The Saree Shop # 2| Zinnias & Heartache

 

“…kaha Kosa silk-vilk milega abhi, shaadi ke season mein toh Dilli waale sirf aise georgette pasand karte hai…” Razia Ahmed talked away, his fingers grazing the shimmering gemstones lining the glitzy batch of sarees, which though fake, still rendered fuchsia hues to his unkempt nails. Arnav sitting disinterested on the mattress in front of Razia and his fourth glass of chai, suddenly sat up straight on hearing him utter the words ‘Kosa silk’ together. Prompting him with the very same words, he tried to prod him to speak more. “Abhi toh bola Arnav bhaijaan, who Khusi bitiya hai na, wohi jo aayi thi kal…”  And so the tobacco-stained teeth launched into what seemed like a well-seasoned recollection of his early days back in Old Delhi.

 

—

 

One humid Monday afternoon of July, a modestly dressed man in his early forties walked along the kitschy streets of Chandni Chowk. The vendors behind the carts laden with allegedly ‘imported’ fruits sparkling with the generous amount of cold water sprinkled over them and raised their pitch, their shouts calling out to this man walking briskly unmindful of the hollers. Stopping for a mere second, just before a crumbling old shop, only to skim his eyes over the rusty banner, he entered the shop, his face confused. This one amongst the throngs of the conjoint shops had screamed of a riot of colours, blazing yellow and mellow purples, but glittering, every sliver of the gaudy embroidery reflecting the raging midday sun.

 

A seemingly younger Razia stood at one corner of the shop, a metal frame holding cheap glasses filled with chai, his ears glued to the older man sitting on the mattresses, their monologues rehearsed to tempt the customers.  “You have Kosa sarees?” The crisp English words must have startled the vendor in front of him, as the beefy hands left the comfortable cushion of his paunch to fiddle around with stacks of shimmering silks. The man standing behind him caught sight of something maroon peeking out from on lone shelf. This darker shade of auburn has little paisley shaped motifs raining down all over the pallu, whilst the body remained to be a blank sea of blood.

 

The saree was brought immediately after the man ordered for the saree to be picoted and delivered to a certain address in the nearby Nai Sarak Marg. As the man with a seemingly satisfied face walked out of the shop, a Nokia 6610 in hand, the lanky boy standing in the corner with brimming tea glasses caught the faint stream of the conversation. “Khushi, its maroon and has some black mango shaped motifs on the aanchal. Haan beta, I’m on my way back home…will be there in an hour or so.”

 

—

 

“He never returned Arnav bhaijaan. His daughter waited…waited for two complete days without consuming a morsel of food,”  Arnav sensed the slight melodrama in Razia Ahmed’s voice, but the sudden heaviness it held, the wet gleam in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed by him either. “…at least that’s what I heard people saying,” he continued, clearing his throat. “It was her birthday that day, they said. But the old professor, bhaijaan, he never returned. They found his body a week later… “ He paused to gulp down mouthfuls of chilled water. ”…that is when we found out that he was teaching at the old town’s Kendriya Vidyalaya. Woh kya kehte hai na, post martem, woh-”  “Post mortem?” Ganguly Saab kindly offered. “Haan haan wahi. They found out it had been a car accident. An old Zen had knocked the professor down into a ditch.”  A collective intake of breath could be heard in the shop, post which a silence so pregnant followed that Razia was compelled to return to his narration. “…the saree however, lay packed neatly in a brown paper bag days after. It was sold eventually, in fact a week after the professor’s demise, I think. Ever since that day, I presume Khushi bitiya has been looking for that saree.”  The old men launched into a horde of trifling questions, whilst which Arnav got up and went outside the shop. Grabbing a ice cold bottle of Cola from the unsuspecting Mani, he walked away to a quiet spot of the market, where people didn’t wander much. This short journey was punctuated with him furiously blinking his eyes to shrug off the pool of tears amassed within. This lone man standing in that one corner of the market couldn’t concede this emotion completely. He was not familiar with grief, or rather any emotion bearing that much intensity at all. He had never known his parents; having grown up in a house that’s only other resident was Amresh Kaka, another saree weaver by profession, in the scenic Assam. Amresh kaka had once met with a minor cardiac arrest, which had gripped Arnav’s mind and heart with fear and disorienting helplessness. That was at the age of ten, and even then, when his kaka recuperated, he himself recovered from that benumbing vulnerability.  After witnessing him healthy and on his feet working his heart off for an extent ten years had he left Assam to venture into Gangtok. Ever since then, he had never felt so deeply for something animate or inanimate.

 

Another thought crept into his mind, after taking a few refreshing sips of the swirling Cola, since Khushi was done searching for the saree in this town’s biggest market, she would probably never  venture back there. He thought he might have felt something convulse in his chest, painfully so. Heartache was it, he wondered.

 

—

 

The nine yards maroon silk lay in front of him, and a roll of black rayon thread somewhere nearby.  Arnav looked contemplating at these items he had impulsively brought from the shop, asking for an advance payment of his salary from the cashier. Suddenly, as he felt a few drops of the cool drizzle on his head, filtering through the evening sky overlooking the fields of zinnias, he understood he was still connected to her. Making this saree for her, the little long months it would take, he would be doing something for her, for the return of those guileless smiles. There was still hope, floating away someplace nearby, and he knew that maybe, he was not too far off from it.

 

—

The Saree Shop : Part 1

The road was winding, little algae-covered pebbles lining it. A rambling line of flats faced the meandering road, their tiny cluster of tinted windows opening up to a splendid sight of the Teesta. The river flowed with renewed energy after the monsoons, the waters forming ripples every once a pebble fell into them.

That eventful day begun, with a rather humdrum morning.

The leaky tap plastered onto the basin of flat number 60/5, let out a stream of fat drops of water within every fifteen seconds. The sole resident of the flat abruptly stopped snoring as the tattered curtain tickled his face, a steady wind sauntering in through the windows adjacent to and right above his charpai. The man scrunched up the tip of his aristocratic nose, attempting to remove the source of irritation, still fluttering over his cheek. Minutes later, a screeching sound, sounding like a rooster, rendering the old alarm clock alive, boomed throughout the single-roomed flat, the kitchen in one corner, the washroom in the next and the rest of the space occupied by the charpai. After about a measly ten minutes, as he walked out of the washroom, he inhaled the strong scent of starch, infused with a sight of yards of silk, crisp as they were, lying askew on the floor. Then his eyes fell on the plum organza and the perforated punch cards bearing the golden threads, the intricate work on the silk resembling the staging of a village fair. Mumbling the lyrics to an old Rafi classic, he slid his head inside the neck of a white kurta, letting it stick to his damp body. Raking a tiny green comb through his wet hair, he stared at his face into the tinted glass of the window, his eyes disinterested. Grabbing his wallet that held two hundred rupee notes, he left his flat and dragged his chappal-clad feet along the winding road, leading all the way to the Lal Market. His eyes skimmed over the sights that greeted him daily, the red and white flowers, not stopping once in the last seven years to wonder about the name of the clustered blooms. Moving ahead, his feet treading the road in a rehearsed manner, a yawn on his mouth, as he relished in the cool breeze washing over his nape, settling like a dull blanket on his mind.

Gradually the crumbling old bazaar came into view. The Mishtaan Bhandar approached and the cheerful voice of Mani, the ten-year old chai-waala, welcomed him. “Arnav bhayyia, chai ya cola?” Throwing one of his special lopsided grins, he took a glass filled to the very brim with steaming sweet tea, and walked into The Saree Shop, just round the corner.

“Phirse late Arnav!” The gaunt old man at the cashier admonished him, as he smiled away sheepishly. He greeted the other two saree weavers, by profession, trying to sell a few of the kanchipurams and banarasis by the day, in hope of a salary rise since the summer of 1988. His corner on the neatly spaced out mattresses, covered by shocking white bed sheets, smelled of mothballs. He sat there humming the lyrics to the song, from before, till Mrs Sengupta from the Tsangpo Lane came jostling into the shop. Having already married off her elder daughter to a wealthy businessman hailing from Chandigarh, she now wandered about the Saree Shop collecting the priciest and the softest of the Mysore silks for her younger daughter. Then came exactly at eleven, Razia Ahmed, the wholesale saree-seller from Delhi’s, Chandni Chowk. Every time the bulky man with a belly as round as a pumpkin was in town, he bought at least seventy odd georgette bandhanis, all the glitziest ones in the collection. The next customer, Arnav knew by heart would be Ganguly Saab, one of the wealthiest locals in town, who would come into the shop, only to sit in one corner of the massive shop, and not speak a word, till he would finally leave at about four in the evening. He would come in silently, chewing on his paan, sit on one of the ancient teak stools, read the Sikkim Daily, pick up a tea glass when Mani would saunter into the shop around one, and just to not entertain any complaints, he would buy a stunning Tussar silk every week, and leave just as quietly.

 

But just this once, when Ganguly Saab entered the shop, Arnav didn’t greet him his usual salaam. Instead, this time, his eyes followed every movement of the nimble woman who had just entered stepped into the shop. The faint drizzle had rendered the red of her blouse a shade of maroon against the cotton of her saree. His eyes moved to her face, and he was reminded of dew drops. Fiercely fresh, a glow that was somehow infectious. She must have smiled at the old security guard outside the shop, Arnav thought, watching the wrinkled corners of the guard’s eyes light up with adoration. And somehow he regained composure as he saw her walking towards him. Straightening out invisible creases that might have crept up his kurta and raking a hand through his hair, he suddenly looked extremely interested in the various shades of pastel tussars lying in front of him, but his ears concentrating only on the jingle of her anklets slowly approaching him.

 

 

“Kosa silk, maroon?” Her voice was irresolute, but for just that second, he felt at such peace, inhaling the citrusy scent she emanated, the sound of her words, so distinct. Perhaps it was just the fact that he had never been in the presence of a woman since long, or maybe just that the woman standing next to him was so astoundingly attractive. There were these tiny pearl droplets hanging down her ear lobes, and the stray strands of her hair that kept entangling themselves with those golden hoops. And one did not take Arnav to be an observant man. But that beautiful morning, the man’s eyes noticed captivated, how when she bent down to let her fingers skim over the sarees laid out on the mattress, the thin gold chain adorning her neck swayed back and forth quietly. His then vigilant senses also acknowledged a sudden clicking sound that the woman in front of him was making with her fingers, right in front of his face, trying to get his attention. Arnav cleared his throat, and turning his face away from hers, tried to focus his eyes on the shelves filled with yards of silks, in gazillion shades of pastels. Licking his lips, well aware of his dry throat, he thought of something clever to say, as he turned around with the single maroon Kosa, he had managed to find. “Arre this one has green ambis, black ke saath hoga?” The kohl-rimmed eyes seemed to be laced with worry-unusual for the triviality of not finding a choice-able saree. Not waiting for his reply, she stood up, ready to leave, umbrella in hand. “Ek minute! …,” he didn’t know what he wanted to say, but letting her out of his sight or the shop, didn’t seem like an option. “New sarees will come tomorrow, around eleven…,” he paused, running out of words, but catching up soon enough. “Aap naam, number likh dijiye, I’ll inform you…you.” He was stammering by the last word, his hands shaky holding the scrap of paper and a pencil. She handed him back the paper after a minute or so, the words etched into them slowly imprinting themselves in the canvas of his mind.
Khushi Gupta
9788378105

—

 

The shirt was new, crisp, a shade of brilliant blue, like that of Gangtok’s clear skies, tucked inside the waistband of his old jeans. Arnav resolved to buy a new pair the next month, only able to afford a first-hand shirt this once. A brand new bar of Lux soap, had been applied, his face was squeaky clean, glowing or so he thought, as Arnav examined his reflection in the mirror with the precision of a surgeon. After about half an hour of such inspections in front of the mirror, he finally decided to go to Lal Market, satisfied with the whole outcome of his outfit.

Only this time he stopped to notice the flowers on his way. He realised they were zinnias, the colours of carmine and ivory. One could see a shiny happy face smiling down the road to the old bazaar, today humming a Kishore Da’s Khwab Ho Tum Ya Koi Haqueeqat.

—

“Kya baat Arnav bhayyia, aaj toh bade smart lag rahe ho!” Arnav might have just blushed at Mani’s harmless confession, when Khushi spotted him in the shop, sipping chai. Before she could say a word, Arnav launched into a stammering explanation, “Woh, none of the sarees that came in today had black ambis, but I could take you around the best shops, and help you look for one!”

She was wearing buff yellow cotton today, the sallowness of the colour accentuating the translucent velvetiness of her skin. Knocking him out of his stupor was Mani’s sickly sweet voice, “…memsaab aapki girlfriend hai kya?” Slightly slapping Mani’s head, Arnav followed Khushi out of the shop.

—

Unable to find the saree Khushi sought after, they were sitting in an autorickshaw heading back to the shop. Whilst the auto-waala happily chewed away his paan, heedless of his male passenger’s eyes, that were solely focussed on the yellow saree pallu flapping against his thigh. Arnav also felt a little helpless every time his eyes landed on Khushi’s face that seemed exhausted. It disturbed him, how every time a seller replied in the negative when he asked for the specific saree, her face fell, a gloom indescribable, even more because a while before he had seen a side of her that was symbolical of her name.

He had met some acquaintances whilst leaving another shop and Khushi had politely excused herself from the small group, heading towards a colourful Sikkimese snack stall. About ten minutes later, he came across her talking excitedly to the man standing behind the kiosk, a bowl of Thupka in her hands. He watched with the fascination of a one year old being handed over his first lollipop, the soup in which the steaming noodles were floating in, smudged on the corner of her lips. She seemed happy then, unperturbed.

—

“You could come tomorrow, I will look for a few more Kosa silks…if you want, that is…” The longwinded sentence was received by a small smile from Khushi, post which she left Lal Market vicinity.

—

The sarees were forgotten, as Arnav barely catching a wink of sleep that night woke up to a morning that was spent whiling away searching for the perfect shirt-checks or stripes? The otherwise mussed up hair, was pushed back, neatly combed, his fingers dipping into the shiny hair gel.

“Aaj toh chamak rahe ho bhayyia, kya baat hai!” Not really paying heed to the teasing tilt to Mani’s words, he walked ahead, his mind blissfully ignorant of the bicycles whirring about in the market, the merchants shouting their heads off, attempting to gain the attention of uninterested passer-by’s. His mind had already entered that precinct where every other vision and every other sound were serving the purpose of a mere backdrop, a dull hum. It had in fact, in a very short span of time attuned himself to the sight and sounds of those ivory white pearl droplets, the way they tinkled and the way those ebony ringlets would enwrap themselves onto the earrings the second they were tickled by the faintest of breezes.

On entering the premises of the shop, suddenly it felt empty-devoid of her presence. He was already unfortunately late by about forty minutes, and Khushi should have been there. But the willowy frame was nowhere to be seen. Arnav went and sat down on the white mattress. Suddenly all the colours of the nine yard cloth rolls surrounding him seemed bland, the coloured film his life had entered into the past few days went crawling back to black and white tints. Though he never lost hope completely, at least not till a whole week passed since he had last seen her. He would be dressed crisply every morning that one week, hair neatly combed back and his eyes brimming with optimism. His perception of love went from exciting to depressing, as if he’d gone from the first blush of infatuation to the terminal nostalgia of a former lover without even the temporary relief of an actual relationship in between.*

*Lev Grossman, The Magicians

—

OS| Kuch Kuch Hota Hai

 

 

 

Void is when there is absolutely nothing there and the nothing is natural, a complete vacuum. But empty – with empty, you are aware of what’s supposed to be there. Empty means something is missing.* And hence, when his whole family chirped about seated in the living room, he suddenly felt like something was amiss. It was not sudden, that eerily melancholic feeling had clouded his being completely, even as he was talking to Aarav, seeing glimpses of himself in the boy. The feeling enhanced and amplified, leaving an acrid taste whilst he executed the half-hearted high five with Sheetal. “Where’s Khushi?”  His wife responded, her voice hoarse, hesitant only for a second, before it picked up a rather sickly sweet tinge, very unlike the mellow freshness of her words. She had been standing in the corner of the room, and as he watched, something twisted within his insides watching her fingers twitch, her eyes shifting from one person to the next, not quite understanding what to say; her feet shuffled, as she tried to smile, laugh with the others, trying to include herself in the amusing conversation of their college days, yet failing miserably. And then just as swiftly, she walked back to their room, leaving a void, which landed like a dull thud on his heart, forcing him to look back on the day’s events.

There was the basketball match, and almost immediately it hit him, as he raked his hand through his hair, sighing deeply. That look in those eloquent hazel eyes, which had been overshadowed by the piquing adrenaline rush at the prospect of playing the game he had played years ago, haunted him then. When she walked into the court, her colourful chiffon suits earning her looks of amusing amazement from everyone. But she hadn’t cared for them; her eyes had searched only for his approval, the warm assurance she had always found in them. Instead in that nanosecond she had found unveiled amusement, something mocking, that she couldn’t decipher then. He had seen her fidgeting with her dupatta incessantly throughout the match, but somehow being caught up in the game, he had not given it much thought. Mentally berating himself, he recalled how she had stood still, unmoving her eyes concentrating only on him and the easy camaraderie he shared with Sheetal. Those eyes had held insecurities, but most of all an unmistakable loneliness.

He walked back into their room, his fingers clenching and unclenching, forming a fist, and swearing as he saw her curled up in one corner of the bed. He slid into the duvet, and encircling her arm with genteel strength, he pulled her into his chest, making her face himself. He felt his eyes tearing up as his fingers grazed her damp cheeks, and it took him a second to realize that she was awake, but she had forced her eyes shut, not wanting to open herself to him. A lone tear fell from his face to her eyes, and he thought he heard her breathing stop, for a mere second, before she squirmed and turned away from him. He knew she would be listening, so he said the words, which he didn’t need to think twice before saying them to the woman who had taught him to say so. “I’m sorry Khushi…”

 

—

 

There was something different in his eyes that beautiful morning, Khushi pondered over that thought unceasingly, while stirring her tea. She had heard his apology, and something, some tiny little part of her had shifted, and her mind had felt settled, felt at peace. And once again, since the drizzle had started this dawn, she had revelled in those rare moments with him. Over three times, she had caught him already looking at her, whilst she had tried to steal a glance or two at her jersey-clad husband, resisting the urge to dive her hand through the messy mop of his hair. And those rare moments whilst she would be busy sweating it out in the kitchen, she would see Arnav leaning against a pillar and simply smiling at her, his eyes brimming with adulation. She relived in those few moments, again and again, her face aglow with silent joy. Khushi was taking a cup of tea to Naniji’s room, she crossed him in the hall and on looking up, she found his eyes already locked on hers. She felt her heart jump, twirl and breathed in heavily. It was one of those looks, those few moments when they lost touch with everything surrounding them.

—

It occurred once in a lifetime, when one would find the otherwise formidable Arnav Singh Raizada, trying to recollect scenes from a Shahrukh Khan movie, whilst watching his wife working in the kitchen, as she clumsily tucked the hem of the pallu of her green chiffon into the petticoat. A slow, simmering wave of extreme desire to run his palm over the silk soft skin of her navel, crashed through him. But the need to undo the wrong he had executed on the court a few days before was clawing his mind, perpetually.

Cornering Aarav right outside the kitchen, he proceeded with the most unusual plan brewing up in his brains. Tempting him for another basketball match, he watched from the corner of his eyes, as Khushi shifted uncomfortably, her face uncertain suddenly. Someone, he didn’t notice who, asked if Khushi would be playing, and he watched her nod her head in the negative. Then he decided to press the right buttons, knowing what Khushi would fall for. “Tum waise bhi kaha khel paogi? Chodo!”   And he watched in pleasure as a soft red rose up her cheeks, and her eyes held vehemence. “Hum khel sakte hai. Bilkul khel sakte hai. Aur jeet bhi sakte hai. Bas humara abhi mann nahi kar raha…isliye!” She was stammering, and he was smirking, no holds barred. “Acha? Prove me wrong then!” He played along, ignoring the bemused looks of his family, walking closer to his flustered wife.  “Humein aapko kuch prove nahi karne ki zaroorat nahi hai, samjhe aap?”  Khushi stepped back, as he came forward, now standing a breath away from her. “Darr lag raha hai Khushi? Agar nahi, toh khelo humaare saath!”  She looked at his face, the arrogant eyes staring down her face, and she found herself nodding, this time in the affirmative. He bent down, and placed a soft kiss on her left cheek, and whispered, “Tum haarogi Khush…” he felt her fervently shaking her head, her eyes conveying a no,  pestering Arnav to continue. “Lagi shart?  Agar tum haari, toh main jo kahunga…” “…woh hum karenge,” she completed the age old sentence, diffidently. Fighting the compulsion to claim those dewy lips, he walked away from the kitchen, smiling in all his glory.

—

The game went on smoothly till the first quarter, much like the previous match, only this time, Khushi’s sole focus was on getting her hands on the ball. But her husband proved to become her one and only distraction, as always. Taking off the jersey after sometime, standing right in front of Khushi, he revealed the grey vest clinging to his rigid chest. She stepped back, and attempted to take her eyes off his handsome face, and suddenly when his eyes fell on hers, she looked away, very much aware of the crimson that must have been adorning her face then.

Then after about twenty minutes later, as the game went on, Khushi finally landed herself the ball, and attempted to jump in order to throw the ball inside the net. Before she could even worry over the trouble of jumping wearing a saree, she felt a warm hand encircle her waist completely and lifting her up effortlessly as Khushi limply felt the ball falling into the net. She felt him sliding her form down against his, leisurely, her breath hitched, her hands shivered even as a cool breeze touched her face, and his, the drizzle dancing on their heads. Khushi heard herself speaking, hoping sincerely that she wasn’t squeaking, as his fingers graced the small of her back, resting on the curve of her spine. ”Arnavji…yeh aap…” Her words were left hanging in mid-air, as she felt his palm warm, calloused against her navel, lingering, gliding over her skin, leaving a trail of pin-points, burning and a riot of butterflies erupting somewhere in her chest. His hand moved, and meticulously removed the tucked-in end of the pallu, watching as the splash of emerald green fall against her creamy skin. He heard with immense pleasure, ignoring the amusing scene of Anjali covering Aarav’s eyes, as Khushi gasped in his arms, her lips forming a small circle. The whole expression was so endearing to him, that he placed his fingers on her chin, successfully closing her mouth, but not before his thumb brushed over her lips, causing them to shudder momentarily. “Game over Khushi, I won!” Khushi  felt faint, thankful for his arms around her, unable to understand what had just happened, and why she felt so heady, fuzzy.

—

Much later when she was alone in their room, Khushi replayed the scene in her head, a la Rahul  of the Kuch Kuch Hota Hai fame, she found herself smiling, her heart giddy with bubbling joy. She couldn’t help but wonder if Arnavji had actually watched the movie, and she found herself giggling at the stupid thought. However, she felt loved, more importantly, she felt like she belonged, belonged in his world. The man occupying her thoughts sauntered into their room, hugging her from behind, and repeated his much used words yet again. “I won, you ready for doing as I say?”  His stubble tickled against her neck, as he turned her around to face him, and she felt silent listening to his next words. “I want you smile…” he paused, watching a smile already tugging the corner of her lips, “…the one reaching your eyes, knowing that I love you, only you…” she was blushing now, prettily, as always, her eyes lowered, as her fingers began to play with the buttons of his shirt. And Arnav sighed, his heart a thousand times lighter, watching that dazzling glow her face, the smile back on her face, rendering him helpless, as always.

—

* David Levithan, Every You, Every Me

ROA#32| Windows Of Detachment

Even when I detach, I care. You can be separate from a thing and still care about it. If I wanted to detach completely, I would move my body away. I would stop the conversation midsentence. I would leave the bed. Instead, I hover over it for a second. I glance off in another direction. But I always glance back at you.

― The Lover’s Dictionary, David Levithan

—

A month later

A distinct silence surrounded the lounge of the airport, where Arnav and Khushi were seated in, a month after their wedding, waiting for the announcement of their flight to Delhi. The silence was idiosyncratic of bad news. Their insides felt as if they were being churned, in that lurching way that you fear when you are faced with something destructive, to say the least. Both their hearts throbbed louder, stronger and piquing to levels they didn’t think it could attain. A benumbing sensation slowly enveloped the intense rhythm, as the realisation of the dismal happening sunk in.

 

Shalini had passed away.

 

Khushi got up from her seat, heading towards the glass-panelled windows as she watched the rain falling softly on the mahogany leaves, curled and crunchy from the afternoon sun. But the heat felt far off, the clouds purling precariously around seeming as though the sky would crumble and fall in an obscure puddle centring her mind. The winds howled along the side-walk, watching the darkness open up, spreading in the vicinity a quite silence, its glacial breath benumbing all that’s in the way. She felt tired, weary; she had been turning and learning for far too long. She felt exhaustion overcoming her body slowly, as her fingertips tapped the windowsill impatiently. Not once had it crossed Khushi’s mind that her friend had battled and lost with the same disease which she was still playing hide and seek with. All she knew was that she now had in her life, the absence of another loved one. It still seemed surreal to her, that no longer would she get to watch that frail figure clad in colourful cotton sarees running about in the kitchen that would create a riot of scents ranging from the frying of bay leaves to the crackling of dry red chillies. No longer would she get to revel in the nearly maternal concern that would simmer in Shalu’s eyes, every time she would talk about her, her health, anything at all.

 

—

 

It’s the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.* And so did Arnav think, as he waited for Khushi outside Ajay’s cabin, his mind delving into the probability her, his, their happiness.

 

—

 

“She is really gone? Isn’t she?”  Nobody spoke; words were the last thing on either of their minds. Ajay’s words rand in her mind, and she tried hard to come up with words of comfort, solace, however failing miserably. “I don’t think I can ever live with the fact that I’ll never see her again.”  She hugged him, whispering, “You have to Ajay, for her.” They both cried, for a long time, remembering the old days, wallowing in their sweetness, which ended as soon as the door of Ajay’s cabin opened, and Arnav’s face came into view. Khushi pulled away from the embrace, her eyes meeting Arnav’s, as he carefully covered the slightest hint of irritation in his eyes by giving a curt nod. “I’m heading to the hotel, you take your time.”  The cabin door closed and once again, Khushi found herself dredging into darker realms.

 

Slowly as rain turned into a soft drizzle, its sound slowly getting muffled and mellow, her thoughts drifted to the silent man standing beside her. Shoulders tense, stiff, his eyes concentrating on photos of his wife, but his eyes distant, far off. And suddenly it stumbled over her, that any day now or maybe a few months, or years later, Arnav would be in the exact same position as Ajay would be now. She still remembered Ajay’s voice starting out as firm, but breaking with each word being spoken, his breathing strangled, obscure. And yet she had married Arnav, wanting to live the ordinary life of a young girl. But had she not thought about the future, those perpetual what-ifs? She had and with Arnav himself, they had resolved of fighting through it all together. But suddenly, Shalini’s demise seemed to be like reality knocking down their front door.

 

Khushi had not failed to see that mild annoyance in Arnav’s eyes whilst he had witness Ajay and hers embrace. The seeds of doubt had been planted. But she prayed for strength for what she was about to do next.

 

—

 

The television was playing a roll of advertisements, an incessant chatter went on in the background, but Arnav was not looking at the screen, his eyes were trained on the immobile Panasonic phone set, as if awaiting a call, as Khushi entered the hotel room.

 

Her hands felt unnaturally cold, amidst the humid surroundings of Delhi. She didn’t actually realize but she had already been crying even as she had stepped out of the radio taxi , visualising the scene that she was about to act out in her mind over and over again. And yet, every time she wanted to back out, Ajay’s words replayed themselves over and over again. I don’t think I can ever live with the fact that I’ll never see her again.

 

Arnav’s voice knocked her into the present, as she furiously tried to wipe her face dry. “What’s wrong…why are you crying?”  She didn’t reply, as her gaze wavered, falling over the floor, and in the next second, that seemed dangerously slow, vexatious-she pushed those warm hands placed on her waist with a gentle, yet determined push. Something, small, nonetheless monumental shifted against Arnav. Something very much alike to that fateful night on the NSD roof, when he had seen those walls up her eyes, saying words that were unreasoned, irrational. Arnav watched as she walked a little away from him, maintaining enough distance that would bear a hindrance to any form of his touch, lest she faltered in what she was going to say then.

 

“This, this thing, I can’t go on like this…”  She had paused for a second, to draw in air, and to rehearse in her mind once again the weighty sentence, block out the burning acid like taste slowly spreading in her throat. He took a step towards her, only to halt abruptly at her next words. “There’s someone else…someone I met recently. I…I like him–” Arnav was there in front of her in an instant, his palm trembling against her gelid cheek. His eyes were brimming with silent fury, merely lingering on the brink of desperation. “Is this some kind of joke Khushi?”  She went past him, facing the window, her hands placed against the cold glass panels, the street lights appearing blurry to her mind through the thin film of moisture collected at the corner of her eyes. “I’m serious Arnav, but…I, I am sorry. This, this has to end.”  Her voice broke by the end of the sentence, and her nails dug into her palm, the anguish piling into the tiny fist. His voice came like a raspy whisper, as his fingers wound themselves around her hands, encasing them with his shaky ones, “You…you like him?”

 

“I love him–” The words were said, turned to him, yet looking at the slate grey lapels of his blazer. His voice was calm, deadly calm, “Then why are you crying Khushi?”  This time she looked him in the eye that tears clinging right to the lashes, breaking her heart slowly. But she spoke, anyway. “I am not joking Arnav. He…he makes me happy.”

 

“And I don’t?”

 

When she turned away from him, covering her mouth, letting the pent-up tears flow, all she wanted to do was just turn, and embrace him, and rest in the arms of the man who she had come to realize was not merely a significant part of her life, but rather, life itself. A habit, she would inevitably have to give up. Tonight, more likely.  She heard something, being flung behind, her, the crash and then his words, seething with frustration, and undercurrents of angst. “We are not done talking about this …this thing Khushi.”

 

She heard his footsteps, exiting the room, slowly their sound dulling, before there was nothing other than a dormant silence. They say there is sacredness in tears. They are not a mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love. ** Khushi sat in the empty space of the bay window, wanting nothing more than to become unconscious then, or simply vanish. She wanted something, a way to let go of the tears, which seemed to not stop, never, not for her.

 

*J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince

**Washington Irving

 

—

ROA#31| Darling, I do.

 

 

But to see her was to love her. Love but her, and love forever.

-Robert Burns, “A Fond Kiss”

Beautiful, as ever, the inky black hair, now tousled and splayed all over the pillow, framing the oval of her face, brushing over her cheeks that seemed to be glistening with the much despised tears. His fingers reached out almost immediately to brush them away, as his mouth seemed to find back his voice.

 

“Can you ever, not cry?”  But that slightest hint of humour was not received well by Khushi. She swatted away his hand that approached her cheeks, and spat at him, a delirious fury rising up in her. “I can’t believe you left me here…all alone, I hate you Arnav, just…just go.”

The last few words were said with her swallowing large gulps of air, as she felt Arnav slid down next to her on the bed. Before she could react, his hands slipped underneath that threadbare shallow green hospital gown, and moved over her navel, drawing incomprehensible patterns.

 

“Arnav, I don’t want to talk to you…just leave, please,” her pleas sounded unconvincing even to her own ears, as his lips moved near her ears, placing soft kisses, as a barely audible whisper escaped him. “I’m sorry Khushi, so sorry. I was…I was scared.”

The revelation was followed by a pregnant, implausible silence.

The rhythmic sound of their breathing, her back moving away and close as she breathed, was touching his front. Her chest was ceasing to explode with sobs, with uncertainty, but then after a long, long moment she spoke, “…I’m scared too…” she paused for a moment, feeling the pressure of his lips increase on her neck, before she continued with a steely grit, “…but that doesn’t mean you’re forgiven, I still hate you!”  Khushi could almost sense him laughing silently behind her, “…I love you too Khushi!”

Khushireplied, her voice filled with veiled joy at his return, as she wallowed under the magical ministrations of his touch,”…so…so you won’t leave me again…promise?”

 

She probably didn’t know but he had been crying, already and the tears rushed away their flow when he heard that childlike plea, mentally berating himself for being so selfish.

But he was aware of yet another fact, that he remained to be the only person who could make her cry and laugh within a span of seconds. So taking advantage of that fleeting, vulnerable moment, vowing to bring back that smile on her face, his hands reached the pocket of his charcoal grey blazer, pulling out the small velvet box he had been toying with the whole of last week.

A thin platinum band, with a circle of glimmering diamonds studded meticulously, forming a vortex of stunning silver, peeked out from velvet padded box, sending a sliver of light over Khushi’s face. The beauty of the light dimmed, as her lips dazzled themselves into forming a smile so enthralling that Arnav knew he didn’t need to ask the question he had planned on asking.

Instead, placing his lips on Khushi’s, he whispered against them,”…we’re getting married—next week.”

 

—

 

The sedan neared Hazratganj, which had retained its old world charm and essence in the rapidly urbanizing Lucknow. Arnav had brought her home. Everything seemed blindingly clean and bright, and the lack of mooing cows on the street was disconcerting but reassuringly normal. The hazy sky stretched overhead, as the car moved at a phlegmatic speed through the buzzing traffic.

“Why here?”  Khushi questioned, somehow already knowing the answer. “Because I think we have cried enough since the past few weeks and its high time you smile…And make me smile too!”  Arnav smirked down at her bemused face. “Itne cheesy lines….kya baat hai!”  Khushi’s face contorted with bubbling laughter and after a long, long time and the skies seemed a little less hazy to Arnav’s eyes.

Timidly tracing bony wrists and exploring the warmth of Arnav’s company, Khushi’s fingertips searched longingly for his, now intertwining softly, each curve falling into their perfectly balanced place. It’s as if this was meant to happen all along, their contours fitting so perfectly. It was a still peace in this mangled society that was bustling with broken people. Nothing more, nothing less. A safety in someone other than herself.

—

The grey memories Khushi had instilled in her mind till then of the fire that had not ceased to consume almost all her loved ones, seemed to dim as she looked around the streets, her hair being done up now in a messy chignon, under Anjali’s ministration, as she sat in one of the effusive bedrooms  of the farmhouse. Where once her home stood, it was now dazzling with a bevy of twinkling lights, blue, gold and silver, glimmering and showering their colours on the happy faces of the small group of people had gathered in the small farmhouse, festooned in all its glory. Mason jars filled with hydrangeas hung from shepherd’s hooks at all corners, its beauty dulled as Khushi stepped into the hall, the chestnut lehenga sashaying behind her, a sunny smile playing on her lips, as her eyes fell on Arnav peeping through the door to the room.

“Can I have her to myself for some time? Please?” His plea to Anjali bore no result, as she promptly closed the door on his face. But not the one to give up, he sauntered in, the copper jodhpuri suit exuding in all its glory, raw masculinity, making Khushi shiver as he came up to stand behind her, his hand placed firmly on the small of her back. “Five minutes Anjali? Please?” Muttering something that sounded a lot like incorrigible, Anjali left the two alone.

—

“How are you feeling?” The words were spoken, not quite looking into her eyes, as his own roamed about the contours of her face, his fingers, grazing over the embellished silver on the rich red of her blouse, as he absorbed and captured in his mind the stunning  picture she made as his bride.

“I’m nervous; excited…I don’t know exactly…you?”  Khushi’s effulgent voice was met with a kiss landing square on the slope of her neck and as he raised his eyes, his fingers weaved through the chignon, pulling it free, his words came out raspy, but heavy with something close to gratitude or just immense love. “I just feel so lucky, to have you here with me today…” The sentence ended, just like it had begun, but this time the kiss was placed on her lips, soft and lingering, as the cherry gloss on her lips was efficaciously  wiped out  of Khushi’s face. His eyes and hands followed with deep attention every part his lips touched, covering with nook and cranny of her body left bare by the lehenga. “You smell heavenly Khushi…” he breathed out, breathing in the soft scent of jasmine and something he could probably only identify with her. He watched with her eyelashes fluttered and lowered, blushing, as the picture she formed turned more ethereal to him by the second, as the faint strains of the afternoon sunlight bathed her face indulgently.

“It’s time Khushi, let’s go,” her hands were safely placed in his, drawing in assurance, which he readily gave, his mind in the realms of hope, that they would sail through, whatever the future had in store for them.

—

The guests had left, the family remained behind. The wedding had been completed, as feeling of utter bliss had descended on everyone present in the vicinity. Anjali’s mock anger at her immaculately done-up chignon being distorted, had been dealt with Khushi blushing recollecting her earlier little clandestine trystwith Arnav whilst he smirked away.

When the newlyweds entered the master bedroom, bedizened with a deluge of flowers, a riot of scents, they just smiled, ecstatic of this feeling, somewhat new, yet not.  As Khushi fell on the bed, feeling a little faint, the exhaustion of day slowly taking over, Arnav slipped in next to her, whispering, “…sleep Khushi…”

—

Their morning after, began with Arnav unwrapping the chestnut chiffon of Khushi with unusual care, as the sunlight filtered through the ivory of the crotchet curtains, dappled their faces. Khushi felt overwhelmed, giddy when the first thing she saw the second she opened her eyes was the handsome image of her husband. A string of giggles erupted from her chest, which Arnav matched with lazy lopsided grins and warm kisses. His mouth touched, glided along her back, ambling over the tricky hooks on the front of her blouse whilst his hands massaged the mounds with dawdling desire, as he felt her squirm and embrace him within seconds. And the moment he left the luscious softness of her lips on the base of his throat, they fell into a passionate rhythm, rising and falling, till they were both enveloped in the film of dazzling bliss.

When Arnav woke up a few hours later, he didn’t wake Khushi up, instead, just spoke to the sleeping, calm face of his wife, with a determined austerity. “I can’t imagine not ever meeting you Khushi. Without you, life would be unbearable. This—this being with you, it’s like you are a routine, a habit, drugging. I don’t know what will happen next, but I will love you, always.”  His hands encircled her waist tightly, pulling her closer to him, this time drawing in her warmth, to melt the sudden cold that seemed to have enveloped his mind, as he ventured into the possibilities of the future.

—

OS| The Dreamcatcher

The human heart has hidden treasures,

In secrets kept, in silence sealed;

The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,

Whose charms were broken if revealed.

 

–Charlotte Bronte, “Evening Solace”

 

 

He had fallen in love with her, the second he had entered that small room in the basement of her crumbling apartment huddled into the Ballygunge Road of Kolkata, for the very first time. The room had almost always scented of sandalwood incense sticks. Her inky black hair was tied up into a loose bun that evening, letting astray about a fifty or so tendrils, a few sticking on to her face, and a few clinging on to the swanlike curve of her neck. A faint sheen of sweat glimmered softly over her ivory skin. Her eyes, those mesmerising hazel depths, held an extremely attentive, enthralled audience, even, in him. Those eyes would portray a colourful riot of a range of thoughts, expressions, each complimenting the way her hands would move, to the beat of her ghunghruadorned feet. And as she would move, a new song, an unheard melody would be created, especially for his ears. The tinkle of those silver jhumkis bobbing up and down, with the faint clunking sound that single pair of glass bangles sliding over those slender arms, mixed hypnotically with the chanchan of those ghunghrus. That pair of ghunghrus, a thick band of maroon nylon, and golden bells, embossed on them…they had been special to her, gifted to her by late mother. They had broken once, and he had bought her a new pair from the local mela at the Park Street. She had planted a kiss on his cheek then, which had fortunately been the first of the many to come.

 

—

 

He would watch her dance, every evening, after he rushed back from college. He would make sure to drive his creaking old bicycle, extra fast, than those worn out tyres would essentially allow. At times, he would get lucky, because her routine would start a little late in the evening, as she would get caught up in preparing dinner for her father and him. But she never missed her Kathak routine, not a single day, at least for the brief period, he had known her. She would begin it with theVandana, which would be an invocation to the Gods, and end it with the Tihai, that spilled over effortless grace, ending the routine, with a dazzling smile on her face, and an upbeat atmosphere hovering over the house the rest of the night.

 

Initially, he used to hide behind those crotchet curtains that covered the amber yellow walls, and inhale the faint mixture of jasmine, intermingling with the sandalwood emanated from theagarbattis she would light up in the room, every evening. He was caught, a week later by her, and none too mildly. The consequences had been severe, resulting in no dinner for him for the next two nights. But the third night she had seen him feasting on plates of kebabs, rolled in paranthas, and gobbling down over two rasgollas after that, she had promptly complied to dinner the next night. And since then, she had let him watch happily, having found herself a devoted audience in him. Amidst that, and when she began to love him, even she couldn’t recollect.

 

How they had met, was an entirely different story, however.

 

—

 

“We have found the new tenant Khushi!” Her father’s voice streamed into the kitchen as she brushed back the tears stinging her eyes, overwhelmed by the heady scent of the onions, dunked into the bubbling oil, the kitchen a plethora of smells ranging from cardamom to turmeric.

 

“He’ll be having your jiji’s room beta, will you be okay with it?” Of course she wouldn’t be okay with it. She had dreamt of moving into the comparatively spacious room of Payal’s, ever since she had got married last week. She had dreamt of lying down under the only air-conditioner in the whole house, hanging on the walls of her sister’s bedroom, but, it was not supposed to be, she thought resignedly. And they needed the money, for the basic necessities oh the house, and if she was to ever enrol herself into the famous Sarojini Nritya Academy of Park Street. Hence, Khushi, replied in the affirmative.

 

—

 

“You should know, that this was supposed to be my room, had you not shown up magically out of nowhere!” Khushi rattled on admonishingly at the unsuspecting and now, startled tenant, a little taken aback by the tall intimidating figure standing in one corner of her elder sister’s room, with an halfway buttoned up black shirt and ripped blue jeans. He of course didn’t satisfy her expectations of the innocent-looking-fat-man who she had assumed Arnab, as pronounced by her father, to be. He had turned out to be Arnav Singh Raizada, beholding an unnerving gaze, and an uptight, aristocratic face, that demanded attention, in every possible manner.

 

He had then asked her, if this is how she talked to all the men that had the privilege of entering her apartment. She had snorted, in an extremely unladylike manner, recited to him about the timings of the daily meals and then attempted to exit the room, only to trip down a stair, and fall haphazardly in front of his new room. Not being able to hide the laugh that had slipped into the alcoves of his face, he had watched her struggling with her dupatta, before she finally stood up, glaring at him in annoyance, and scuttled off to the ground floor.

 

She had, months later admitted to herself, that it was that laugh, infectious, in all its nature, that had drawn her towards him, in the very first place.

 

—

 

It was the last week of October, the scorching sun almost permanently invading the skies during the day, whilst the Durga Puja celebration were in full swing. He had carelessly, entered her room in the ground floor, without knocking, only to stop short at the exquisite site greeting his eyes. She had just finished tying the doris of her green tussar blouse, when he had entered abruptly. She had been too shocked too turn away from the mirror and face him, but, he stood rooted, a few feet away from her back. That arousing image of those tiny silver ghunghrus hanging from the green dorisresting against the silky expanse of her back, enhancing the whole image of the maroon banarasishe was wrapped in then.

 

Somehow, evoked by that arousing image, he had let his feet walk towards her, till they stopped right behind her bare feet. The only sounds reverberating through their minds would have been the faint ticking of the old grandfather clock and their rhythmic shallow breaths. He had bent then, his senses infused with the strong scent of fresh jasmine and his mind buzzing with the sound of his blood throbbing against his ears, and planted a lingering kiss on the place where those ghunghrushung from the green silk of her blouse. His lips had moved, almost in a soporific stance, skimming over her skin, over her shoulder and had then, pressed his lips just below her ear, on the bend of her neck, as her jhumkis softly nudged his nose. All this while, her eyes had been clenched shut, absorbing, etching in her mind, these new sensations, coursing through her body, settling in the recesses of all her senses as tingling pinpoints of an insatiable fire. Her hands had fisted up the palluof her saree, the golden work on the edges, creasing up, as his lips once again moved, grazing her cheek and parting with a tender pressure right at the corner of her lips, smudging the vermilion of the lipstick a little.

 

He had placed a soft, hesitant kiss on her mouth, the second, her father had bellowed from downstairs for them to hurry up. But those few long minutes had changed the course of their lives, forever, maybe.

 

 

—

 

They had fallen into an easy routine a few days after. She woke up an hour before him, showered and found herself in the kitchen, frying the usual morning batch of puris a little too enthusiastically than before. By the time the egg-plants she would be frying, would turn a deeper shade of mustard, he would be sauntering into the kitchen, his wet hair sticking to his forehead and pull her into a warm embrace. When time permitted, they sought out a few stolen moments during the period between when her father would wake up and demand for breakfast. He would kiss her then, long and lingering, never wanting to let go of her taste, an intoxicating plethora of things he didn’t recognize well enough, to put forth in proper words.

 

—

 

That summer went by, the days pleasantly cooler than before, bringing forth the monsoons, drenching the city in all its humungous glory. The last year of his college ended, and he was offered a well-paying placement with an automotive firm, in Delhi.

 

He had showed Khushi, when they had whiled away their weekends strolling on the shores of theHooghly river, the designs he had been working on throughout his course of automotive engineering at college. He had wanted to be a designer, designing cars, motorbikes and what not.

 

Arnav had looked at the stray strands of her hair beating against her face, at the force of the rustic winds coursing through the shoreline, as she flipped through his beaten down sketchbook, her crimson-painted nails grazing over each stroke of his graphite pencil, as her eyes lit up wondrously with every passing sketch of the many cars he had designed.

 

So when the news of his job had registered her mind, she had been deliriously happy, only later to realize that it meant that he would too be leaving, if he took up the job. That forlorn, morose expression marring her beautiful eyes had snapped something inside Arnav. A few hours later, he had promptly asked her father for her hand, to which he had complied, hesitantly, but still.

 

And so they had got married, her father being the only other person present in the tranquil surroundings of the small temple, amidst the soft chants muttered on by an old priest, a soothing song cascading in rhythm with the first rays of sunlight filtering itself through the grey skies of dawn.

 

—

 

Delhi in all its jaded beauty somehow changed the exciting innocence of their relationship, leaving in its wake something monotonous, a dull ache. Not that any of them realised it at first.

 

He would return back from work at around nine. And since the time he would leave for office, and return in the late evening, she would while away her time, boring her eyes onto the television screen or whipping up new dishes from the magazines scattered away in their house.

 

She had, tried to look for a calm vicinity that she could adopt too, and vent the restless energy building up in her, dancing till her feet would stop. But, somehow that one-bedroom apartment, fitted in the suffocating street facing the Lajpat Nagar Market, refused to give her the serenity she sought.

 

But, all the restlessness would soon disappear the second, he would return, gathering her in his arms and falling asleep into a peaceful slumber, listing to her breathe, letting himself get lost, once again in the scents of jasmine.

 

That life lasted for a bare three months before he was recruited by Honda Motors, beckoning him to move to America. The company had only; however funded his visit and stay. Khushi had not given him a chance to voice his opinion, for she knew exactly where his dreams were destined. So she let him go, willing her mind to stay strong, and not breakdown before him.

 

—

 

The few initial weeks since his departure to America, he would call, a minimum of three times a day, some days, even more. They used to video chat, sent each other pictures, and he would fall asleep listening to her voice on the phone. But as his assignments increased, he travelled to new towns, met new people, the number of calls decreased, and at a fairly steady rate. She would make it a point to call him, every day, at least once, letting the void of her dull days, pass by, listening to his voice. But, his tone seemed different, more clipped, more distant with each passing day. She would slowly realize when she was being dismissed whilst talking to him. So she stopped trying, acknowledging the fact the he was just busy.

 

The days went by. She missed him, missed waking up to those lingering embraces and his husky whispers of sweet nothings. She would engage all her time in looking through the few pictures she had of him, wallowing in the memories of their summer in Kolkata.

 

One day she accidentally stumbled across a small dance workshop being held at the open air theatre surrounding the town library. She slipped in through the creaking doors, as a matter of hesitant choice, and found reason and a glimmering hope of happiness in her life, again.

 

—

 

Arnav had missed the sight of her face, her eyes, that seemed to look more tired with every passing day, or hearing her voice every single moment in that one year. But each time he thought of calling her, something or the other would spring up, taking him away from her, her thoughts,momentarily.

 

That day when he when he finally took leave for a month, to visit India, he didn’t call her up, wanting to look at the delirious delight that would envelop her face. He returned home, to however an empty house, with no sight of the woman he loved. Thinking that she might have gone to the local market, he went into their bedroom, only to be greeted with her scent from every corner. He opened their wardrobe, and gently grazed his hand over her sarees drinking in the sight of the pastels; he had missed far more than he could account for. He heard the main door open, and he held his breath, whilst walking out of the room and into the dining area.

 

She looked radiant. Her cheeks flushed, lips playing out into a hesitant smile as her eyes finally landed on him. Her feet were still throbbing from the last dance routine, Amish had made her do, but she still willed them to move forwards before she slumped against Arnav’s chest, unconscious of the silent tears streaming down her face. His arms, enveloped her, drawing her in, resting his face, against her cheek, as his hands combed her hair, his fingers still shaking.

 

—

 

“Where were you?” Arnav asked softly, as his taste buds relished his wife’s cooking, the aromas, he had missed for long since feeding on the Ready-To-Eats America had bestowed him with.

 

“Oh, with Amish…” Khushi didn’t notice his eyes dart to her face immediately, as she continued further. “…he is helping me with my Kathak routine, the one I’m going to perform towards the end of this month,” she spoke on, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm and a sense of rejuvenated excitement at Arnav’s return.

 

“It doesn’t matter now Khushi, I want you to come to America with me, when I’ll be leaving at the end of this month, we’ll finally be together!”  Arnav spoke, failing to understand why his breathing suddenly became slow, hitched in anticipation of her answer.

 

He watched her face, slowly lose all its earlier flush, leaving behind its flaxen residues. Then something, he had never seen in her eyes before, erupted, its flames rising slowly.

 

“I can’t. I can’t Arnav…come with you to America…because; finally…finally after we left Kolkata I have found a life here. I have found my dream, my love for the dance. I left it then, for your dreams, and I don’t regret it for a moment, but I can’t…I will not leave Delhi now. I can’t leave this only chance I have got to fulfil my dreams. I…I’m sorry Arnav.” She had got up from the table then, the tears stinging her eyes, falling without any holds onto her lap, as Arnav looked on.

 

He felt angry. Hurt, even, but somehow in that state of mind he refused to acknowledge the rightness of her voiced thoughts. Booking the next flight back to America, he left that night, without glancing back towards their room.

 

But as a week passed, and then the next, that tear streaked face of Khushi haunted his mornings and his nights. Her memories made him realize, that all the money, all his dreams had their brightness dulled the instant they would feel the absence of Khushi in them. They meant nothing, those dreams gave him no joy, if he didn’t have that one person in his life to share them with.

 

—

 

He had loved her. He had seen his dreams with her. He had fallen in love watching her work towards her dreams, watching her dance. His heartbeats fell into tune with that unsung melody he had last heard at that room in the basement of her apartment at Kolkata.

 

As he stepped into the theatre, he found himself in the backstage, his feet taking him towards the green room as another familiar sight greeted him.

 

This time, she was in the process of tying the doris of her zardosi choli, as her midnight bluelehenga sashayed behind her. Her hands stilled as she saw him behind her, through the mirror. But only this time, she turned away from the mirror and found herself pressed against his chest in a matter of few seconds. She mumbled a few incoherent Sorrys. “I don’t know what came over me…please forgive me Arnav…” He had shushed her with a genteel tenderness, and showered her face with ephemeral kisses. The last one had him coursing through the treasures of her lips, and drawing in the source of strength, the energy he needed back in his life.

 

—

 

A while later, about ten minutes before her performance was to commence, his fingers worked through tying up the doris of her choli.

 

“Will you stop crying Khushi? Those beautiful eyes will be needed on the stage for your dance. Shh, don’t stop me today. I…I have taken up a job at Delhi, its nothing attractive, but still satisfying. No buts Khushi, I’m not leaving you again. Me and you, we will fulfil all our dreams, but together. I…you, we can’t live without each other. Get it?” She had embraced him in between his rambling tirade of words, and sobbed, yet again. He had lifted up her face and wiped away her tears and somehow with a skill he didn’t know he had before, lined the hazel eyes he had fallen in love with hopelessly, with the kohl pencil. She had smiled up at him, her lips moist, before he continued, pressing his lips against her forehead, “…go, give the performance of your life, Khushi!”

 

—

CW#18| The New & The Old

The dawn had just broken through the night, colouring the distant peaks a periwinkle blue to the eyes of the few passengers awake on the moving train. Khushi had not been able to sleep a wink despite the overwhelming exhaustion. Her eyes were drooping, near closing, but a dull ache, an incomprehensible thirst for understanding the tirade of events coursed through every niche of her body.

 

She wondered to herself repeatedly, what exactly had gone wrong. His father had been ill, hence he couldn’t leave his side and come see her when she was about to leave. There was nothing remotely wrong about it. He was going through shock, grief and he might have lost control of his senses. There could have been no way he would have trusted his father with anyone else, even for a second.

 

She tried contradicting every word, every sentence that like tiny hoard of bullets kept storming her mind, unrelenting, telling her that there was obviously something more to it than what only she wanted to believe.

 

He had been with her when his father was ill.

 

Did he blame her?

 

Did he blame himself?

 

He didn’t come to meet her.

 

One last time.

 

And somehow the thought that she wanted to ignore the most screamed the loudest of all. What if she didn’t meet him again? Was this supposed to be the very last time?

 

The train rumbled on, a hazy afternoon approached, throwing slivers of burnt sienna across Khushi’s face, which had somehow after hours of relentless thinking, she had slipped off into a disturbed sleep.

 

—

 

“He’s stable now Arnav. It will take month or so to recover completely, but he will get there soon.” Aakash tried to get the words understood by Arnav who sat beside Azaan, his face buried in his hands. “Will you please go get some air Arnav, please? Its ben ages since you’ve stepped out of this room!” Aakash paused to wait for a reaction, an outburst, a single word. But nothing came. He was as still, as calm as a stone since his father’s illness and Khushi’s departure.

 

“Arnav…please, just go outside for ten minutes at least. Take a walk, eat something, I’ll not move from here, for a second, promise!”  Arnav looked up, and couldn’t help but let a small smile invade his face looking at Aakash enacting the gimmicks of a kid with as much efficiency he could manage, touching his fingers to his throat, and mouthing I swear to him. Arnav looked back at the frail looking image of Azaan’s face, and then nodding at Aakash briefly, quietly left the room.

 

—

 

“Amma, I can’t eat anymore, please…” Khushi grunted through a mouth full of kheer as a plump old lady piled on two more crisp puris onto the plate before Khushi. Usha chaachi or Amma as Khushi called her had been taking care of Khushi since the day her mother had appointed her as Payal’s aayi. The second she had seen Khushi’s worn out face she had known something was more than wrong, and then she did what she had always done to bring back the smile onto her bogged down face. She whipped up kheer and golden yellow puris and in a matter of minutes Khushi had attacked the long forgotten mix of Amma’s food.

 

Khushi sat with Amma on the rooftop, sipping on buttermilk waiting for Babuji to return as the clock struck seven. And Khushi couldn’t help notice how Amma diverted her gaze every time she questioned about her father. “Will you just tell me where he is?” Khushi asked exasperated. “He had left for this small protest march in Darjeeling a week ago and since then he never contacted. I called Mahesh Dada’s place too, but we couldn’t reach him. Khushi…sorry beta, I just didn’t want you to worry…”  Usha chaachi’s voice became muffled by the last word, looking at Khushi’s flaxen face. “I’m leaving for Darjeeling tomorrow morning Amma,” Khushi spoke out into the damp air unbeknownst to what the future held of her in Darjeeling.

 

—

 

Mr Robertson had taken the drained, harried Khushi by evident surprise when she stumbled onto him at Mahesh Dada’s place. The old wooden floorboard cottage scented of rich coffee and sandalwood incense sticks. And it had always attracted tourists, the babus and memsahibs from Old Britain, especially during these days.  So stumbling onto Robertson was nothing extraordinary, but that unruly mop of dirty golden hair tousled over his forehead brushing across Khushi’s cheeks had her look up and finding her eyes colliding with the softest shade of emeralds. And those eyes twinkled with faint amusement providing competition to that near infectious smile riding on his face. “Hi…Brian here and you are?” Khushi recovered almost immediately from the startling effect of those beautiful eyes,”…Khushi, listen do you have any idea where I can find Mahesh Dadu?”  He simply put a hand on her elbow, encircling it firmly, and leading her towards a lone staircase, as Khushi’s mouth opened and closed in mild shock.

 

—

 

He found himself in front of Hospital even before he knew how his feet had brought him there. It was there, that faint question, that tiny thought, what if he had been there, just a few days before. The troubling question hung on, unanswered, ticking on like an old clock, seeking for something, anything to make himself understand, make him finally absorb the fact, that now as he stood a breath away from the hospital door, when he would finally open it, there would be no Khushi running about harried in the gloomy corridors. There would be no more sightings of an amusing, flustered Khushi, squatting away that singular tendril of hair repeatedly back as it obstructed her vision of him. There would only be memories, though still painfully crystal clear, hanging on to every nook and cranny of the hospital. Behind every closed door, he could still see the image of a flushed Khushi leaning away from him, with that coy smile playing on her lips as he would tower over her. Sauntering into every locker room, he could still feel her silken skin under his calloused fingertips, the dance of her lips against his.

 

It would be there no more. He wouldn’t, couldn’t see her every day.

 

Khushi had left.

 

And he had let her.

 

Let her go, and had not for once even tried to stop her.

 

—

 

Brian, known to his fellow colleagues at the Wenger’s Tea Production Ltd as Sir Robertson had then taken away Khushi and landed her up with himself at a deserted library that scented of weathered pages and molten wax.

 

“What…?”  Khushi asked, a little appalled by the warmth thrown her way by this handsome stranger standing in front of her.

 

“Are you Mahesh Dada’s…”  Brian questioned, still smiling down at the hassled face, which was then adorned with an adorable frown, her eyes mirroring impatience.

 

“My father is a dear friend of his. Where can I find Dada?” Khushi paused, as Brian continued. “…He has left for the Shialdah Jail, an hour back. He had to look into some case regarding the prisoners being held in charge of a recent protest march!”  Khushi felt the ground slid beneath her feet, her hands found support against the door handle, as she imagined the worst that could’ve happened. “…Are you okay Khushi?”  Brian put a hand on her shoulder, and almost immediately she slapped it away. ”Where can I find a taxi to Shialdah?”  Khushi asked uncaring of the startled man’s in front of her.

 

—

 

An hour or so later, Brian stopped the brand new Ambassador out the Shialdah Jail, as Khushi scampered out of the car within a minute.

 

They wouldn’t let her meet Shashi, the local inspectors, giving her in broken English, that they had orders from the Sahibs. Khushi almost broke down in front of them, the pent of frustration form the past few days finally rushing out as the floodgates forged open.

 

Brian led her back to the car, and offered her a crisp white starched handkerchief, which she politely denied. “You know you look much more beautiful without those wretched tears,” he said, his voice developing a timbre of liquid honey, dropping down suddenly as he gave away a flirtatious smile towards Khushi’s way. She gave him a small hesitant smile in return, not trying to understand the antics of the man in front of her, at least not then.

 

—

 

Mahesh Dada, almost always clad in Navajo white kurtas, spoke to Khushi as sympathetically as he could, considering her raging dialect and infuriated, unsettled mind. “I have tried beti, as hard as I could stop him from participating in that calamitous protest. But your father’s a very stubborn man. He wouldn’t listen and now look where it has gotten him. They will not grant us a bail, not for months until and unless we have an approach of one of the Sahibs!”

 

“But how…?” Khushi whispered, immediately silenced as she saw Dada’s head nodding, as if conveying utter hopelessness the situation bore. The evening drew to a deploring close, bringing with itself unwanted thoughts and heady apprehension.

 

—

 

Arnav had dialled the only number she had left with Aakash before departing, to find it unreachable, every single time.

 

Even though he had made up his mind strolling repeatedly in front of her apartment in Kashmir, that he wouldn’t enter that place, he couldn’t stop his heart from giving into a glimpse of a few nights before.

 

He nearly choked; his breathing turning heavy the second he stepped onto the carpeted floorboards of the apartment. Was it caffeine, or just the faint streetlight streaming into the room, lighting up a plethora of dust particles, and memories of a distant night under the moonlight that made Arnav fall onto the bed they had shared just days ago.

 

He felt unusually thirsty. Thirsty for those pearl like water droplets cascading down her nose, the wet strands of her hair that fallen all over his face that morning long gone by. He wanted, needed to place his lips on hers, on her cheeks, and cherish every touch, every move, and make sure it lasted, a little longer, this time. He longed to quench that almost painful longing, tugging somewhere deep inside his chest, for one chance to see her, one last time.

 

Arnav didn’t know when his hands and balled up the soft white bed sheets, bunching them up and bringing it close to his face as he buried his head into the pillows they had shared nights ago. Her scent still lingered on, the faint lavender, sometimes jasmine, those shy smiles, that crimson blush, all of it, all of her, swam before his eyes, but alas, he was too far, too late to catch hold of it.

 

—