Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Khushi sighed.

Sitting in the spacious private hospital room, holding her father's hand while watching him sleep peacefully, the silence punctuated only with by his deep, steady breathing, she felt tranquillity wash over her, after many, many days. She had pulled up a chair next to her father's bed, and drew an inexpressible, but poignant comfort from inspecting Bauji's face. The lines of worry, of desperation, of sorrow which had been engraved there had been smoothed away. He looked so serene, his warm hand enclosing his daughter's slender one in a reassuring grip, that Khushi felt the same serenity pervade her, spreading from the tips of her fingers, soothing the knots her nerves were in, slowing down her heart to a healthy tempo, easing her breathing as she felt air flood into her effortlessly.

Khushi watched Bauji's sleeping face and felt a sob rise within her. Not a sob of despair or of pain, but rather of a more complex emotion, a multifaceted emotion, or perhaps an amalgamation of several emotions. She felt a gladness, a gladness which had sharpened, clean edges, which was definite and solid; she felt relief at the certainty, the guarantee that his being there, hale and hearty, presented her with, a surety she could cling to after spending a what felt like a lifetime tossed about in the turbulent sea. But more than anything else, she felt a sense of constancy. As though she was no longer a buoy bobbing up and down with the ripples of water. As though she had found an anchor which took her hand and held her steadily in place, with the promise never to let go.

That was it. Her father was her anchor. He always had been. Ever since Khushi had learnt the meaning of pain, felt the cutting lashes of loss, he had been there. To take the blows on his face before allowing it to land on her. To ease away the hurt from wounds he could not save her from.

The past few months, when she did not have Bauji by her side, were probably the hardest times of Khushi's life. She had not known it, did not know it until she had walked into the hospital ward this morning to be greeted by a pair of twinkling eyes, but she had been like a lone traveller in the middle of the desert, without any compass to point out to her where she was headed. She did not realise, until she watched, with tender love rendering her incapable of speech, her father doze off, how much she had missed his presence, his support, his words of wisdom and courage, of encouragement.

Khushi had no doubt in her mind that had her father been in any position to protest, none of this would have happened. She did not allow herself to dwell too deeply on what 'this' really was; there were too many things, too many layers of events, feelings, beliefs, all tangled together in such a way that separating them would drain her completely. But she had unshakeable confidence in the fact that had Bauji been able to raise his voice, he would never have allowed things to fall apart as completely as they had. She could see in his eyes the helplessness when Shyam been trying to coax her family to let her marry him. A sickening feeling rose in her throat, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth at the memory. She had remembered sobbing next to her father, pouring her heart out to him, confiding in him how she did not want to marry him. She knew instinctively that her father agreed with her, backed her up with no reservations. It was a gut feeling, but one she never questioned, especially after Bauji, in a spasmodic effort of will, had ripped the engagement ring off her finger and flung it away. It bore testimony that even when his body was trapped by its own confines, his soul cried out for her wellbeing.

Now, as Khushi sat surrounded by silence, by the thin rays of light that suffused into the room through the white blinds, by the scent of the bouquets of flowers decoratively arranged about the room, adding splashes of colour to the clinical white, she admired that trust. She trusted her father with her life. Trusted him to always believe in her. Trusted him to always be there when she needed him. Trusted him to catch her when she fell.

When she had looked into those eyes, those smiling eyes which shone with affection for her, she had known, somewhere deep inside of her, that neither of them needed words to express to the other what each had been feeling since the day he had fallen dumb.

She sighed again, and allowed herself to recline against the wall, closing her eyes as drowsiness slowly crept up on her in the comforting stillness of the room.

Immediately, the trains of her thought, which had been left stationary since that morning with an act of extraordinary willpower, slowly began to warm up. The engines purred into life, coal-black steam billowing through funnels, a rumbling noise beginning to permeate through Khushi's mind. Except this time she did not resist them. Holding her father's hand, just like she used to when she was a little girl, Khushi confronted her own thoughts with confidence. The tracks, individual and set firmly apart, had been laid in place, in order, instead of haphazardly tumbling over each other. Each train knew where to start and where to end. Khushi's mind was no longer in mental pandemonium. She was suddenly calm enough, focused enough, to sort through the bedlam she had been keeping so sternly at bay.

She watched warily as thoughts of- him- seeped into her mind, coalescing in formless vapours before they began to gain coherence.

He believed her. Khushi asked herself how she felt about that.

Glad. A voice, honest and to the point, answered.

Yes, she was glad. She was glad that she would no longer be held responsible for a ruse which had been so drastically out of her control.

One locomotive puffed its way into view, at a steady pace, chugging at regular intervals. It brought in its wake memories of the previous evening.

Khushi knew as surely as she knew of her trust in Bauji that Arnav had been nothing but sincere last night. She had seen the remorse, the regret, the terror at his own misdeeds, rolling off of him like steam, had felt them crash upon her frame as he freely sobbed on her lap. So engrossed was she, so fascinated by the pictures playing in her mind, that for once she was not aware of her dhak dhak, as relentless as the ticking of a clock.

Yes, sincerity was evident in everything he had done last night. And repentance written on everything he had done since then.

Khushi sighed heavily. It was clear, as clear as the night's sky when she used to converse with the stars, that he truly regretted what he had done. That he had suffered at the hands of that knowledge. That he wanted, very badly to make it up to her.

Did that mean she wanted to forgive him?

The trains in Khushi's mind gathered speed, suddenly bursting through the relative calm, threatening to go berserk, threatening to hurtle over the neat little railway lines she had laid down. Confusion knocked on the door, and Khushi's hand tightened its hold on her father's.

Even in his sleep, Bauji's fingers enclosed lightly the fingers of the small, delicate hand he held reassuringly.

Khushi could not forgive him. After everything he had done, after everything he had made her go through, asking for forgiveness was asking for too much. Simply put, he had ruined her life. He had snatched her out of the secure cloister where she lived under the protective warmth of her family, and plunged her into the pits of doom. All her dreams about marriage, about a bright and beautiful wedding, about her entire family bidding her farewell with their smiles of joy flashing on their faces, about a loving husband and his family with whom Khushi would embark on a new journey...all those dreams shattered, smashed, splintered to smithereens in one horrible moment.

And what now? He believed her, so what now? Would they live on like nothing had happened, or would they gather up all their grievances like marbles, counting them and reliving them day after day after day?

What basis did their marriage have now?

Khushi gasped, her eyes snapping open. Unseeingly, her hand clasped a glass of water she knew was close by, and gratefully poured the contents down her parched throat, feeling a sense of perspective returning as the cool liquid zoomed down her, easing some of the burning.

It was too early to think of that, she told herself, as she prepared to return to her meditation. She needed to restore order to her life, it was crucial that she did. If she didn't, she feared, the sea would reappear in a monstrous wave and inundate everything she hoped to rebuild.

She could not forgive him. The gashes upon her ran too deep. They would take time to heal.

She could not forgive him yet, not while the bruises were still fresh. Blue-black. Hurting.

But a part of her also knew that he had suffered. He was suffering.

Khushi knew, as he did, what loss really was. Having lost at such an early age, Khushi was only too familiar with what it was, and what fear of it was. She knew that it never got any easier; loss simply twisted the knife deeper in the wound each time it appeared. She knew he feared it, because she feared it herself. He feared losing his sister, the only one he had ever allowed to trespass on his private world, while she feared losing the family she had gained after losing her own. They differed, however, in the way loss shaped their lives. He reacted by pushing anything and everything away which might inflict the pain of loss on him again, by striking first. She reacted by holding onto anything and everything with dear life, fighting tooth and nail to prevent the pain of loss.

They both knew what it was to lose. They both feared it. But they fought it in different ways, and that had ultimately thrust them against each other.

But perhaps, the honest voice in her head, which, like the cheeky little voice, sounded oddly familiar to Khushi, it wasn't a question of forgiveness. Perhaps...it was the question of...trust.

Her eyes jerked immediately to her father. He was still sleeping, still holding her hand. Still there for her through thick and thin.

Did she trust him?

No.

Had she trusted him?

Yes, she had. Momentarily, last night. When he had collapsed in front of her, weakened and weary from the blows to his conscience, when neither of them had spoken a word yet had the longest conversation of their lives. Her heart had bled for him. Part for her had cried for him. She could almost feel the hurt he carried in his heart.

She had trusted him. Trusted his honestly, trusted his intentions, trusted in his apology.

But she did not trust him not to repeat what he had done. Khushi, suddenly weary, thought back to the countless times in the past when he had struck her, struck her where it hurt most. She remembered his apologising the first time; the ring of sincerity in his voice had moved her to tears then. But it was not long afterwards that he hurt her again. And again. And again. But she forgave him. Or perhaps she forgot. Or maybe even she made allowances for him without really asking herself why.

He meant what he had said. And he was genuinely trying to make up for it. But was there any certainty that, given the circumstances, he would not repeat what had done? Even before having a legitimate reason for hurting her, he had crippled her with his wrath. On Diwali. On the torturous days which followed.

How could she expose herself, discard the armour she had created, unable to brave the arrows of hate, sharpened and dipped in venom, after knowing that in any equation involving his sister, she would be the unknown factor?

Did she trust him?

No.

Short. Decisive.

Did she want to?

Pause.

Dhak dhak.

Dhak dhak.

That was a different question altogether.