Author's note: This story is a gift for our very talented .amigos because she does deserve a treat. Not that I make any claims about its quality. Or claim any proficiency in the art of writing. My thanks to her for the prompt and the general premise of it.
Intoxicated
She's got the best of both worlds in her. A little bit of Cleopatra and a little bit of Joan of Arc. It's a strange combination, but oh so intoxicating.
He doesn't know why he tags her along to these overblown galas that bring together everything he wholeheartedly despises: insipid men and women with wide, fake smiles on their faces to hide the daggers they carry behind their backs, the dull, self-congratulatory conversations and the pathetic swill that is served in the name of liquor. But these insipid people have deep pockets and there are only so many invitations he can politely decline. Doesn't explain why he insists on her presence though.
They spend these evenings apart from eachother but Rishabh is always aware of where she is and who approaches her. It is wildly distracting. It feels like a bloody disease-- this constant need to keep her in his sights, this craving he has for her company. It feels like a morbid addiction. He cannot not have her accompany him anymore than he can live without air, even though he knows he presents Mohini Basu with opportunities to dig her claws in his wife whenever they're out in society. He fights for Prerna then, because she won't fight for herself. And that is an addiction on its own.
Except today.
He was standing too far away and the conversation around him for once wasn't such that he could abandon abruptly and rush to her side. He watched helplessly, her face crumpling as Mohini continued her speech with a satisfied smirk.
Now he can't find both victim or abuser anywhere.
"Sir..." Mehra looks as if he'd rather choose to jump from the roof of Burj Khalifa than say the next words but he wades through his hesitation at the raise of Rishabh's inquisitioning eyebrow. "Prerna Madam has left."
A perfectly acceptable action. It doesn't explain the apprehension that is twisting his manager's features. Therefore, there must be more to it.
"The bartender said she had a few drinks before leaving."
"How many?"
"Four or Five."
He can sense there's more to come. Something worse to come. So he asks, "And?"
"She has gone to Basu Badi."
*
She doesn't remember when she got out of that blasted party. The memory of her getting in the car and coming here is hazy. She doesn't even remember what Mohini Auntie had actually said. All she can remember, all that she carries with herself like a tangible weight is her anger.
She could laugh right now at her naïve belief that Mohini Auntie would have accepted her if things had turned out differently. She does laugh at her stupidity. She had offered herself up as a sacrificial lamb to save them. Martyr-type, Mr. Bajaj had called her and rightly so. You don't even have to do anything. Just sharpen the blade and they'll fall on it by themselves. Just as she had fallen. As she stands in the doorway of the house, a pleasant buzz in her head that keeps her from thinking about what her actions are going to be, Prerna is also feeling the weight of a debt that she must pay.
She demands to see Mohini Basu instantly.
Anurag comes in her stead.
"What happened?"
How had she never noticed the wobble of his chin whenever he's concerned. It's so unflattering.
"MOHINI BASU," she yells in reply.
"Are you drunk, Prerna?"
There it is again, that pathetic wobble. And judgement written all over his face. The sight is immensely irritating. So she turns away to watch the woman she's here to meet descend the spiral staircase.
"You," she says, twisting her lips in distaste as if to ensure her disdainful tone isn't missed. Prerna doesn't miss it. She has never missed it, even when Mohini Auntie's face had been free from guile. "How did you get in? The watchmen have strict instructions to not let people like you inside the house."
She's in that stage of drunk when the words she utters are not quite slurred but they come from deep within her heart, without any filter of thoughts "You only have a house because my husband in his infinite benevolence, decided against throwing you out of it. Yet." She lingers on the last word, relishing the taste it leaves behind in her mouth.
The look on the older woman's face is a mixture of astonishment and indignation.
The look is a balm to Prerna's bruised soul.
"Prerna!" Anurag bristles on his mother's behalf. "What are you saying?"
She slaps away the hand he's extending towards her. "Don't you dare touch me!"
"Is she drunk, Onu?"Mohini Auntie shudders. "Disgusting!"
"Prerna, please. What do you want?" Anurag reaches out for her again but she steps back. He's looking at her in bewilderment, like how one would look at a pet that has gone rabid without warning. And in a way she has.
"Just to tell your mother a few truths. Mohini Basu..." Prerna begins with an imitation of the sneer that she has seen Mr. Bajaj employ to accompany with his choicest insults. "You're a vile, sexist, classist, neurotic bitch who lives under the impression that the sun rises from her arse. You think you can throw money at your problems to make them go away but when your son was in jail, you had to beg me to go save him. You think you're above me when the truth is that you're buried under the favours I've done you. Favours you can't ever pay back. Oh, don't twist your mouth so. You only draw attention to your blotched up lip job and the atrocious taste you have in lipsticks."
Mohini Auntie's face has turned into a delightful tomato red. "How dare you! Riff-raff like yo--"
Prerna steps out of her heels and climbs on the settee that separates them. "You love looking down on people," she cries, herself looking down her nose at this vile woman who has taken a step back in surprise. "And who do you think you're calling riff-raff, huh? I'm Prerna Rishabh Bajaj."
*
Such a lightweight, he thinks as she climbs on a piece of furniture, her sense of balance precarious. He should be annoyed. Instead, he's almost reeling with desire. She is the one who has drank but he is feeling dizzy from the topsy-turvy turns of his emotions. She's telling off Mohini Basu, calling herself by his name and all he can think right now is how sexy she is in her magenta gown. All of this seems so f*cked up.
"You're a gold digger--"
This time, she cuts Mohini off with her laughter. A mirthless, ironical laugh that echoes in the living room of the Basus.
"I will not take lectures on opportunism from you, thank you very much. A woman so fickle, she snatched the chance to marry the man who destroyed her own father for money."
Rishabh can almost smile at those razor sharp words she has hurled but his eyes narrow as Anurag Basu moves towards her with an indignant cry of her name.
Something ugly roars in him then. Something akin to jealousy. The very act of someone calling her by her given name irks him. She's his now and no one else's. Privately they'll fight for hours on petty, meaningless things and matters of grave importance, and he'll call her Prerna in barely restrained exasperation. She'll tickle his ears with the antics of his family and he'll call her Prerna in a half-hearted plea to leave him at peace with his work. She'll do something endearingly mawkish and her name would then leave his mouth like a prayer to let him escape with his heart intact. She'll look at him sometimes, all sympathy and understanding radiant in caramel eyes and he'll groan out Prerna in need. He is unwilling to share even that bit of her with anyone else.
"I wouldn't take another step towards her if I were you, Mr. Basu."
The duo of mother and son regard him with open hatred.
"Take your social climber of a wife and get the hell out of my house," Mohini screams.
Sometimes he wonders what he has gotten himself into. Screaming matches and f*cking melodrama. He would have rolled his eyes but he has lost his right to.
"Come now, Mrs. Basu. You can hardly fault Prerna for choosing to continue up the ladder of society. It'd be a shame if she settled for the Basus."
Insult dealt, he reaches his inebriated wife in three long strides. "Come down."
"No." The set of her lips become mulish. Her eyes are blown wide and her eyebrows are furrowed in disapproval. She has never looked more kissable than now. "All of this is your fault," she accuses.
"Of course, my dear," he murmurs, casting away the thoughts of tasting her. "But weren't you expressing your gratitude for not having married Mr. Basu just a moment ago?"
She allows him to take her hands in his own. To place them on his shoulders.
"Then, it's not your fault," she says thoughtfully. "And don't call me your dear."
"Whatever you say. But let's go home now."
"No, no." She shakes her head vehemently. "I don't want to go home. I'm going to rip this vixen apart tonight."
"Okay," Rishabh says loudly and scoops her into his arms. He silences her cries of protest with a glare. "Some other time, my love. Mr. Basu, if you'll be so kind." He nods towards the heels his wife had discarded earlier. "Take those. Yes, there's a good girl."
She pouts in response, her arms entwining themselves around his neck.
The driver hastily opens the rear door as they emerge from Basu Badi. Mindful of her hitting her head, he lowers her onto the seat carefully before seating himself beside her. She buries her head in his shoulder before she speaks.
"Don't call me love either "
A shudder runs down his spine as he feels the movement of her lips against the skin of his throat. His arms around her waist tightens automatically.
"Also, I hate you "
But it's difficult to believe her when she's melting in his arms and tracing his jawline with her lips .
Such a f*cking lightweight.
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