousand years could Khushi even imagine, even dream that the same man who had charged her for having an illegitimate relationship with his brother-in-law, who had torn down her life to punish her for it, would go so far as he had that morning. Di was the centre of his life. He would not think twice about trampling over other lives to save hers. And today, instead of tailing her wherever she went as he would on any other day, he had bestowed that responsibility on her without batting an eyelid. And then, when she had called him later, half of her expecting that same the beast that she lived in terror of would re-emerge, he had cancelled his entire work day to rush to her side to listen to her concerns. Taking her word for it in one instant that Di was all right. Not bothering to check on her story himself.
Was that...is that...does he...is it...trust? Khushi asked herself tentatively. Part of her knew the answer with unbreakable conviction. It knew exactly what 'that' had been. But the other part refused to believe. Battered to within a breath of its life, it did not know whether it could withstand a final blow.
And it didn't know whether it could trust him.
And then...the trains of Khushi's thought speeded off towards different directions. Khushi burrowed deeper inside the covers, as though hoping to disappear, to escape the chaos. But one particularly strident locomotive leapt at her, and showed her a clip of her past. A clip that she seen, seen and suppressed, many times. But there were new images in there today, images that had not been there before, and she watched, fascinated.
Rain. Cold and damp and soaking wet in the rain. Fighting back tears of desolation, of despondency. A sudden flash of light and being scooped up and swung aside. A pair of caramel brown, impenetrable eyes. Frozen.
Rain. The cold and the damp forgotten. Burning in a fire that seemed to burn inside her. Lit and stoked by those same eyes. Melting honey, molten gold, smothering her in heat that cloaked her from the assault of the rain. Eyes that welcomed her, pulled her, invited her to drown in those currents, which spoke so much at once Khushi would feel her breath, her heartbeat, her pulse, falter.
Outside. Outside the car. When her dupatta had caught onto something and he had ripped it, stonily, sordidly foreshadowing all those moments when he would rip her apart, piece by piece, minute by minute.
Outside. Outside the car. His gentle touch that reduced her to liquid in his arms, liquid that flamed. His gentle voice that froze her own attempts to tear herself away. Gentle. So gentle, as he removed her stuck pallu. So gentle as he rushed her indoors, as the elements battled on around them.
Car. The tension stretched tight, like guitar strings tuned to such an extreme they could not be strummed upon; the music strained. And then, a lash of a whip, a 'get out' and a sinking feeling of hurt and pain as she stood alone, numerous times, watching as he left her without turning back.
Car. With such potent emotions soaring through the air Khushi could no longer tell what she was feeling when. His speaking to her, his smiling at her...her annoyance at him, her telling him off...as though that was how it always had been, how it always was meant to be. Sincerity and frankness flowing like water. His stopping her when she was about to leave. His getting drenched as he strove to keep her dry.
Wiping himself with her pallu, just like he had used her dupatta on the day of the haldi. Kissing her, just as he had on the mehndi day.
Khushi realised too late that she was walking down the same path she had followed, mesmerised, a month ago. Followed and fallen straight into fate's cruel mousetrap.
And even though that brought her to a halt in the middle of that path, Khushi did not turn back. Even though she did not move forward, she did not retrace her steps from whence she came. Even though a tiny little voice, a voice that seemed to fade a little with every passing second, shouted at her, from some faraway realm, that she was going down the same path that led to her destruction. Knowing full well that she would only find barren wasteland where dreams once lived at the end. Or perhaps the sea, nefariously hiding from her only to catch her when she expected it the least.
It was curiously like rain against a window sill. No matter how hard or how persistently the rain barged against the glass, it could not get in. It could not reach the lone observer sitting on the other side, watching its attempts to touch her. Just like that, those thoughts, those warnings, although coalescing formlessly somewhere in her, although undeniably there, they did not manage to get through. They no longer managed to implant themselves on her as they had before, tentacles of fear slashing out to encircle her, making every ray of sunlight seem a monstrous attempt to bait her into more terrors.
The single string of current was grasped onto more firmly by heart and mind, and although it was a very tinny stream of electricity, it buzzed on steadily, blazing a sure road between them, back and forth.
The peace negotiations had begun.
But before Khushi could allow any more locomotives to replay any more scenarios, eclectic as they seemed to be pieced together with images from the past and the present and mere shadows of the future, she sneezed.
And within another second, she was up and off, nimbly out of the room.
Arnav now knew why the cynic in his head, who always said the last thing he wanted it to say, who always told him bluntly what he refused point blank to hear, sounded so familiar.
It was his own voice.
It was as sardonic, as sceptical, as he was by nature. And it was also honest. Brutally honest. The truth was something he had always unknowingly stifled, stuffed in some dingy cupboard somewhere where he would not be forced to reckon with it. But over time, truth seemed to have worn its way through its confines and now stood before him in all its glory.
He also knew why he could no longer hear the cynic in his head.
Because finally, after nearly thirteen years of living in pretence, Arnav had finally abandoned falsehoods. Finally stopped telling himself what he should think, feel, and had started asking himself what he thought, felt. He had finally started being honest to himself. The disembodied voice in his head no longer existed, because that voice was his own- his conscience, his own beliefs, pulling down the scenery surrounding the stage of his hard-hearted, venom-tongued disguise, which had allowed him to brave the world and its hardships by striking before being struck. He was now, finally, himself. The person he was meant to be, not the person he had tried to make himself.
And that one factor was responsible for every positive thing in his life today. Surrounded by a bevy of people who genuinely cared, who did not only hover about him because of his money or his usefulness to them. Engulfed in the warm presence of his mother and the knowledge that she would be proud of him today, to see him atoning for his past mistakes, to see him claim his place in the family portrait. With the promise of walking together, hand in hand, throughout life, with the girl he had so desperately fallen in love with.
He felt himself smile as her anklets tinkled to a stop outside the door. He wondered fleetingly whether she was planning to sneak in again, for whatever reason. With Khushi, one could never tell. He mused whether she would run away again if she saw him in the room, a towel slung around his neck, dressed casually in a full-sleeved jersey and track pants, leaning back in his recliner. After all, that last moment that they had shared together in the rain...Arnav relapsed into a trance, his eyes glazing over as he thought back to the simplistic beauty of that moment. When Khushi as much as told him that, even if she did not acknowledge it, even though she may not believe, perhaps did not know it, she loved him too. His heart began to swell irrepressibly at that knowledge, and it took him a while to realise that he was grinning hard while staring into space. Quickly readjusting his features, reasoning Khushi did not need to be disoriented more than she already was, he waited for her to enter.
So, when, he heard a timid little rap against the door and a tiny little voice saying, 'Arnavji? Can you please open the door?' he was sufficiently surprised. Wondering what on earth she was up to now, he lifted himself and quick marched to the door before turning the knob and pulling it open.
Khushi, stunning in a sunny orange, stood just outside. It became immediately evident why she hadn't opened the door herself. In her hands she held a little wooden tray. And in the centre of the little wooden tray were a cup and saucer.
Why, Khushi, why? Why did you have to do it? Why didn't you get Hari Prakashji to do it? Why didn't you get him to bring it in?
Khushi subjected herself to a litany of recrimination as, holding her breath, eyes glued to the cup of coffee she had rushed to the kitchen to make so carefully, she made her way into the room as Arnav stepped aside to give her space. She did not look up, but felt a strange sensation seize her for a moment, as though she knew without having to see that he was smirking. Khushi scuttled as fast as could without tripping to the nearest table within sight and lowered the tray on it.
Try as she might, she could not bring her limbs to move. To turn around and face him. A curious dispute grappled about within her; there was one half that remembered, only too clearly, the warmth suffusing through her as his heart thumped away at the same frantic pace as hers was wont to. That half cringed in embarrassment at the level of transparency that moment threatened. If she delved too deep, she may be rendered incapable of pulling herself together again. But the other half, the half that had resented rushing away the minute she had grabbed her clothes, hurriedly telling him to take a hot shower as he came in before dashing off herself, yearned to see him. To look into those hypnotic eyes again. Khushi did not understand that part at all.
Arnav could easily have jumped into the air and whooped, but his body, long accustomed to the rigidity and stillness that his dignified persona had fostered in him cringed at the thought, so he contained himself. But if Arnav thought he could be pulled under by those tormenting emotions that had plagued him every moment since his discovery of his own unthinkable folly, he had now learnt that these emotions, of joy, of disbelief, of hope, were just as poignant and just as capable of knocking his breath out completely.
So his wife had rushed off to make coffee for him, after he had confessed how very particular he was about who made it for him.
He patted his newfound honesty on the back mentally. It had allowed him to break so much ground in so little time he had to conclude, albeit somewhat unhappily, that he had been a fool to challenge it in the first place.
Khushi hemmed. Arnav watched fondly, his wife standing awkwardly in front of the table, head bent slightly, refusing to turn around.
'Um...since you said you had a headache...and then you were sneezing as well...maybe, it would be better if you had something hot to drink.' Her voice, kept low, quavered ever so slightly. Arnav felt it tug at his heartstrings.
'Who made it?' he asked casually, slipping his hands into his pockets as he took slow, leisurely steps to round the table and stand on the other side, in front of Khushi. She visibly froze.
'I- I did,' she answered sullenly, and then added quickly, 'Hari Prakashji was busy so I thought I'd make it instead.'
Arnav's lips twitched into a smile at that. 'It's good that he was busy,' he pondered aloud, as he came to a standstill in front of her. With her damp hair open, uncombed and trailing, dishevelled, behind her, she was a sight for sore eyes. Arnav wondered whether he would ever cease to be amazed by how Khushi redefined beauty every time she appeared in front of him. She looked positively angelic, brightening up the muted blue of his room with her mere presence.
And of course, the peach staining the cream of her skin made her look all the more divine. As she continued looking at him somewhat doubtfully, as though unsure whether she had caught on to the right implication in his words, he went on, 'After all, I'm not paying him to laze about.'
And he smiled. Easily.
Dhak dhak. Dhak dhak.
Hai Devi Maiyya! Please make him stop smiling so much...he's scaring me...this Laad Governor will be the death of me!
Khushi turned to make a run for it. But of course, her husband was too quick for her. His hand reached out, softly caught hold of her wrist. It fleetingly crossed her mind how, since last night (the blaze of current between heart and mind flared in dissent at the memory- a starlit night, and some starlit promises), he had ceased his signature clasping of her wrists in a grip as tight as iron cuffs, manacles clutching, digging into her flesh, bruising her.
The tenderness with which he had started to handle her made a lump grow painfully in her throat.
She did not get much time to think too deeply into that however. Since, with a flash, Arnav had crossed over to her side of the table, still holding onto her wrist lightly, and bent over.
And kissed her softly on her cheek. Unbearably slowly, unbearably tenderly
A gasp escaped her, just as he moved back, whispering 'Thank you, Khushi.'
Khushi looked into his eyes for a long, long time. They stood that way as the seconds ticked away, he holding her wrist still, their eyes locked together. Time and place ceased to be of importance as a familiar melody began to serenade them.
Khushi closed her eyes. Sighed.
'Drink it up before it gets cold. Or you'll really catch a cold.'
I reserve all rights over this work of fiction and request that readers do not reproduce/copy/modify it elsewhere and/or claim credit :)
And a little request- guys, with this recent bout of news on plagiarism, I was seriously de-motivated on continuing since I put a lot of time and effort into this story, even though I have to focus on my upcoming exams, and the thought that somebody else would simply take credit for it is just sad. So please keep your eyes pealed- if you catch anyone replicating any of the FFs on this forum, please let the author know immediately. Although we might not be able to prevent plagiarism, we can at least take a stand against it and fight it out. Thanks a lot:)
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MAANEET FF JAANE TU YA JAANE NA #10 EPILOGUE PG 40
Author: piya- Replies: 316 Views: 35045
|piya-||316||35045||10 April 2015 at 1:17am by sita_rama|
MAANEET FF JAANE TU YA JAANE NA #9 Link # 10 pg131
Author: piya- Replies: 812 Views: 53644
|piya-||812||53644||05 July 2013 at 11:35pm by mishtiritu|
MAANEET FF JAANE TU YA JAANE NA#8 LINK #9 PG 141
Author: piya- Replies: 860 Views: 55593
|piya-||860||55593||22 May 2013 at 9:23am by tellyme|
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