Well, something is better than nothing, no matter how long or crappy it is...I hope :s

Anyway, a big thanks and a HUGE hug to everyone who's read, commented, liked, appreciated this FF, and supported me this far!! Honestly, I'm generally a lazy person with a repertoire of incomplete stories, and I'm sure I would have abandoned this one long ago if it wasn't for all of you and your wonderful encouragement! Hopefully, the next update will be romantic and dedicated to the awesome people I've met on this forum! I love you guys!!

Chapter Thirty Five

'I don't want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes magic...that's what I try to give people. I don't tell truth. I tell what ought to be the truth. And if that is a sin, let me be damned for it!'- Blanche Dubois, in the play 'A Streetcar Named Desire' by Tennessee Williams

Anjali had always been extremely adept at ignoring things.

She could not be accused of it. Not accused of duplicity or double-dealing. Because for Anjali, overlooking the more unpleasant boulevards branching off from the hub of life was more of a reflex, an automatic act of the subconscious, than any deliberate reluctance in accepting not just the bed of roses, but the malicious thorns lurking beneath their seductive sweetness.

Yes. Anjali had always been adept at ignoring things, things which threatened the fairy tale that she had lived and breathed, in which everything, no matter how dire it may seem, would always turn out alright. Her security system was fastidiously programmed to bury six feet under even the flicker of suggestion that her fairy tale, with a loving husband, a doting younger brother, an adoring family...had always been just that- a fairytale. No alarms would be set off, no bedlam would ensue- instead, in a quiet, clandestine funeral the truth would have dirt piled high over it and the emissaries of her mind would present her with an alternative version of reality, which was kinder...more humane.

Could anyone blame her? Anjali did not think so. How could one be blamed for rebuilding a life for themselves, albeit in their minds, in their fantasies, after seeing their city of dreams, citadels of ambitions and hopes and memories, razed down by the monstrous flames of destruction keen to devour everything? Misfortunes had a strange penchant for following fast upon each other's heels, and Anjali had witnessed with her own eyes the dismantling of that fortress that had forever barred her from reality, brick by painstaking brick- her parents, dead, the word, that sickening, repulsive word...suicide...a hushed whisper that would haunt her forever...left alone without her mother's comforting embrace to quell the tears acute pain was wringing from her...all intentions of seeking shelter with a new family, her second family, previously shimmering promisingly along her horizon, disappearing into wisps of vapour- her marriage reduced to a farce...being chucked out on to the streets, penniless, destitute, orphaned, with nowhere to go...

The remnants of her battered security system set off a thin, low wail of protest. With difficulty, Anjali succeeded in hauling herself out of the arcades of a haunting past. Her philosophy had not changed with the times- the past was the past, and thinking about it, deliberating on it, would cause her nothing but pain and misery. Once more, the barely opening, rusted wrought iron gates that had swung shut on her life as a Malik was bolted securely, locked, and Anjali, the Raizada, with a sickening twisting sensation rocking through her being, sat bolt upright, wrestled off the blankets wrapped about her torso, and hobbled cautiously to an armchair nearby.

Payal lay fast asleep, in thorough oblivion.

As Anjali wearily dropped herself into the upholstery, a shaking hand rising to wipe the thin film of cold sweat that lay as a sheen across her forehead, she snatched up a consolation with fierce possessiveness. No one, no one, would be blamed for weaving their own enchanted tale where everything was always perfect, everyone was always happy. Not after witnessing destruction the likes of which would have dumped the physical world in chaos, reduced it to a wasteland that could never be replenished. She had withstood it, the war of emotions, and as a survivor, had the right to see the world in whichever way she had wanted. She would never grudge herself that. It was not a vice.

But it was ironic. Ironic that everything she had accepted as her reality without a second thought she now felt the compulsion to defend. Because in defending it...she had to accept that that world had never been real in the first place. Anjali reclined against the armchair, inhaling small puffs of air, fighting the exhaustion that suddenly beleaguered her. She could not relapse to the welcome escape of sleep, not yet...matters were coming to a head, and she had had enough of running away.

There was only one vice, one deadly sin, with which Anjali could berate herself.

That sin was cowardice.

Unseeing in the semi darkness of the room, relieved by the few slivers of moonlight that wriggled through the thin gaps in the curtains, Anjali's arm stiffly reached for a small rectangle of cold metal resting on the small table beside her. The luminous screen momentarily blinded her as it flickered to life.

Anjali frowned in concentration, glancing up for a split second at the deeply slumbering Payal in the sudden fear that the burst of light might have awoken her. Relieved that it hadn't, Anjali's fingers fumbled with the keypad of her cell-phone in a sequence that had become committed irrevocably to her memory.

Because she had punched in the same sequence over and over again to sustain her...sustain her through the horror story that her fairytale had become.

Menu- Messages- Received- Video Messages...

There was a single media file in that folder. Anjali stared hard at it, her usually liquid, laughing eyes hardening into flints of ice.

Duration: 5:02 minutes.

Five minutes and two seconds that had changed her life forever...

The date of the file caught Anjali's eye. Her jaw clenched tightly. The tear tracks against her cheeks had dried. Moisture no longer threatened to spill from her eyes. Instead, fury flashed.

It had been exactly three weeks since she had stumbled upon this video message, purely by accident. Three weeks since she had taken cover under the darkness of a similar night, the slight snores of her husband the only sound resonating through the silence, to send the video from his phone to hers.

Three weeks since her world had become a living nightmare.

*Three weeks ago*

Anjali Jha had just limped through her bedroom door, her thaali balanced precariously with one hand while the other daintily lifted the ruffles of her saree as she carefully crossed over the threshold. Her eager eyes scanned the bedroom as soon as she set foot, half her heart expecting to see her besotted husband advancing with a loving smile adorning his face, reprimanding her gently for not looking after herself, relieving her of the pooja thaali and enclosing her in the secure grasp of his arm as he guided her slowly to the bed. But as always, Anjali quickly forgot the twinge of disappointment that pricked her enthused bubble at his absence, noting the hiss of running water from the bathroom. He was taking a shower. Of course it was simply not plausible to expect him to run around after her around the clock, no matter how much he wanted to. It would be unfair. Anjali consoled herself with ease, in confident knowledge that had he been there, he would have jumped to her aid in a heartbeat.

Deciding not to take any risks, Anjali carefully lowered the thaali onto a nearby cabinet before straightening herself and readjusting the pallu of her saree. Maybe she should take Khushi's suggestion and start wearing those maternity gowns, she pondered vaguely...it been perhaps a week or more since she had discovered her pregnancy, true, but her limp made things rather difficult. Better not to take chances. Preoccupied in these thoughts she had proceeded towards the bed, two discarded shirts which her husband must have tossed there after rejecting them lying across it. She smiled fondly, hobbling over to put them away. She knew he would not approve...he was a dear, hating it when she tried to clean up after him, preferring to pamper her instead, but after all...she was his wife. She had a right to do these mundane, insignificant things for a man who was willing to move the earth for her.

It was as she seated herself on the corner of the bed, lifting up one of the shirts, that a loud beep sent her flurry of domestic contentment scattering.

He could be so careless sometimes, Anjali thought, the sight of his phone blinking in the middle of the bed, previously hidden under the shirt, striking her as inexplicably endearing. Unthinkingly, she picked it up.

It was a message. Anjali scrutinised the number that flashed on the screen. It was an unknown number, not one she had ever seen before. But it could be one of his clients...in which case she should not open it, it would be confidential...Anjali had always respected Shyamji's job and his need to keep details private...

She was in the process of rising from the bed to place the phone on the bedside table, making a mental note to inform Shyamji as soon as he came out about the message, when the phone started ringing shrilly.

For a moment, Anjali teetered at the edge of the bed, unsure whether to receive the call. The screen flashed insistently, egging her on to hit the green button. It was the same unknown number that was calling. Anjali glanced over her shoulder at the bathroom door, the sound of running water reaching her faintly, and back at the phone uncertainly. It was probably urgent- whoever it was must be getting impatient, calling within mere minutes after sending a message. In the spur of the moment, Anjali decided to take the call, in the very least to assure the person on the other end that Shyamji would get back to him as soon as possible.

Except Anjali never got round to do much talking when she finally lifted the phone to her ear.

'What's the matter Shyam-jeee?' the grating, sneering voice made Anjali's well-natured 'hello' dry up upon her lips, 'Too shocked after seeing the video? What did you think- that you're one smooth criminal? Ha ha!' There was an unpleasant, bitter guffaw on the other end. 'I've got you this time Jha- I always knew you married into that Raizada parivaar to leech off their cash, but the fact that you would stoop so low- now THAT I would have found hard to believe.'

Anjali felt a fury clutch at her, her knuckles starting to hurt from the vice-like grip with which her shaking arm held the phone in place. How DARE he? How DARE this no good lowly stranger, whose coarse, gloating voice alone spoke volumes about the filthy nature of its owner, try and soil HER husband's name? Probably some roadside criminal Shyamji had meted out justice to, and now he was trying to get revenge by uttering such unholy sacrilege against him. Anjali found herself spluttering silently with rage, anger so potent and so alien to her that she couldn't bring herself to formulate a retort.

But the voice on the other end did not seem to need any response. It continued without waiting, the derision in its tone becoming decidedly more pronounced, 'But of course, you are not stupid, Jha. You understand what this means right? If I send this clip to the police, you are in for it. You'll rot in jail. Your great and powerful brother-in-law, the almighty Arnav Singh Raizada...what if, say, I end up sending this video to his phone instead?' There was a heavy pause, laden with barely disguised menace. Anjali's thoughts had gone into overdrive. Chote? Why is this man talking about Chote? Police? What video? What-

'What if he saw that the accident from which his beloved sister escaped with an inch of her life was not an accident...but  a careful plan for- murder?...Think about it Jha- you'll be hearing from me soon enough.'

The call disconnected.

'N-no, wait!' Anjali heard herself stammer, her voice coming out as a croak, words hardly distinguishable. Whatever anger had been inciting every cell in her body in a frenzy of protest had vanished untraceably...instead, every inch of her was frozen in a curious impassivity. Frozen in incomprehension. All except her mind. Half-formulated shreds of thought overlapped each other, their clamour deafening...unintelligible...raised in a din of defiance... Anjali felt her knees give way, and she obeyed their frantic commands, allowing herself to sink down into the bed, her hand, grasping the phone, falling limp against her lap. Her shock-widened eyes caught the display across the screen.

A picture of herself smiled beatifically back at her. Across the screen were the words: 'You have (1) new message.'

Anjali did not know what it was that made her do what she did next. Did not know whether that one phone call had planted that crucial seed of doubt that would grow and germinate and bear fruit until truth became lies and lies became reality. Perhaps she wanted to prove that man wrong. Perhaps she wanted to prove herself right. Whatever it was, Anjali did not think twice about her actions as she clicked on the message.

Five minutes and two seconds of footage...that changed everything her life depended on.

***

The fatigue of the day that had been the skirting the edges of Khushi's thought insidiously seeped in as she changed out of her saree into a plain cotton salwar suit for the night. The silence in that bathroom, which once upon a time Khushi had labelled in her mind as of being ridiculous in its majestic proportions, quivered with a strange anticipation. There was an air of alertness, of expectation, in the stillness of every marble fixture spanning the cool smooth surfaces Khushi was encompassed in. But the pointless if not unnecessary opulence of her surroundings was the least of her concerns tonight.

So he was coming back. The bane of her existence, the devil incarnate that had swung her world out of orbit, the lives and happiness of everyone she held dear to herself hinged on his nefarious deeds, was coming back.

A tiny drop of fear dripped into the pit of her stomach, faintly stirring the pool of ire that had so far been dormant. Her respite from hell had been far too short-lived. It had been mere days ago when the vast, expansive chambers of Shantivan had been nothing short of an elaborate cage, the atmosphere heavy, the air cloying, stale, un-breathable. The awareness had prickled about her skin then, the awareness that she lived in a trap that could snap any moment and she would be chained. Wistfully, Khushi realised how she had needed this much-coveted break. Without having to bear his constant presence and sickly smiles and simpering suggestions, without having to stretch every nerve in her body, fraying them in the process, as she watched, waited, for one false move against her family...

And now...he was coming back...the drops of fear tipping into her stomach solidified into lumps of ice, and Khushi was suddenly swamped in cold dread. Her hands blindly shot out and clutched the veined-marble edge of the sink as she tried to steady herself...the gust of air that had chased out the mustiness in Shantivan, the light which had streamed into her corridor, the doors which had opened, the bars that had disappeared, the tentative knot that had been tied between her mind and her heart...all consequences of his departure...

...so, if he returned...would it all...end? The architect of her tragedy...

Khushi stared at her reflection in the mirror. Even the artistically positioned spotlights mounted above it failed to restore the rapidly ebbing colour of her skin. She watched her pupils dilate.

We need to talk...

***

Arnav paced restlessly about their room. According to his informants, Shyam was still most definitely in Lucknow, and had not shown any signs of preparing to leave...but he could not rely on such threadbare evidence. There was no telling what kind of treachery his malevolent mind might be concocting at this very moment...and there was no way of finding out, unless he confronted him as he so itched to do...to tear him to tiny little pieces with his bare hands, pummel in that hated face that had spindled so many lies, until he would beg for the escape of death...but there was nothing he could do now but wait. Because so many factors remained in the dark...

And yet Arnav found himself unable to dwell on this particular problem. Despite repeated attempts, every thought strayed back to the same place, a swarm of honeybees clustered and buzzing about their hive...Khushi...

That frightened, hunted look in her eyes as she had come in...his heart twanged painfully. He felt like an imbecile. There could be no mistaking the sequence of emotions that had taken their turn to display themselves clearly across Khushi's face the minute Di had spoken of Shyam's return. There had been shock, then a sudden revulsion, disgust, hatred, dismay...and finally fear. Those big fearful eyes moist with a multitude of powerful emotions...how could he have missed it? How did he, the Arnav Singh Raizada, miss the sheer abhorrence that hardened like flints of ice in her eyes at the mere mention of that home-wrecker? How had he missed the repulsed look that crossed her face and the sudden rigidity that followed as she visibly strove to control her vehement disgust? His old nemesis, guilt, swooped in for a repeat performance with all its glory. It settled heavily about his heart, tipping its healthy beat, fortified with the memory of her laughter, her smile, her embrace, her touch, slightly out of rhythm.

And dread rapidly took its place. With Shyam absent, the field had been clear for Arnav to go about on his mission, a mission on which his life had come to depend- winning back Khushi's heart. But if Shyam had been the devil, he, surely, had his advocate...Shyam had tugged the strings, and he, a despicable puppet, and unleashed an era of darkness upon the source of all light in his life...what if...with Shyam's return...the walls he had breached with such difficulty rebuilt themselves around her once more, this time, impenetrable? What if, with his presence a concrete reminder of broken dreams and hopes, Khushi's tentative steps towards trust retraced back into the dark, never to come out again?

He did not know whether his fears were rational. He did not care.

As if on cue, he heard the slight click of the doorknob turn, and the bathroom door was pushed slowly open by the one person whose loss threatened perpetual darkness, the death of light, once and for all...clad in a pale blue salwar suit, hair in a loose ponytail hanging over one shoulder, a dupatta hanging from her shoulders like a drape...skin pale as a sheet, eyes gleaming with a quiet desperation...

His heart broke all over again, and the next thing he knew, the distance between them had disappeared, and he was standing before her, her face caught securely in his hands, his eyes boring earnestly into hers, widened in astonishment.

'Khushi,' his voice shook with feeling, hoarse and breaking, 'Khushi please...please don't be afraid. Please don't be scared...I won't let him hurt you, I promise...I promise he won't be able to do anything, come between us...he won't hurt you ever again...I-' He gulped in a huge mouthful air- he had to say this, even though the words had to battle their way out of his throat, even though his tongue had to struggle to lend them voice, 'I won't hurt you...please...please trust me.'

Oh, why did voice and coherence and clear thought have to abandon him now, now when he so badly needed their alliance to convince Khushi with a desperation hitherto unknown, a fear that unexpectedly besieged him...he would not let that devil severe the fragile lifeline bonding them together...and she needed to know that...know that and believe it.

And through that sudden pandemonium that seemed to have no rational justification, no origin, he heard a quiet, soft whisper.

'I know you won't Arnavji...I know.'

***

Her heart had seized control of her tongue, and it was her heart's words that her lips uttered. Mind stood aside, uncomplaining. Khushi did not feel the need, as she had been prone to over the past few days, to dissect and analyse her reactions to her husband. She simply accepted them.

Accepted the fact that the embers of doubt that had continued to blaze spluttered one final time before extinguishing forever. Accepted that the honesty that was streaming from his eyes could not be refuted, not by any power in this world. Accepted her need to soothe away the pain that was chiselled across his face, that desperation that was visibly gnawing away at him.

Yes, she trusted him. Why else would she have sought consolation in his eyes instead of anyone else's? Of Jiji's? Why else would she have run straight to him seeking security? Why else would she have taken his hand, accepting his silent promise? Why else would the numbing fear that had launched an attack on her mere moments ago disappear? Why else would Shyam Manohar Jha, and whatever he represented, become insignificant?

She trusted him. She had not even thought of it then- but it was obvious. Heart did not know how, did not know why, when. Mind filed the thought away for later perusal.

There were more pressing matters at hand.

For instance, there was the fact that he had suddenly pulled her into a nearly smothering embrace.  And cloaked once again in his warm, firm presence, melting against him, into him...thought flew straight out of her mind and all that remained was...Dhak dhak. Dhak dhak.

Khushi did not realise that her own arms had almost simultaneously wound about him, an unacknowledged need to show him her faith in him, to keep him from punishing himself, tightening her grip, until a loud and insistent ring compelled them both to draw apart. For a moment, Khushi simply gazed back at his face, looking as dazed as she felt, before her benumbed brain registered that that was her ringtone.

Disoriented still from the veritable flood of emotions that swept them both of their feet in a matter of minutes, Khushi stumbled out of the circle of his arms in search of her cellphone, faint ideas popping into her head reminding her that it was her ringtone, that someone was calling her, that it might be her mother, and consequently she ought to pick up.

'Who is it?' he asked quietly as she finally located the phone, his tone low and sounding almost anticlimactic in its commonplaceness in the aftermath of his previous words. Khushi could hear his feet shuffling behind her in her wake.

Khushi turned to face him, confused. 'I don't know...it's an unknown number...but it's been calling me since yesterday. I don't know but...it might be something important.'

***

Arnav knew the minute Khushi pressed the phone to her ear that something was dreadfully wrong. That air of awkwardness that lingered after the rather sporadic way they had unveiled their hearts before each other vanished in an instant. Worry jumped purposefully into place. Her eyes had widened suddenly, frozen in shock, her mouth had closed, jaw clenching, her skin rapidly growing ashen, her knuckles clutching the phone whitening, all in a matter of seconds...

'Khushi, what-' he began urgently, striding forward, but Khushi broke out of her trance in time to hold out one hand, her faraway eyes refocusing on him and pleading caution silently. She tilted her head almost plaintively to one side, phone still held to her ear, listening intently, one finger pressed to her lip, as shock slid off to be replaced by anguished distress. But before he could demand that she tell him what the hell had just happened to make her react this way, or alternatively, snatch the phone out of her hand, Khushi held it out herself and he watched cluelessly as she turned it on loudspeaker.

And an only too well-known voice heralded the silence.

'...know you can hear me, Khushiji...please say something...I've been trying to call you for so long...I think about you all the time...please don't worry about me...I'm fine...and I promise I will be with you soon and free you from the clutches of that Arnav Singh Raizada...he-hello? Hello? Khushiji? Khushiji are you there? Can you hear me? Hello?'

A long low beep followed. The call had been cut.

***

Khushi sat in the middle of the bed, following Arnavji's erratic pacing as he scaled the length and breadth of their bedroom, stalking almost like a crazed wolf on a hunt. The call had barely dropped before he had snatched her up to him once more, briefly, before holding her firmly by the shoulders and telling her, in controlled tones, to sit on the bed while he 'took care' of something. The manic rage which blazed in his eyes, his flaring nostrils, his gritted teeth, all bore evidence to the wrath that had possessed him. And Khushi cowered before it, even though she knew that he was leashing it in for her sake, attempting to control himself for her, and quietly obeyed his instructions without question.

'I want that number traced, and I want details, NOW!' he snarled into his phone. The ruthlessness made her wince, and Khushi felt a rush of sympathy for the poor soul who must be quaking with fear on the other end. She watched, almost afraid to move, as Arnav thrust his phone inside his pocket and stood where he was for a moment, one hand stuffed in a pocket, his face buried in the other. That sight, his shoulders hunched over, with every sign of weariness clear in his stance, melted away some of the reserve with which Khushi had held herself so far, fearful of setting off a round of explosives directed at her this time. Instead, there was this nearly irresistible desire to leap off the bed and...and...Khushi tussled to come up with some concrete manifestation of exactly how she intended to comfort him, knowing only that for some reason she needed to be near him to be able to, all thought of self-preservation forgotten.

'Tum theek ho?' the soft husky whisper startled her, pulling her out of her efforts of trying to pin down her next course of action. Surprised eyes rose to meet questioning honey glazed orbs a couple of inches away from her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. The sudden uncalled for closeness...and more importantly the rapid if not breakneck speed at which brutality had transformed to gentleness sent the all too enthusiastic dhak dhak plummeting again. Khushi nodded her head.

'Khushi, there is something I need to tell you,' he continued, his voice, its deep timbre sending shivers up and down her arms, still low, 'in fact...there is a lot that I need to tell you...'

There was no fluttering of dread this time. Instead, Khushi felt her entire being leaning towards him, every fibre quivering with an unspoken expectation, with curiosity. But not fear, not anymore. 

The quote at the beginning is from one my favourite plays, and those lines have always reminded me of Anjali...it's been a bit hard for me to justify her behaviour after watching the show, but I tried :s 

So how was it? OK? Disappointing? -Please lemme know??

Chapter Thirty Six coming soon :P (hopefully)