ARSHI FF : Hues of Agony (Chapter 9 posted!) | (Blog Link Up!) - Page 17

The comb slid down the thick, silky mass of hair smoothly, slowly. A single orange-yellow marigold petal floated onto the ground from the comb. The rhythmic movement of the comb would have seemed calming to any onlooker. But the owner of those jet black locks was bristling with anger.

"Idiot.. How dare he... My hair... Why tonight... Moron... Won't spare him..." she kept muttering under her breath.

The comb halted in its tracks. "Khushi!" said a laughing, exasperated voice behind her.

Khushi looked up at the faces reflected in the mirror in front of her. One, her own, brow furrowed in frustration. Another, a beautiful woman's, a suppressed smile apparent amid the wrinkles. She was shaking her head slowly, waving the comb in her hand behind Khushi's head. "You know you're not supposed to talk like that," she said gently.

The girl pouted. "But he shouldn't have done this! Not when I can't even fight back. It's not fair!" She attempted to fold her hands in front of her chest in indignation but caught herself at the last moment. The henna on her hands was saved just in the nick of time.

The comb resumed its slow progress from her scalp to the ends of her locks as she spread her hands out in front of her, allowing a small smile to form on her lips as she looked at the beautiful patterns.

"It's not fair, I agree," the woman said, brushing the girl's hair fondly. "But he was just joking. And you'll get enough chances to tease him tomorrow." Her eyes shone as she looked at the girl, who grinned at her.

"Of course I will," she said with a smirk. "Abhi is in for trouble tomorrow." She giggled.

The woman pulled her by the hair gently, making the girl yelp. "We talked about this, didn't we Khushi?" she said, trying to appear angry.

The girl giggled again. "Yes, Mom... But he emptied the entire basket of flower petals on my head! When he knew I'd only washed them this morning. So not today. I'm not gonna call him Bhai!"

And with that, the girl quickly jumped up from her place on the carpet and ran out the door as the woman yelled after her, both laughing in spite of themselves...

Khushi stood on the porch of the magnificent haveli, one hesitant hand hovering over the ornate, gold door knocker. There was a heaviness in the pit of her stomach and her limbs were weighed down with exhaustion.

Looking over at the lattice windows on either sides of the door and the jharokhas enclosing those of the upper floors, she sighed. Khushi let her hand drop back to her side as the lump rose in her throat once again at the thought of what awaited her on the other side of those gilded doors. And at the memory of last night's agonizing nightmares.

She had made her way to her apartment with great difficulty after the engagement party. At every turn of the road, her sobs had threatened to overwhelm her. She had almost run her car into a tree. Thrice. But had, somehow, managed to reach home. That night she hadn't slept at all. Her body had shook with barely contained howls of pain. The violence with which he had flung her hand away and shouted at her made her heart twist painfully all night. She had beaten at the pillow, bit into it to muffle her screams, had almost torn her red saree in frustration.

In the morning, when she had been about to drop off to sleep from exhaustion, her boss' words had echoed in her head. She had been given one day. To put it right. To put it all right.

She had trembled with renewed sobs as those words had clanged in her brain. Nothing could ever be right again.

But having completed the design already, all she had to do was show up for work and hand it to him.

It was with a great amount of courage that she had dragged herself out of bed and to the office an hour later. Shuddering fingers had got her ready for the agonizing day ahead of her. Shivering limbs had driven her to the office.

With a nauseating feeling in her stomach, she had handed her design to her boss who had given her a concerned yet awed look and after approving the design with much praise, had pressed that she take the day off.

Now as she stood in front of the haveli, all she wanted to do was turn around and walk back home. But her father's forlorn expression floated in her mind and she reasoned with herself that she needed to pay this visit.

Khushi took a deep breath. She could do this. She would do this. For Dad. For Abhi...

Sitting in the familiar, grand living room (or rather, hall), Khushi felt like a stranger at her own house. The royal sofas that she had jumped on in childhood were just as fluffy as she remembered. The ornate armchairs she had watched her father sit in every evening looked just as plush as they had always been. The highly polished wooden tables reflected her own face on their surfaces, like old times. Antique pieces adorned the many nooks and crannies. And up above, her favorite part. The gorgeous chandelier. Shimmering in the little rays of light coming in from the lattice windows.

But perhaps it was the harried look of her own face on those shiny tabletops and the large, gold-framed mirror on the opposite wall that made her cringe. As she did every weekend now. Maybe it was the very air of the once lively haveli which had changed since two of its most noisy inhabitants had forsaken it years ago.

Or maybe things had been like this all along. Maybe she had just failed to notice the gloom encased inside the sandstone walls amid her overwhelming excitement of youth when she had first set foot in the place. Khushi scrunched up her nose in distaste at the memory.

"Khushi!" called out a throaty voice from behind her. She rose from her armchair slowly, forcing herself to smile, hiding her grimace at her train of thought.

The man strode towards her, his eyes shining. He was dressed in a smart, three-piece, dark brown business suit. His hair was gelled back carefully, his face marred by wrinkles but handsome, nonetheless. Without warning, he pulled her into a tight embrace, resting one hand at the top of her head gently. "I had a feeling you wouldn't come," he whispered softly.

"Why can't you be this intuitive at the opportune moments, Dad?" Khushi wondered wistfully clutching at her father's coat while breathing in the familiar smell of his aftershave and imported English perfume.

Stepping back a little, the man smiled down sadly at her.

"Are you okay?" she asked, concern clear in her voice. "She called me... Said you weren't keeping well again."

The little nod he gave her failed to calm her fears and she forced him down on one of the sofas, sitting down beside him, hands clutching his.

"How... How are things at work?" he asked, tongue tripping over the words, looking down at their hands. Khushi sighed inwardly. She never could understand this roundabout way of questioning. But she was always compelled to play along. Though it never made the lying any easier.

"Great. Everything's great," she said, feigning brightness.

He seemed convinced enough. There was silence for some time. Khushi waited for the question she knew would now come. But her father seemed to hesitate.

Khushi shook her head, a small smile beginning to form at the corners of her lips as she looked at her father's discomfit. Slowly, she laid her head on his shoulder, sighing softly. He was surprised at first since she hadn't done this in a long while but then patted her head gently. Closing her eyes, she let the moment fill her up with all the emotions she had battling with for the past two days. There was comfort in her father's arms. But apparently not enough to banish her tears. If anything, it only made her more sentimental. Remembering the carefree days she had spent with him. Back when it used to be just the two of them. When they had gone on long drives together on weekends. When they had gone horse riding together. When she used to accompany him on work-related trips. When he had been the one to put her to bed. When he had tried and failed epically to cook her a meal on the days the servants were on leave. When they had a different, simpler home. With just the two of them. And some dozen servants. Back when she had been his whole world.

A single tear escaped her closed eyelids and made a slow trail down her cheek. She missed her father. If only she could say so.

She was about to remind him of the time they had driven all the way to Shimla one weekend on her whim when he spoke up, making her heart drop down to her stomach.

"How is he?" It was no more than a whisper. But never had a whisper held more emotion.

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

The guilt hit her before she could get the lie out of her mouth. "He's good. Just busy with work. Maybe he'll come home next month."

His hand clutched hers tighter. "Really?"

The eagerness in his voice nearly made her heart break but she nodded quickly, sneakily wiping the tear streak before looking up at him with a wide smile.

He beamed at her. "Maybe we could throw him a homecoming party? It's been so long since I've seen him. Did he say when he's coming?"

"No, Dad," she said, anxiety welling up in her at his excitement. "He's so caught up in work right now that he hasn't thought it out much. But I'll ask him the next time he calls."

"That's all right," his smile refused to grow smaller. "I can't believe it," he muttered under his breath as he got up and headed to the door, probably to tell the news to everyone in the haveli.

"Our Abhi's coming home."

Her quiet sobs filled the dusty, dark room as she sat on the old mattress; her knees pulled up and pressed against her chest, rocking back and forth in a bid to calm herself. The tears were relentless.

The old curtains hanging from the four posts of the bed were billowing in the breeze from the window, raining their accumulated dust into her hair.

Beside her lay an antique box made from the finest quality wood of the last century. There were black designs all over the lid, designs she could not make out through her tears. Crossing her knees on the mattress, she picked the box up, running her fingers over the intricate carvings. With shivering fingers, she lifted the lid. Inside were multiple rolls of the same kind of paper. Thin, delicate, withered and yellowed through the years. She lay the box carefully in front of her and picked up the biggest roll among them all. His familiar inky scrawl greeted her by hitting her hard in the chest, as it did every time.

And at the bottom, towards the edge was a single mark. Her mark. The spot she had unintentionally graced with her mehendi-laden fingers...

She was running down the carpeted staircase when she heard the knock. She paused at the foot of the stairs, curiously looking around. The front door was all the way at the other end of the house. The knock must be coming from somewhere else.

There was no one around. All the frolic, music and laughter was, at the moment, concentrated in the large drawing room of the house. She followed the direction of the knocking sound, going down a corridor she hadn't seen before.

Her feet and curiosity led her to a small door which was apparently where the knocking was coming from.

She lay a henna-filled hand tentatively on the doorknob, looking through the keyhole but seeing nothing but a mass of messed up black hair. She frowned in confusion before turning the doorknob with some difficulty, trying to be careful with the mehendi and finally swung the door open.

The little boy on the other side almost fell over with surprise at her sight. Dressed in a little t-shirt and brown pants that were rather large for his size, his face shone with a child-like innocence as he looked at her in awe.

She smiled at him, finding his fascinated expression adorable. Bending down to his level, she raised her eyebrows at him. "Heya, little fella. Are you lost?"

The boy shook his head slowly at her, mouth slightly open. Then, suddenly, he looked down at his hand, which held a small roll of paper, and then back up at her. Shyly, he raised his hand and flourished the paper in front of her face.

Surprised, she looked at the roll. "This is for me?" she asked, confused.

The boy nodded, looking down at his feet.

She was about to take it from him but then suddenly stopped. "Can you.. er.. Can you please open it for me?"

The mehendi, dammit.

Large eyes looked up at her, startled again. "I'm not supposed to open it," he said in a barely-audible whisper.

She frowned again. "But I want you to open it so it doesn't count. And who sent this anyway?"

"I'm not supposed to say," he whispered again.

She was growing exasperated now.

"You're not gonna open it, are you?"

He shook his head again.

She sighed and took the paper from him. Almost instantly, the boy broke into a run, quickly disappearing around the corner of the house. She didn't even have time to yell after him to stop.

Muttering unintelligibly under her breath, she struggled to unroll the paper, scaring it with her mehendi in the process. Inside was an untidily written message.

"I once had a thousand desires. But in my one desire to know you, all else melted away."

Khushi couldn't believe her eyes. Could it be...?

At the bottom was a single line, written just as ineligibly.

"I found this in my mother's book. Credit to a weird guy named... Rumi?"

She had never laughed harder before...

The name mocked her now. At the remembrance of that laughter.

The brown spot of henna beside the name glared back at her, for the secrets it still held.

Secrets she had planned on sharing with him that night.

Before...