A/N: Link to Chapter 5 in case you missed it - Page 13
Chapter 6
Spes recuperandi
Arzoo shut the door of her hotel room and crumbled down to the floor. The leering walls were looming in, closing in on her, and everything in the room was spinning in mad frenzy, faster and faster, until it was all a blur, a greyish blur that was darkening dangerously. She forced her eyes shut and grasped her shaking knees tightly, as one would hold on to life itself, praying for the moment to pass, but soon, all sensation had left her fingertips, the palms of her hands, her arms...
And those feverish dreams returned. His face, that sadistic sneer... his weight on her, that pain and barely stifled repulsion, night in, night out... his yells and blows, day in, day out. That feeling of sinking desperation, of utter hopelessness. That feeling returned, for her facade of happiness could not trick time. The past would never truly come to pass. It would linger on, forever, like a stain in the fabric of life, reminding her that her confinement in his clutches went beyond the physical realm, reminding her that there truly was no escape. And his cruel laughter, right on cue, resonated in the blood pounding in her ears.
She did not know for how long she had lain on the floor, but it must have been a while for when she finally opened her eyes, the sky outside had turned into a dull dark purple colour - the colour of two-day old bruises. The cold marble floor beneath her numb cheek was wet - from tears or sweat, she could not tell. She looked around at the unfamiliar setting, and panicked for a moment, before she found her bearings and remembered that two months had gone by and that she was now an intern at Malkani, Ahuja & Associates, who had been sent to Delhi for that conference on arbitration.
She saw that the windows were open and the curtains were flapping in the icy winds, and noticed that she was shivering. It took a few attempts before she finally managed to get herself up and walk up to the windows to shut them. She had already drawn the curtains when she realised that the person sitting on the bench in the distance looked familiar. She opened the curtains again, and there he was. It was Sahir, unmistakably so, sitting on a bench in the hotel compound, close to where he had been when she had stormed away from him angrily. She glanced at her watch - it was almost half past six. More than an hour had passed since then. Had he stayed there all along? She squinted to where he was, in an attempt to decipher his expressions. But he was just looking down at his knees, barely moving, deep in thought, perhaps?
Her anger melted away somewhat as she saw him like that, looking so powerless and vulnerable, his customary conceit seemingly foregone. Despite her mind insisting otherwise, he did not look like a man who had pitied her in order to feel better about himself. He looked... broken. And for some inexplicable reason, she somehow felt that it was on her account.
It was not exactly his fault, she reasoned. He did not know how desperate she was for the shadows of her past to stop bearing upon her present and future. He could not have known how badly she wanted to escape it all, to undo it and live eternally in blissful ignorance, or at least, in the pretence that none of it had ever happened. And maybe, just maybe, he had not even meant to be condescending. Maybe, he had asked her about the scars, for the sake of mere information, as any inquisitive human being would have.
But that could not reverse what had been done. Why could he have not kept his damned curiosity to himself? It was none of his business anyway. Even Zaki, her best friend, did not know the real reason behind her divorce and had eventually assumed that it was a mere fall out or lack of compatibility between the spouses. But Sahir had had to pry! He could not have kept himself from meddling in matters that did not concern him.
Now she knew that he knew. There was no avoiding it. Every time their eyes would meet, she would know that he knew and her mask would drop. She would no longer be able to feign happiness and careless abandon. Every time their eyes would meet, she would remember his question and the answers that she wished she had never known.
And the idea came to her all of a sudden, an idea so wildly brilliant that it made her heart thump in anticipation. She would run away. She would start afresh and nobody would need to know who she once had been. The so-called brilliance of the idea took little time to fizzle out. How many times would she have to start afresh before she understood that every start would have to be just as stale as the previous one? For the past would soon catch up with her, one way or another. She knew she would have to face it one day, to own it, and proclaim it, even, before the whole wide world, because she had done nothing wrong. But a lifetime of being taught that women existed to be shamed and blamed could not be so easily dismissed.
Why, why, why? Arzoo cried through the cold window pane, across the vast span of grass that separated them. But even if Sahir had heard, he would not have understood. He would never understand how much pain he had inadvertently caused her by opening up her wounds.
She hastily shut the curtains, for Sahir had gotten up from the bench and was looking at his watch as he walked towards the hotel wing. A few minutes later, the distant sound of an azaan permeated the air. There must have been a mosque in the vicinity from where the call for prayer was being made. She breathed in deeply, forcing herself to believe that a faint sense of solace was wafting through the air. Faith... the one thing that held all her broken pieces from scattering away to despair, she mused, as she made for the bathroom for wudhu, the ritualistic ablutions that preceded the offering of namaaz.
Arzoo was sleeping when she heard a knock on the door, soft and hesitant at first, then more insistent. Definitely not part of a dream, she deduced. She tried to get up, but her head was still throbbing with agonising pain.
And then he called out her name. It was Sahir Sir. Sahir? She reached for her phone to check the time, for it was pitch dark inside the room. It was almost ten.
"Arzoo," he called out again.
With much difficulty, she trudged towards the door and opened it gingerly. The bright light from the corridor stung her eyes so that all she could see was his silhouette in the doorway. It took a few seconds before her eyes adjusted to the light and she could just about make out the mildly concerned expression on his face.
"Sir?" she asked, groggily, still unsteady on her feet, brushing away a sweaty mop of hair from her face.
"You have not had dinner," he said, matter-of-factly, his face impassive once again.
"What?" she breathed, not quite sure how to respond.
"You have not had dinner," he repeated, almost as a reprimand.
"I... I wasn't hungry."
"Can I come in? I... uh... brought you some food... to eat."
She felt her temper rise again. He had brought her food, had he? What was next - alms?
"Go away! I don't need your pity," she snapped, hoping that he would storm away, partly because she felt close to fainting again.
"I know you don't," he said, "But while we are here in Delhi, apparently you are my responsibility, and I would appreciate if you at least made an effort to not die. Now, move."
She stared at him, nonplussed, as he moved past her, switched on the light and strode into her room with a tray of food, as though he owned the place. The nerve!
"Look, Sir, you should leave -" she began, trying to force a sense of calm in her voice.
"Eat, and I will leave," he said, in his usual businesslike manner.
"You cannot force me," she almost shouted, "I demand that you leave right now! Who the bloody hell do you think you are anyway?"
"Fine. I have far better things to do than to babysit you anyway," he said nonchalantly, putting down the tray on her bedside table and walking towards the door.
She lowered her eyes as he walked past her, slightly guilty at her somewhat ill-placed outburst. But he seemed barely affected as he said, "Tomorrow's conference starts at half past nine, try not to be late as usual."
"Yes Sir," was pretty much all she could muster.
"And Arzoo," he said, turning to look at her, his eyes softening, "I know things have become uncomfortable... between us. Maybe I should not have... asked. But it definitely was not out of pity, if that's what you think."
"Oh... I... Yes, I mean... thank you," she stammered, taken aback, "and I'm, I'm sorry I... I'm not very well, I did not mean to shout -"
"You don't have to apologise for anything," he said, earnestly, "And you don't have to tell me... whatever it is that happened. I understand, I won't ask. We'll just pretend nothing happened, and we'll never talk about it, until you want to. And yes, you do look unwell. Please try to eat something. It really would be terribly inconvenient if you died."
"Why... why are you doing all this?" she blurted out, confused by his sudden cordiality, albeit comfortingly punctuated by those typical sarcastic barbs of his.
"Because it's what you would have done if you were in my place."
And with that, he left, leaving her more confused than ever.
She would have sworn it was all a most bizarre dream, if she had not woken up to find the empty plate next to her bed. Maybe he was not as bad as she had thought. She had always intuitively sensed that there was a side to him that was not the ruthless Shark he prided himself on being. Perhaps she had met that other hidden Sahir last night. Even though she would never be able to bring herself to trust him, or anyone for that matter, it made her smile - the thought that, amidst so much pain and fear, there was always some good in the world, hidden away in the most unexpected nooks and corners.
His words came back to her. It was just what she had needed to hear. He had not badgered her about the scars and seemed to have understood her inability to talk about them. And while something clearly had changed in his perception of her since, he had made every effort to make things seem as normal as possible just to make her comfortable, albeit in his own slightly socially inept fashion. It was not pity; it was a form of sincere empathy and respect she would never have expected from him and that she had nevertheless read from his eyes. Now, she knew that he knew, but somehow it did not disturb her in the way that she had thought it would. It almost felt comforting... like having a confidante of some sort.
Arzoo was just getting out of bed, when there was a knock at the door. It was not Sahir, but the concierge, bearing a set of clothes - a plain white shirt and a formal dark grey pant suit. There was a note too, that read:
"Try not to go bat-shit crazy at me like last night. I don't like being nice either, so just pretend I didn't send you these. In any case, I cannot risk you getting us late because of you not having anything to wear other than stoop back things. Sahir Azeem Chaudhary."
And although she was momentarily reminded of the reason why he had needed to send her clothes, she could not help but laugh at just how awkwardly adorable his note was.
"Did the manager buy these?" she asked the concierge, struggling to keep the laughter out of her voice.
"I believe it was Mr Chaudhary himself."
That was enough to send her on another fit of giggles, as she imagined the stern and forbidding Sahir Azeem Chaudhary in a ladies' shop, asking for clothes that did not have a "stoop back"!
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Edited by _.serendipity._ - 11 years ago
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