OS - Time and Miles

To him, she would always be the woman. She wasn't exactly what people liked saying having the magnetism of a feminine appeal but to him, she was always the only one woman he had ever seen in his life that way. After her, he could have hardly been able to look at someone else, and he had know it by then that he had heels over head fallen in love with his future wife (then), Mrs. Raizada.

Mrs. Raizada, as everyone called her and made his heart swell in pride, was Khushi Singh Raizada, a Gupta by birth, height would be enough that he could easily tower on her and hug her to his fullest, kissing her affectionately on the top of her head, where from the jet black masses toppled down, fanning gently on her shoulders and hugging her face in the most adorable way, her porcelain like smooth skin, which he liked to trace occasionally with his hands shortly after she would have fallen asleep, a reason being not been able to do in her awake being she found him ticklish , her eyes bright like sparkling diamonds which always looked at him fondly, replaying all the moments they had shared, the gentle slope of her nose , a bright red tip in the cold, cozy December months after fits of sneezing, the pleasing curves of her lips, the sweet honey-like taste that never failed to surprise him each time, always leaving him wanting for more.

That was his version of Khushi. Always beautiful, always his. Always happy.

____

He traced the long silken length of the sari before keeping it neatly in the suitcase, encasing it forever until she might actually come one day, hugging him from behind and smiling against his back, and he would wrap it lovingly around her, with his own hands. He would eventually tell her how beautiful she looked in saris, and that he could stare at her forever long. But he'd decided way ago that he wasn't going to let another sentence tagged with "if she came back" because truth was, however bitter it might seem to him, she wasn't ever.

She was long gone, and there was no coming back. Not yet, the always-optimistic. But he'd learnt to be happy. There was enough memories for him to survive. Hoping one day she would come back to him.

She was childish when it came to him. Her wants extended from the fruit pulp sealed in slender plastic packets or the hot sticky jalebis whenever they passed the highway on a rainy evening, always dragging him to the small "Gopal's Cabin", noisily thumping the small mud puddles as rain sloshed against the earth. He'd still remember exactly how her lips tasted midst the rain with the syrup clinging pleasantly to her lips.

Then it occurred to her one day, eight months back and she came to him, wanting a divorce. He had given her that too, signed them without any hesitance. His nerves had throbbed as he scribbled his name in his unusual cursive, his mind playing the numerous scenes he'd spent with Khushi for long five years, but he'd done it at last.

She was free. And he was bounded to her memories.

____

He'd faintly remember her best girlfriend, Ishika, telling him she was now somewhere in Mussoorie. He'd just half heartedly nodded as she said she was alright. He was convinced, almost. He knew Ishika for as long as he'd known Khushi, surely he could trust her. But for how long was he to trust him?

He looked over the stars, something she'd put up when she'd first moved in the house as his wife, something that was her. He had refused putting them down. He liked it, almost to the extent to how much he loved their owner. He'd occasionally lay down on his bed, watching the stars sway in the breeze. He'd remember so many time they'd made love under them.

She was always there. She wasn't away from him ever. It was just the time and miles separating them.

But he'd learnt to leave. To him, she would always be the woman. The only woman he'd given his heart to and she never gave it back.

Note (again😆) NO ONE says anything about Khushi. She had her own reasons, but if you will see the OS is entirely on Arnav so I didn't see anything about her. Also, this OS is slightly different from what I write. A particular writing pattern :)