OS: Garam Hawa - Page 4

Rudra hated himself. He detested himself for doing this to Paro because her soft sobs and slight movements in the room next door did not escape his trained ears. He didn't know what he was doing with Laila.

It was not a call of flesh. He cared for Laila in a way that wanted to keep her from the ruddy roads of red light districts. His rejection would throw her back to the thorny paths of flesh trade in which Laila would never find mercy leave alone compassion. It had to be compassion.

He entered the room and the nightly Ithar told him that Laila was already in the room. He felt a twang of need, an involuntary muscle memory at having spent nights with Laila, unfettered by any scruples or morality. Of late, this was getting difficult. He did not want any strings in his life that bound him to domesticity, or stability. He loved his sense of freedom, vast as the Thar desert with nothing holding the dunes back for miles.  He liked Laila for that reason, she never questioned his freedom.

Paro's inquiring eyes seemed to disapprove of his lifestyle and his choices. A slow burn erupted in him when Paro made him stumble, so much so that, he directed his raw anger in gruff ministrations at Laila. She seemed in harmony with his needs and acquiesced to his demands in the bedroom. That suited him just fine and that's what he wanted from her - no questions, no morality, only rising up to the need of the hour.

As the room got steamier and passions surfaced, he doubled his fervor, relieving his pent up energy, letting go of himself. In that moment of relief, he could see Paro's hollowed dark circles that counted for eyes and her emaciated bones that had once been the pride of his possession. He winced at his own thoughts as he climaxed and pushed Laila away, spent, degraded and bereft. He hated himself for being unnecessarily brutal with Laila, who didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire of two strong willed humans. Laila, true to her style, never asked him questions.

He heard the timid stir of anklets and shifting body that scraped the chatai against the floor. He wondered what Paro thought of his actions.

Nothing complimentary, I am sure.

Paro had slowly become the reason for his single minded devotion. He was rooted to the cause of getting rid of Thakur Tejawat's nefarious activities. He had to find Varun and in the process emancipate himself in the judging, disapproving eyes of Paro. He didn't know why he cared, but he did.

His eyes adjusted to the lights of dawn as he heard the door of the next room crack open. It started again, like every day, when he heard Paro's anklets simmer down the hall, as she headed for a morning bath, followed by a pooja in the kitchen before she started the tea for the family. He thought of her wet hair and those droplets that traipsed down the back of her neck, asking to be rescued by him. He took a sharp breath in.

He was becoming a mushy mess. He could not let a beautiful woman and her wily ways make inroads into his heart and life. This had to stop, even if Paro never forgave him. He got out of the bed with a fresh resolve.

Dressed in his army uniform, he stepped into the central courtyard of the house. He felt a renewed sense of energy because he had vowed not to be deterred by those hazel, angry eyes that had nothing but disdain for him. He knew, with conviction what he had to do. That is until he saw her walking down the hallway, rays of sunlight ducking and playing with her between the courtyard pillars, shining the angles and shadowing the planes of her beautiful face. She seemed to smile at some hidden joke in her mind. It was destiny's cruel joke.