When Arnav pulled into Shantivan's driveway that slightly chilly, slightly cloudy morning, he instantly felt something was... off. The weather? Hari Prakash's shy smile at the new sweater knit by his wife? Purvi's grasp on his finger when he gently kissed her hello? Uncomfortable by the strange sensation, he loosened his tie and sulked to his bedroom, desperately craving a warm cup of that spicy ginger tea. Preferably, the kind made by Khushi.
No Arnav. He shook his head in irritation at his warrant thoughts.
Arnav had refused to touch anything prepared by his wife these past six months, forthright in sharing his doubts that her food held the same poison present in her character. He thought back to their suhaag raat... when she had tentatively passed him a cold cup of almond milk, anxiously following the strict instructions directed by Anjali. He had flung the glass across the bedroom and smashed it against the corner of a nearby table at her audacity... exclaiming that he would rather die of thirst than drink even water offered by her hands.
Khushi never tried to serve him after that.
But what Arnav Singh Raizada did not confess, however, was how much he truly missed the taste of her delicious food - from her kachoris to her masala chai to the puris and halwa she served for Devi Maiyya's prasad.
Occupied in trying to recall the forgotten smell of the special methi aloo she used to prepare for Nani, he didn't think too much of the slightly wrinkled paper perched upon his nightstand. Unfolding it rather carelessly, guessing it to be simply Hari Prakash's notification of a missed phone call, his eyes lazily wandered over the sharp, clean and distinctly feminine penmanship.
He read it again. And again. And again. And one more time, for good measure.
And suddenly Arnav understood why he felt so peculiar today...why instinct had told him not to drive to work that morning and remain back at home.
He realized the taste of freedom was surely not as sweet as he had hoped... slightly shivering in the chill of the solitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Jiji. We should talk to the Raizadas. This is... intolerable"
"I was thinking the same, Garima. Things are getting worse by the day. It's getting out of hand"
Khushi's aunt and mother whispered in hushed voices on the patio of their small abode, oblivious to their conversation carrying to the frail woman standing behind the open kitchen window. Their daughter had been back home for two days now, and the only contact with the Raizada household had been through Payal's infrequent phone calls. Khushi was rarely, if ever, discussed.
However to accommodate for its absence in her home, the discussion of her broken marriage ran rampant around Laxmi Nagar. Some gossiped as the Guptas turned their backs, others probed through subtle inquiries and a few were blatant in their prying curiosity.
"I heard it is because they hid she is an orphan"
"She must have had an affair!"
"I have heard her husband was abusive"
"Well, a man is only abusive when the wife is unapt"
"Do you think she got part of his property? Hai, the benefits of marrying wealthy!"
"Will the Raizadas consider my Deepthi? She is highly eligible!"
"I have heard Madhumati is trying to convince the Raizada boy to take her niece back"
"No one else will have her. Who would choose something used and discarded?"
As her aunt and mother debilitated under the constant scrutiny, Khushi remained invincible... the gibes and the indictments bouncing off the steel cage Arnav had assembled so securely around her heart. Her six months in Shantivan had prepared her for this. What was Vimla Mausi and her kitty, compared to the wrath of Arnav Singh Raizada? Accustomed to feeling like human rubbish, Khushi poured herself a glass of water and retreated back to the seclusion of her bedroom, disinterested in confronting the qualms of her relatives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As days drew on, the news of her divorce continued to spread like wildfire through not only Laxmi Nagar, but also every neighborhood bordering its five-mile radius. Women would gather around their home and whisper obnoxiously whilst trying to peer inside the curtained windows, parting only when Bua Ji would open the front doors and menacingly cross her arms against her chest. The only one who remained unaffected by the rumormongers and more troubled about Khushi's frail condition was her Bau ji, who could not declare his support for his bitiya when she needed him most. Regardless, Khushi's happiest moments upon returning home were when she sat quietly alongside her father, finding comfort in his reassuring presence.
A week had now passed since Khushi had returned to Gupta house, and on this particularly humid morning, she was sitting quietly on the lounger towards the far corner of her living room... peeling apart pea pods to prepare tonight's supper. She stirred as the front doors crashed open with an unnerving thud.
"Khushi. Go inside. GO INSIDE NOW"
Peering up from the menial task, she almost choked at the palpable fear etched in her Bua ji's paling face. Garima also stumbled through the front door, gasping for breath and hoisting Khushi roughly from her seat... ignoring the plethora of fresh peas crashing to the floor.
"Get inside, bitiya. Now."
Khushi barely heard the click of the door closing behind her... when a deep, hoarse and guttural voice joined the sound of her mother's uneven and haggard breaths.
"Mummy Ji..."
A clenched fist instantly flew to Khushi mouth to silence the gasp that escaped her of its own accord. She could recognize that voice anywhere. The voice her mother commanded her to maintain distance from. The voice that triggered bile to rise up her throat in repulsion. The voice of Chetan Mistry. Chetan Mistry was standing inside her living room.
He was the most despicable, malicious and dreadful human being not only in Laxmi Nagar, but every middle class neighborhood in Delhi. Chetan was infamous for his dealings of cocaine and heroin...for offering poor, helpless women small sums of money in exchange for warm nights in their beds. He was a man who had mothers ushering their daughters back into the safety of their concealed homes when he trudged down the street... gun at his hip and cigarette between his yellowing teeth.
"Ch...Chetan Ji," Garima's voice pleadingly quivered... "Pl...please Chetan ji"
He responded with laughter sharpened in spite, his small ring of men following suit in his hysteria.
"Do not embarrass me, Mummy ji. Khushi se shaadi toh mein karke hi rahunga. But why so upset? Did you really have a better daamad in mind?"
Important note, if you would like to get PM notifications, from this update onwards, please send a buddy request to my account "ConAmor".
DUN. DUN. DUN.
Don't throw chappals 😆 Please comment naa. 😳 Thanks!
NOTE: Okay, I'm sensing a lot of anger. But here's my reassurance that Chetan will NOT play a big role in this story. He just is simply playing catalyst of something which must happen for the story to progress. Breathe easy! And bring on the tomatoes! 😆 I do deserve them, don't I?
330