Posted:
Good twist that mean? 😃
Originally posted by: nividances
Thank you for reading and liking it. Without you, it would have just been words on my laptop screen, so it's only people like you who read the story that are responsible for making it a success. 😊😳
Posting soon Nivi? Want to read how fight end.
awesome update , continue soon. Thanks for pm
I was in a bit of a melancholy mood while writing this, so I hope it came out okay. Hope you like it. Please excuse any mistakes. 😊
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Chapter 55: Her Essence
Kabir looked away from Rachna and abruptly walked towards the door. Turning the knob, he found himself staring at a concerned Sneha, who stood directly outside the room wearing a robe over her night gown, poised with her hand raised to knock on the door. Upon seeing the door open, she pulled her hand back and moved her mouth to speak. However, before she could say a single word to him, Kabir stepped out of the room and walked a few steps down the hallway. Pausing for a moment, he looked over his shoulder and spoke to Sneha in a controlled manner.
"Please make sure she eats something and tell her that I'm taking her car home."
He moved forward another few steps and stood at the top of the stairs, pausing again to mutter under his breath. "Also, if you can, try to find the girl that I fell in love with. She's lost."
Having heard the mumbled words very audibly, Sneha looked on with a serious expression, watching as Kabir pulled out the car keys from his pocket and defeatedly walked down the stairs to leave the house. A paper that had fallen from Kabir's pocket lay on the ground; Sneha picked it up, recognizing it straightaway.
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Unlocking the door, Kabir sat in the car and pushed the key into the ignition, leaving it there unturned. Each and every surface of the car was markedly hers. She was in every molecule of the air; her defining scent perfuming every inch of the space. A small statue of Ganpati ji stood in the center of the dashboard, while an intricately woven dream-catcher hung from the rearview mirror. The silvery feathers attached to the bottom of the dream-catcher stood with a sparkling contrast to the mixture of rich violet and royal blue silk threads that had been used to create the web-like pattern in the center of the wooden ring. The clutter that littered the car was an extension of her.
She had forgotten her purse on the passenger seat, its contents spilling out haphazardly over part of the driver's seat where he sat and blocking the gear shift as well. He fingered each item slowly as he carefully placed it back inside the bag.
A tube of rose-colored lip gloss that she wore almost on a daily basis only because it was his favorite; it tasted like strawberry. He tucked it into a smaller sized make-up pouch that was hidden away in the larger purse.
A hair brush that had a few strands of her long hair stuck in it, he picked them out gingerly and discarded them outside the window. The faint smell of her coconut shampoo permeated the air as he tucked the hair brush into the purse.
A tiny mirror that had a few of her finger prints on the glass; he wiped away the smudges with the edge of his shirt before closing it with a click and placing it alongside the lip gloss.
A wallet; the one he had bought for her from Jaipur. He fingered the embroidered flowers on the surface; the threads seemed to be wearing thin from years of use but retained their colorful vibrancy, as though they were new, a mark of solid craftsmanship.
Opening the wallet revealed a smiling picture of them, one that had been taken during a business trip to some weaving villages of Tamil Nadu to purchase bolts of silk and research how the famous fabric was produced. She was standing next to him, wearing a warm mustard-colored Kanjeevaram silk saree with a rich maroon border accented with intricate gold embroidery, done painstakingly by hand over the course of many days. The family of weavers who had hosted the KT Creations team for the week had taken a particular liking for her and on the last day of the trip, they had gifted her the saree, insisting that she dress up and click a picture before leaving. The elderly matriarch of the family had lent some ancestral jewelry, a pair of jhumkas that hung like bobbing chandeliers from her ears, for the picture. They had arranged her hair into a braid that snaked down her back and wrapped it entirely with strings of white jasmine flowers. His hand was resting on her shoulder like it belonged there, while she had a shy smile on her face, her kohl-lined eyes twinkling with a hidden joy. The rest of the KT Creations team stood around them, but the group's presence was lost in the background. Stroking her smile in the picture, he closed the wallet and placed it into the purse.
A few miscellaneous pens and pencils littered the floor of the car. He bent down to pick them up, stroking the ends that she had chewed on, remembering how she habitually stuck pens into her mouth and bit the plastic with her front teeth mindlessly as she brainstormed new designs. It was a dead giveaway if she borrowed any of his pens or sketch markers because there would always be bite marks on the end. Gathering them up into a bunch, he placed the various pens and pencils into the glove compartment that was in front of the passenger seat.
A bottle of perfume stood in the cup holder. It was the customized "discovery" scent that she had chosen for herself during their quick two day trip to Paris that had turned into somewhat of an extension of their honeymoon. They had ended their week-long honeymoon in Thailand and directly headed off to Paris for a meeting with an investor who was interested in a partnership with KT Creations to launch a new international Indo-Western fusion fashion line. They hadn't been able to do any sight-seeing due to lack of time, but he had convinced her to pop in for a quick visit to the Champs-Elysees boutique and spa that offered a personalized scent experience. She had emerged from the hour-long appointment holding two unique fragrances. Her "identity" scent defined her to the T, having a sweet fresh flowery tone, very much reminiscent of her carefree melodious laughter that had bloomed often once upon a time. Meanwhile, her "discovery" scent had a citrusy aroma with mysterious undertones of some warm spices, alluringly enigmatic, like she sometimes happened to be. Inhaling quietly as he uncapped the bottle, he was reminded of the few special times that she had spritzed the scent into the crook of her neck, inviting him to become lost there. Cradling the fragrance bottle into his palm, he noted the level of the amber liquid; she hadn't used a single drop in the past year he deduced, putting away the perfume into the make-up pouch safely.
A tube of hand lotion, its lid half screwed on, was jammed between the driver's seat and gear shift. He secured the cap and unwound it again to squeeze some lotion out onto his own hand before closing the tube tightly. Rubbing the cream into his skin, he stroked the smoothness of his own hands. She always made it a point to keep her hands moisturized, particularly when she pinned materials onto mannequins, as she had a habit of poking herself with the sharp all-pins. She would run the back of her hand across his cheeks softly during dinner to wipe off the remnants of food from the corner of his mouth, never using her fingertips since they were usually rough and blistered with pin pricks. The lotion found its way into the purse as well, organized next to the hair brush.
A travel brochure was wedged between the seats. He pulled it out with a tug and opened the trifold to see the advertised itinerary, a 12-day trek to the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu. She wanted to travel, anywhere and everywhere. They were sitting together on the couch watching a movie of her choice, Yeh Jawani Hai Deewani, her head resting on his chest, his hand entangled in and playing with the ends of her hair. She reached for a handful of popcorn and stuffed it into her mouth, gazing unblinkingly at the television screen, where Ranbir Kapoor admired a wall, covered with a collage of photos of various international cities. He had paused the movie on the screen and listened to her for the next few hours, as she talked about her dream of wanting to travel the world. They had ended up visiting 23 countries and countless cities within India together while they were dating, even more after marriage. He refolded the brochure and placed it safely into her bag.
An almost-full bottle of aspirin stood next to the Ganpati statue on the dashboard. She would always get headaches during long car rides. She hated the artificial coldness thrown out by the AC but it was out of the question to roll down the windows on most Indian roads due to the horrid air pollution and dust clouds. She had passingly mentioned her desire to see the Taj Mahal one day while they had been working together in the workshop. He had been searching for a location where they could arrange a photo shoot for the new bridal collection that was in the works. He filled the back of his car up with the delicate photography equipment that couldn't be transported via air. The work-cum-sightseeing trip from Benaras to Agra was an 8 hour drive for the two of them; the rest of the assisting staff and photographer took a 1 hour flight. The first few hours of the trip, they kept the windows rolled down, the early morning air crisp, clean, and clear. She talked animatedly about the designs, the props, the poses, the models, anything and everything related to work that she could think of, as her hair flew in the wind; they were still in the boss-employee versus friend or something more confusion at that point. He didn't care for people who talked too much, but her voice was sing-songy and melodious, a sort of music to his ears. They stopped for a quick rest and resumed the second leg of the journey, the windows closed now, due to increased noise and traffic on the road. A frantic but futile search for a bottle of aspirin in her purse when the AC was turned up to full power left her quiet, to both his surprise and dismay; the music from the radio was not half as entertaining and engaging as her conversation. A detoured stop at a small pharmacy resumed her chatter for the last hour of the journey. She fared better on the return trip, smiling in his direction as she turned the AC away from her face and popped a few pills into her mouth. He picked up the bottle of aspirin and threw it into the glove compartment alongside the pens.
A small plastic box with band-aids, an antiseptic ointment, a fever reducer, a burn cream, and a small roll of gauze; a mini first aid box for her purse. Anyone in her family of doctors would have been proud to see the first aid boxes stocked in almost every room of their Benaras apartment. Never after meeting her had he been in a pinch to locate a band-aid for any sized cut or scrape. He restacked the disorganized medical supplies in the mini first aid kit and placed the box carefully into her purse, next to the make-up pouch.
A book lay between the windshield and dashboard, pushed into a faraway corner. He struggled to reach it from his spot, stretching his fingers until he finally caught hold of the book's spine and pulled it out; Rabindranath Tagore's Gitanjali, the book of poetry that she had bought from a local bookstore in Kolkata. They had taken some time out for an evening stroll after spending the entire day cooped up inside the design studio, finalizing the presentation and models for the next day, which marked KT Creation's debut at Kolkata Fashion Week. She had caught sight of a small bookstore, hidden away into one small corner of the bustling market, insisting that they at least take a quick look. He ran his hand across to smooth out the ruffled pages, opening the book randomly to the page that had a bookmark. The text was in Bengali, a foreign language for her, but she had vehemently refused the bookstore owner when he had tried to sell her the translated English edition, adamant that she only wanted the authentic Bengali version. She had spent several sleepless nights sitting in the window seat of their Benaras apartment, her reading nook she called it, tucked away into a soft cashmere blanket, engrossed in the book, translating and re-translating the lines herself with the help of an online dictionary and multiple websites that offered varied analyses of the famous poems. She had softly penciled in the English translations next to each line, several marks visible where she had erased and written revised meanings. He read the poem on the page he had opened to, Only Thee; she had written the English title in her swirly script, adjacent to the printed Bengali text.
That I want thee, only thee --- let my heart repeat without
end.
All desires that distract me, day and night,
are false and empty to the core.
As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light,
even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry ---'I want thee,
only thee'.
As the storm still seeks its end in peace
when it strikes against peace with all its might,
even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love
and still its cry is ---'I want thee, only thee'.
He tucked the bookmark back into page 87 of the book and laid it in the bag horizontally.
All of the scattered belongings were now safely stowed away into the purse, which was zipped closed and sat upright in the passenger seat next to him, representing her, the essence of the girl he had fallen in love with. Turning the key in the ignition, he started the car and reversed out of the drive way, feeling numb, completely numb.
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Rachna sat frozen to her spot on the bed, as tears dropped from her eyes silently. There were no sobs, no sounds of crying, just salty, wet tears that stung deeply, just like the words that she had heard. Sneha came and sat on the bed, facing her niece, making no motions to hug her or wipe away her tears. She placed the plate on the bed, in between herself and her niece, holding up a slice of apple near Rachna's mouth.
"Rachna beta." Sneha prodded gently, sliding the apple slices into Rachna's mouth bite by bite, until plate was clear. The tears stopped somewhere between the 5th and 6th apple slice, a numbness settling over Rachna's heart. Sneha placed the empty plate on the bedside table, noting the opened packet of the rehydration powder, carelessly tossed beside the empty glass that had some orange droplets pooled at the bottom.
"He's taken your car home. I presume he took the keys from the dresser?"
Her niece didn't respond, but the open drawer of the dresser in which Rachna usually put the car keys answered her question.
"Talk." The insistent firmness in Sneha's voice uncorked Rachna's emotions, allowing them to flow out as words.
"How could he say that I'm blind to everything besides my own feelings? I've seen how adoringly he watches any child that crosses in front of him and how happy he is when he's playing with kids. He and I together make us, but that doesn't make a family. I'm thinking only about his happiness in all this. Why doesn't he understand that?"
Her tear ducts were barren, the sadness in her voice shifted at some point into simmering anger at the menacing accusations that she had just been painted with. Sneha reached out and placed a hand on Rachna's shoulder, a touch of reality.
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❤️ Nivi
I started skimming this during my lunch hour at work and the first thing I did when I got home is to reread the first chapter again. It's so cool how you took the characters from the show and created a completely new story out of them. The first part has me hooked since it seems like Rachna and Kabir were already in love but they separated, perhaps because Rachna is ill? I'm looking forward to reading ahead, yet I couldn't help but type out my reaction to the first chapter because it really fascinates me the way FF works. Like I said it's my first time reading any such thing so it's a completely new concept to me. Sorry if I sound like a dunce.
Best,Aarti :)
Oh I guess this story is completely different from the show. You seem to have just borrowed the characters and made the entire plot up yourself. Interesting to read, but it's going to take a bit of some getting used to. It's odd to think of Gunjan being Rachna's younger sister and her becoming pregnant before marriage. But I'll try my best to keep an open mind, since it's a unique concept. I hope my long comments are not boring you. Tell me if they are and I'll stop.
Best,Aarti
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