Chapter 22

Arnav stood at the window of the room allotted to him by the Guptas and looked out at the roofs of hundreds of houses in the neighbourhood. Lights gleamed from those abodes; loud conversation, laughter and the sound of blaring TVs fell on his ears. In these houses lived people... people with normal lives, ordinary joys and sorrows. People unlike him who had dug himself in to a hole... as deep as a hole could get with his anger and his bad judgement. He had wronged Khushi, made her weep. Arnav stood with his eyes tightly shut, his fists clenched, his face grim as images of the hundreds of ways in which he had hurt her rushed through his mind.

He slipped in to bed, trying desperately to sleep, to give his eyes and his head some rest so that he could set out on his mission of helping Khushi remember with full alertness.

As he slipped in to oblivion, the nightmares of his past came rushing like vultures to feed on his peace.

The sound of the shehnai, the laughter of the ladies, his mother running, the argument, the sound of the shot... he sat up with a jerk, sweat pouring down his face. It was over, it was over, he chanted. Over. His Mama was gone. His Papa was gone too, following his Mama a few hours later... as though he couldn't face a life without his wife... Arnav's lips twisted in a cruel grimace. Lecher! Selfish and immoral! A ghatiya man! Spoilt by his mother in to thinking that the world had been made for his pleasure, that he did not have to pay for his actions... Arnav turned away in disgust at the thought of his father.

He frowned. But why had he shot himself a few hours after Mama had killed herself? He should have been happy that he was rid of his inconvenient wife. Arnav rubbed his chest, feeling his heart hurt. There was something fishy about the whole tale.

He picked up the phone and called Aman.

"Sir?" Aman's sleep-dulled voice came through to Lucknow.

"Get me the phone number of the best detective agency available in the market," Arnav ordered.

"Detective agency? Sir, is someone missing?" Aman scratched his head.

"Yes. Sunehri," Arnav said.

Aman frowned, sleep falling away. "Sir, it is Khushiji, not Sunehri," he reminded his boss.

ASR smiled. "I don't think I will forget my wife's name, Aman. I need to trace another woman, Sunehri. She was a dancer at some kotta in Lucknow about 15 years back."

Aman swallowed. "I will get back to you in a few minutes with the details, Sir."

"Good."

Arnav walked to Khushi's bedroom. The door was closed but not locked. He pushed it open careful not to make a noise.

Khushi was asleep. Not spread all over the bed in her Taekwondo pose but curled up in one corner with a pillow clutched to her heart.

He sat in a chair by her bed and looked at her sweet face. Tomorrow he would have to help her remember the past, a past filled with his vitriolic words and his bitter taunts, his callous actions and his heartless deeds. He bent his head. He had brought all this upon himself. He had no right to complain.

When Buaji came to awaken Khushi early in the morning, she found Arnav asleep in a chair by Khushi's bed.

"Hai Re Nandkisore!" Buaji whispered.