Chapter 8

She didn't do it. I'm sure of it. Whatever it is, she didn't do it. She wouldn't. She couldn't! I know her too well to believe this crap.

He paced in his room, completely lost with what was happening. Downstairs was utter chaos. Mami was throwing a fit because it was that phatti sari who had dumped them, and not the other way around. And now she was adamant that this wedding go on, or end on her terms. Everyone had forgotten about the more pressing matter in the current track of things. Not him. He had excused himself from the rowdy chatter and gone up to his room in order to think clearly, because he knew she needed it. She needed him. And he had an inkling of a feeling that he could - if only he knew how! Exasperated, he ran his hands through his hair and flopped down on his bed, desperately looking around his room as though whatever he was searching for would magically appear out of thin air. His eyes took in his packed suitcases, an empty wardrobe, a tangle of wire ...

His head snapped up from its sagging position as he stared intently at the wire, his breath catching in his throat.

The wire. Charger. Video Camera. Caught on tape. Caught on tape. Caught on tape. Caught on tape.

He flew to where his bag stood, unzipping it with such fast-paced intensity that he ripped the zipper off the chain. It wasn't there. Cursing himself, he ran over to his drawers, pulling them out of their sockets as he rummaged inside, his guts coiling with dread. Could it be, he wondered.

With his mind whirring as it had never whirred before, he silently stole out of his room, trying to make his way across the hall without anyone noticing. All those times he had pointed the camera at his Jeejaji, all those times when he had seen him looking at Di - with an aching heart he realized it wasn't Di he had been looking at. He could hear raised voices from downstairs - an all too familiar, bossy voice, along with a pitiful wail - someone was crying. So the king was back. But had he found ... no, he couldn't stray. With a look of set determination he entered Di's room, and closed the doors behind him.

He remembered Jeejaji's silent vigil on the corridor overlooking the mehendi ceremony. He remembered Jeejaji's strange, mechanical grin that he had teased, even though it had given him the willies. He remembered Jeejaji's outburst on sangeet day when he had talked about Khushiji and -

His eyes landed on the video camera, carelessly tossed to a corner on the bedside table. With a sinking, sad feeling, he realized the enormity of the situation. There was more at play here than he, or anyone in the family could imagine. He felt a rush of anger and of deepest loathing when the truth finally swam in lazily before his eyes. He urged himself not to over think things, that someone could have misplaced it here, maybe the servant dudes, maybe even Di - but in vain. The truth was there, right there, and it was so blatantly obvious that he felt nauseated.

His heart soared as his eyes confirmed what he had felt all along - Khushiji was innocent. Happiness engulfed him briefly as his eyes brightened, his body turning towards the door as he had half a mind to go running downstairs and clear her name. But his senses brought him back to reality, pushing him to take trembling steps towards the bedside table, gingerly picking up his beloved gadget. His chest heaving with nervous anticipation, his hands slippery with clammy sweat, he flipped open the display on his video camera, turned it on, pressed rewind, and set it on 'Play'.

Nothing happened.

He pressed rewind one more time, noticing how it did not rewind. So he pressed the fast-forward button. Nothing.

Rage flooded his systems. He did not understand. When had he done this? He never left his video camera alone, and yet it had made its way into his hands and everything that had been recorded had been deleted. Why everything? His head swirled as he sank to his knees, devastated with the knowledge that he must have had enough evidence in the footage to ruin somebody's plans, and was now left with nothing. What kind of war was this? How could he win? How could the family win against such a terrible man? How could he save Khushiji now?

He groaned with frustration as he got up, throwing the useless thing in his hands across the room. It hit the sliding doors of the wardrobe with a clang, and he automatically looked at them, a look of new comprehension dawning on his face.

There must be something. There always is.

Striding purposefully towards them, he slid them aside, and started pulling out clothes, papers, jewellery boxes, perfume bottles, wads of money -

"N.K. - tum - tum kya kar rahiho?"

He froze, her sweet voice floating uncertainly in the air as he slowly turned around, the wild expression still not gone from his face. Relief filled him and made him dizzy as he drank her in, noting her bruises and scratches. His eyes scanned her swollen, puffy face, still wet and shining with tears, and knew that it was her cry he had heard earlier.

So she knows, he thought.

He saw her bloodshot eyes scan the disheveled room, clothes strewn everywhere, papers flying, a perfume bottle shattered to pieces -

"He Devi Maiyya! Yeh perfume - yeh kya - yeh toh inhone humari liye layatha -"

He watched her stooping down, eyes welling up as she took in the mess, her hands lingering over the shards, worry etched across her face. His heart went out to her as he realized what she must be going through. For her, her best friend had been trying to break her marriage and trap her husband, her brother's marriage was hanging by a thin thread that was Mamiji, and he was sure she had noticed that her husband was nowhere to be seen. And now this - her room in tatters.

He stooped down with her, the wild expression gone from his face to be replaced with a gentler tenderness. He took her hands in his, shielding them from the sharp shards below.

"Di," he called softly, willing her to look at him.

He was thrown back when she did, for her eyes were naked, and her raw emotions hurtled at him and hit him hard in the face. Collecting his wits, he stammered, "Di - Di, I'm sorry -"

She shook her head, tears dripping from her eyes. He could feel her hands trying to pry free, to touch the broken remains of the ruined gift. He glanced at the liquid that had spilled, and his face twisted with confusion.

"Kya hua?" asked Anjali, bewildered at his bewildered expression.

"I - I don't get it ... aapne perfume bola - so where's the smell?"

*

The world had ended, so why was she still breathing?

She had fallen. If only her heart would fall with her.

But it had. But if only it would fall further, to the point of no return, to the never-ending darkness, to the world of twinkling, starry expanse of sky. For only death could claim her now.

And so she waited.

*

He found her lying shivering on the ground, helpless and weak. Her eyes were closed, and she was taking in ragged breaths. He had been quite puzzled to get a call from Arnav who had crisply told him to go get her, and provided him with her location. He had wondered if it was a trick. Looking at her, lying limp and frail, unprotesting, just waiting for him to take her, he realized it was no trick. His mouth curved into a triumphant smile as he bent down to finally claim what was his.

*

I did it because I don't want the police to trace her name back to our house.

I did it because I don't want Di to get upset.

I did it because we own the area - a dead girl in the forest would be scandalous.

I did it because they deserve each other.

I did it because I hate her.

I did it because at least she'll be taken care of.

I did it because I hate her.

I did it because I can't beat the shit out of him - not until Di's recovered.

I did it because I want to see where they go, what they do, what their evil, greedy plans are.

I did it because I hate her.

I did it because she can't die yet, dying is too easy.

I did it because I hate her.

I hate her.

*

"He left her where?"

She didn't answer, just looked at him sadly, her own emotions in a state of depressing confusion.

He was fuming. He remembered all those times he had been friendly with Khushiji, and how every time would pay for it when Naanav would shoot him daggers. He remembered how Naanav had taken the clothes to her house, and how he felt cheated in his own game. He remembered how Naanav would ridicule her, hurt her, make her cry, and then promptly proceed to do the most unusual things to make her happy. But Naanav could go to hell. He had had quite enough of the hypocrite. It was all up to him now. Only he could save his precious Khushiji.

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