The Mouse Goes Up the Clock [Pragya OS]

This is a longer one-shot set during the Mogambo track when I got sick of it. I don't know when exactly, you can choose, but definitely after Bulbul is dead. Just some angsty introspection and self care. There's some AbhiGya, but it's mostly Pragya-centric.

She has no one, and those who she has, she hates.

She had a mother once. The same mother claims her daughter is dead. The same mother spits upon the name she herself gave her.

She had a sister once. The same sister is actually dead. For her, no, because of her. She knows it, everyone else knows it, but no one will say it.

She had a husband once. The same husband curses her name each day. And then accidentally lets it fall from his lips when he's inside another woman each night.

She had a family in them once. Now they consider her dead, is dead, or want her dead.

She has a brother-in-law. He's too busy grieving the death of her sister. He says he's here for her, but she knows inside, he doesn't care. It's only what her sister wanted.

She has a grandmother. Or, at least, a woman she's supposed to consider her grandmother. She's been taking advantage of her since day one. She's been asking too much of her since the beginning. She's the reason everyone turned against her.

She had a family in them once. Now they play selfish games with her as their pawn to convince themselves they're good people.

Ticktock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

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When did she become so self-destructive? Was it when she changed herself? Was it when she gave up the love of her life? Was it when she let another woman get away with taking her husband? Was it when she let her husband be continuously unfaithful? Or was it at the beginning, when she agreed to marry him?

She hugged her knees closer to her naked chest, her pallu winding around her on the ground, her saree barely tucked into her petticoat.

She was ridiculous. Having a complete meltdown in the closet in the dark half-dressed? How pathetic.

It was no wonder she hadn't been able to fix a thing yet.

She tried to take deep breaths, but only succeeded in feeling like a fish out of water.

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This was all too crazy. She didn't feel real. None of it felt real. No, none of it was real.

There was loud music coming up the stairs and through the halls and under the crack of the door. Everyone was celebrating. Everyone was happy. Everyone was moving forward with their lives, while she was trying to unearth the past and was stubbornly sticking to the truth.

She wasn't here with them. She was stuck in her own mind. And her mind was echoing with words.

Gold-digger. Characterless. Shameless. Heartless.

She put her hand on her chest. She couldn't feel anything. She could feel the blood rushing in her ears, amplifying everything she heard. But she didn't feel any beating in her chest to pump the blood. Maybe she was heartless.

Her heart wasn't there, after all. So how could she be real?

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There's knocking on the bedroom door, and she curls into herself, hoping whoever it is will think she's not in the room and leave. But the knocking persists, and finally the click of the knob as the door swings open.

"Eeey, Mogambo?"

Oh god. Not him. Anyone but him.

If it's even possible, she immediately curls into herself even more, pressing her body against the floor. She was only shaking before, her breaths coming out in short gasps, but now, it's so much worse.

When did her face get so wet?

His shouts for her become more panicked with every passing moment as she stifles her sobs and prays he'll leave. Or that she remembered to lock the closet door. Whatever it takes to keep him away from her.

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But there's urgent banging on the closet door, and she knows he'll break his way in before he lets something as small as a door get between them.

She's terrified of what will happen when he does. She knows she can't keep this pretense up any longer. She knows she'll slip up and tell him everything.

She also knows he'll never believe her.

She also knows that the second she tells him, she'll be shut out of his life forever.

The shouts have descended from calling for his Mogambo to calling for his Fuggy.

She looks at the glasses in her hand and wonders how he knows.

And then he's asking for his Chashmish, and she nearly dies of absolute heartbreak in that single moment.

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Chashmish is despising him and knowing something he doesn't know, but refusing to tell him to protect those she loves.

Fuggy is being in love with him, but refusing to tell him because of everything around them pulling them apart.

Mogambo is wanting nothing more than to protect him, but refusing to tell him because she knows he'll be the one to push her away.

She can never win.

There's duty and heart and duty to the heart. And she fails in every respect.

When he asks for Chashmish, she remembers a better time. It was hard, even then, but she was stronger.

These new clothes and attitude don't make her stronger. Having a whole team behind her doesn't make her stronger.

Chashmish was stronger.

Chashmish was alone. Not because nobody cared, but because she didn't need anybody.

Chashmish failed. But she never cared, she was never attached enough to care.

And in the end, Chashmish had won.

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Hastily, she gets up and starts wildly stripping until she is left in her underwear. She has to dig behind blankets and sheets, but she finds it - her suitcase. The first one she brought into this house. The one she packed and unpacked a million times before she realized she couldn't be free so easily and eventually just let it collect dust in the back of the closet.

She opens it and nearly cries in relief as her fingers graze the sheer of her anarkalis. The solid colored ones that she stopped wearing around the time she came home after her kidnapping.

She still remembers why she stopped - she wanted a new her after she had confessed. She wanted to start anew with him, as his wife for real.

How silly.

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She pulls out a red then an orange then a yellow then a green then a blue and finally decides on a purple suit. She runs into the bathroom, massages almond oil into her hair, and sits, hardly able to wait through the entire fifteen minutes. When it finally passes, she combs out her extensions. Her head feels lighter than it has in months.

She wonders if the added weight was causing her to be all stupid.

It's a silly thought, and she knows her sister would have laughed.

Both of her sisters.

She takes out her contacts and showers, washing away every thought that entered her mind over the last six months. As the water runs down her body, she laughs at a whole montage of happy memories running through her mind.

She thinks she might be going just a little bit crazy.

Tick.

Tock.

She self-indulges, using all her favorite rose-scented soaps and shampoos. She scrubs every inch of her skin harder than ever before. When she finally steps out, she feels as if she's glowing.

She dries off, moisturizes, and dresses into the casual anarkali she set out. It's far too casual for the party going on downstairs, but she doesn't care. She had always been such a plain Jane.

Behenji. Isn't that what they used to call her?

She curls her hair into loose ringlets, and brushes her bangs so they're out of the way. Without the extensions, her hair only reaches slightly past her breasts. But it seems so much better now.

She quickly does her make-up. It doesn't take as long to her old routine as her new one with the more toned down colors. Foundation, gold eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, and tinted lip gloss. It's enough.

She applies a small black bindi between her brows and puts on her chashma. She comes out of the bathroom into the closet, and pulls out her jewelry box. Inside is her mangalsutra. She slips that around her neck as well. And finally, she pulls out her box of kumkum and adorns the center of her hairline with the scarlet powder.

She feels complete.

She's still his, she's still a married woman, but those are just small accessories. She's still herself.

She missed this.

Slipping on her old wedges, she finally steps outside of the closet.

Tick. Tock.

She thought he would have left by now.

But he's sitting on the edge of the ottoman at the end of the bed. His back is turned, but the second he hears the clicking of her sandals as she walks out of the closet, he whips around, revealing bloodshot eyes.

For a second, it looks like he's about to yell at her. But then he freezes, his jaw going slack. His eyebrows, which had been drawn together in anger, release their tension and slowly raise.

He's definitely surprised. But she doesn't know if it's a good or bad surprised. She can't tell if he's happy or horrified.

She walks out the door without waiting for him to verbally respond.

She walks down the stairs, and people look up to finally greet the host of the night's event. But the excited chatter quickly dies. An uncomfortable blanket of silence falls on top the crowd.

She can see her mother, whose face is scrunched up in confusion. She can see his grandmother, whose face is frowning in disappointment. She can see her brother-in-laws, whose faces are blank. She can see the woman out to ruin her life, whose face is pinched into an angry scowl.

She sees so many faces showing so many things.

So she takes it step by step. She reaches the bottom of the stairs and starts a conversation with the first couple people she sees. Once everyone sees the universe isn't imploding, the chatter starts up again and she sighs. Before she knows it, the part is back in full swing.

Ticktock.

It barely registers in her mind when he comes down the stairs behind her and starts greeting guests with her, at her side. They go around the hall, and if she blinks, she can almost imagine her sisters are in the corner, giggling about how cute they are together.

She doesn't find herself annoyed when that woman comes up and steals him away. She knows he'll come back. He always does.

She doesn't care when that woman starts raving about how this is all a ploy for attention and how she's just trying to trick everyone by being boring and plain all over again and how everyone's just a pawn in her game. Her name has been through a lot. She can take it.

Later that night, she settles into her blanket and pillow on the couch. When he comes in, he raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything else, instead falling into the bed.

"You took my favorite pillow."

She throws it at his head.

"I didn't say you couldn't have it!" he exclaims as he dodges.

"I don't want it," she snips.

He passes her another pillow and she takes that, laying down and turning away. A part of her wants to go and sleep on the balcony, just to see how he'd react. Most of her is too comfortable to get up.

As the lights go out, she lets her consciousness fade as she slips into a good night's sleep, the first in months. As she does, she barely hears him, but she's sure he whispered into the dark.

"I missed you."

She hesitantly replies.

"I missed me, too."