Chapter 7 Shocking

Chapter Seven: Shocking

Khushi stared at her reflection, the stark white of her saree feeling like a shroud. Holi had always been her heartbeat—a day of vibrant chaos and laughter. She could still feel the phantom touch of her father’s hands, smearing her face with crimson gulal until they both collapsed in giggles. Now, the colors of the world felt leached away, replaced by the grey ash of widowhood. In this house, she was a ghost at the feast, a silent observer of a joy she was no longer permitted to touch. She wound her hair into a tight, severe bun, bracing herself before stepping out to face the morning.

She faltered at the threshold of the puja ghar. Arnav was there. It was barely dawn, yet he was already moving through the temple with a restless, quiet energy.

"Chachu, look! I made a rangoli with every single color!" Kittu’s voice broke the silence.

"It’s breathtaking, my koochiepoo," Arnav murmured. His voice held a tenderness that felt like a knife to Khushi's heart—a soft side reserved for everyone but her.

"Khushi, help me with these garlands," Anjali called, noticing her.

"I should have been here earlier, Di," Khushi whispered, her eyes downcast.

"Arnav didn't sleep," Anjali said softly, leaning in. "He spent the whole night cleaning the mandir. He even chose that blue silk for Kanha Ji himself."

Khushi looked at the idol. The deep cerulean fabric made the deity look regal and serene. She wanted to acknowledge the effort, to bridge the miles of silence between them, but the air around Arnav was like a minefield. One wrong word, and the fragile peace of the morning would shatter.

Arnav felt her gaze. Every time he saw her in that colorless white, it felt like a physical blow to his solar plexus. He remembered the Khushi who was a riot of colors—the chime of her bangles, the light in her honey-brown eyes. Seeing her now, her wrists bare and her expression lifeless, was a constant, throbbing ache he couldn't soothe. He had been cruel to her at dinner, letting Dadi’s venom go unchallenged, mostly because he was terrified of how badly he wanted to pull her into his arms and defy the world.

"Isn't the blue beautiful, Khushi?" Anjali prodded.

"Yes, Di," Khushi’s voice was a mere breath. "He looks... beautiful."

The puja ended, but the tension only thickened. As Khushi knelt to offer gulal to the deity, a boisterous voice boomed from the foyer.

"Don't forget to color me!"

Anjali gasped, whirling around to find Shyam standing there, arms wide. "Shyam!" she cried, flying into his embrace.

"I couldn't stay away on Holi, Anji," he laughed, holding her as if he’d never let go.

"Bhaiya!" Khushi followed, seeking refuge in Shyam’s hug. He was the only one who didn't look at her with pity or hidden rage. He had seen the truth of her father's sacrifice and her brother-in-law's death.

"Happy Holi, Smiley," he whispered against her hair. "One day, the color will come back. You deserve it."

"Bhaiya, I’m here too," Arnav’s voice was like ice. He stepped forward and pulled Shyam into a brief, stiff hug. The sight of Khushi seeking comfort in someone else's arms—even Shyam’s—ignited a sharp, irrational jealousy that he had no right to feel.

Upstairs, the house felt different. Shyam led Anjali to their room, his eyes dark with a longing that had been suppressed for too long. "You’re a vision, Anji."

"Shyam, the guests... they're waiting!" she protested, though her breath hitched as his fingers found the edge of her saree.

"Let them wait," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "I’ve waited long enough for my wife."

Downstairs, the sanctuary of the morning was over. Dadi’s voice sliced through the air. "Anjali! Where is that girl? Why isn't the snacks tray out?"

"Di is with Shyam Bhaiya, Dadi," Khushi answered, her voice small.

"Ugh. Seeing your cursed face first thing on a festival morning... my whole day is spoiled," Dadi spat, her eyes raking over Khushi with disgust.

"Enough, Dadi," Arnav snapped, his patience fraying. "Maybe if you spent more time at the temple and less time judging, you wouldn't be so bitter."

"Don't you dare defend this witch!" Dadi shrieked. "She’s cast a spell on you just like she did my eldest grandson. Characterless woman!"

"She is a Raizada!" Arnav roared, stepping into Dadi’s space. "She is family!"

"Dadi, stop," Khushi sobbed, the humiliation finally breaking her. "I never wanted any of this. I just wanted my friend back."

"Go to your room, Kalmuhi! You’ve already sucked the life out of this family. Don't you dare try to steal the joy of the living today!"

Khushi didn't wait for another word. She turned and fled, the sound of her own frantic breathing echoing in the hallway as she locked her door, shutting herself in the dark.

The party outside was a blur of music and laughter, but for Arnav, it was a hollow performance. He stood by the pool, his eyes constantly drifting to the locked window of Khushi’s room.

"She’s alone in there, Arnav," Anjali said, appearing at his side. "She hasn't eaten. And her hand... it’s still bandaged. I think you’re the reason she’s hurting."

"She’s safer in her room," he muttered, though his heart was hammering. "Away from Dadi. Away from me."

"You know her better than that," Anjali countered.

Suddenly, a piercing scream erupted from the balcony. Khushi was leaning out, her face contorted in terror. "Kittu! Get away from there!"

Kittu had wandered to the very edge of the deep end, distracted by a floating ball. Shyam lunged, catching the toddler just as her foot slipped.

Khushi came charging out of the house, her white saree fluttering like a distressed wing. She reached the lawn, trembling so hard she could barely stand.

"I'm okay, Chachi!" Kittu giggled, unaware of the tragedy she had almost invited.

"I told you to stay away from the water!" Khushi scolded, her voice thick with tears.

"Now that you're out here, stay a while," Shyam suggested gently.

"No, Bhaiya. This... this isn't my place anymore." She turned to go, but the universe had other plans. One of Arnav’s friends, caught in the frenzy of the music, swung a heavy bucket of indigo-tinted water.

He didn't see her.

The water hit Khushi with the force of a tidal wave. The white fabric of her saree, delicate and thin, became instantly transparent, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin.

The music seemed to die. The laughter evaporated. A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the lawn as the neighbors stared.

Arnav didn't think. He didn't weigh the consequences or the "honor" of his brother. He moved with a predatory speed, reaching Khushi and hauling her against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, using his broad frame to shield her from the prying, judgmental eyes of the crowd.

"Look at her!" Dadi’s voice rose above the silence, shrill and triumphant. "I told you! She’s a snake, using a 'mishap' to cling to her devar! Shameless, disgusting woman!"

Khushi buried her face in Arnav’s soaked shirt, her body racking with violent, silent sobs. She felt the heat of him, the steady thud of his heart against her ear, and for a moment, the world didn't matter.

"How scandalous," a neighbor whispered loudly. "A widow playing such games in the open."

"ENOUGH!"

Arnav’s voice was a thunderclap that shook the very air. He pulled back just enough to look at the crowd, his eyes burning with a terrifying, protective rage.

"Is this your 'culture'?" Arnav roared. "To let a woman be humiliated because of her clothes? To judge her because she’s a widow? You want to know what she is to me?"

He didn't look away from Dadi as his hand reached for a silver bowl of red gulal on the nearby table.

In one swift, irrevocable motion, he pressed his thumb into the crimson powder and drew it firmly up the parting of Khushi’s hair. The red stood out like blood against her damp skin—the eternal mark of a wife.

"There," Arnav hissed, his voice vibrating with raw power. "She is my wife now. Now, get the hell out of my house. And if any of you ever breathe a word against Mrs. Arnav Singh Raizada, you’ll answer to me."

Khushi’s eyes were wide, her breath hitched in a silent gasp. The world had just tilted on its axis. He had claimed her—not out of love, not out of a dream, but out of a fierce, desperate need to protect her from the wolves. She looked up at him, seeing the regret already beginning to simmer in the depths of his eyes, but it was too late. The mark was made. The bangle was mended, even if the edges were still sharp enough to draw blood.

Arnav turned to a stunned Anjali. "Get her a towel. Now!" He then turned back to Dadi, his jaw set like granite. "She is my wife. You will treat her with the respect that title demands, or you will leave this house. The choice is yours."