Author's Note: This one shot is inspired by the PurVir Mehndi BTS. I have chosen to ignore the circumstances of Vaipri wedding because I didn't want to make this dark. The title of the OS is from the song At my weakest by James Arthur.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Please read and review!
I Fall, I Fall For You
Oh, goddamn
My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand
Taking mine, but it's been promised to another
Oh, I can't
Stop you putting roots in my dreamland
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
~Taylor Swift, Ivy
It is ridiculous, Virendra tells himself as he crosses out a section of the report he is perusing with a vicious stroke of blood red ink. He's just being stupid. Incredibly so. Worst is that there's no reasonable explanation for it. No answer that can suddenly put everything in perspective. And yet, there is no denying it either. He craves her company now, plays their conversations in his mind, feels her touch on his skin long after she has ceased touching him.
With a sigh, he looks up from the file in his lap. His eyes, as if they had been waiting for this very opportunity latch onto her instantly and refuse to budge.
A sea of people separate them. He is sitting in the far corner of the drawing room while she runs around the room, charming the guests with her smile, attending to their various whims and wishes, making them comfortable. She'd be lucky if she can get a single moment to herself today. Her finding the time to come over to him and distracting him from his work with some mundane concern of hers or her blabbering is impossible.
Virendra tries to ignore the sudden desire flaring in his chest to toss everyone out of his house, Vaibhav and Priyashi's marriage be damned.
Madness. It is sheer, utter madness. And he has no reason to feel these things. Virendra raises his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose but the action causes him to notice the dark henna pattern staining the skin of his palm that Purvi had drawn there a few hours ago.
Another incident where his senses had deserted him.
But there wasn't anything else he could have done. Juhi hadn't left him with any other choice.
He had overhead a heated argument between his children in the garden.
"Manas, you can't apply mehndi," his daughter had said, her eyes studying her henna covered palms.
Her brother's eyes widened into saucers of outrage. "Why can't I?"
"Because you're a boy, silly. Boys don't apply mehndi," Juhi said, exasperated now.
The little boy's eyes filled with tears. "But I want Hatthi to apply mehndi on me too."
She laughed hard, before she shared the amusing thought with them. "If you apply mehndi everyone will tease you. They'll say you're not a boy and tell you to wear skirts."
Virendra's eyebrows climbed up on his forehead at those words from his daughter. Who is teaching her these things?
Stepping in before Manas could break into sobs, he lifted the boy in his arms. "What is going on here?"
"Baba, Manas wants to apply mehndi," Juhi said with a grin that dimmed a little when he didn't return her smile.
"So? What's the problem?" Manas gave a delighted squeak as he wriggled in his father's hold to face his sister, giving her an arch look.
"Baba--"
"My Khargosh," he began, inwardly rolling his eyes at the absurd nickname Purvi had given his children. More absurd was the voice that he put on whenever he is using it, one that was a few octaves lower than his natural tones. He set his son down and dropped into one of the chairs, beckoning both his kids closer and wrapping both of them in a loose embrace. "There are no such things that only boys or girls can do. These are wrong ideas.
"There are many people who will tell you that girls shouldn't do this or boys shouldn't do that. But you too must not believe them. You two can do anything, be anything you want. And if my little Genda wants to apply mehndi, then he will."
"Yaaay!"
Virendra allowed Manas to run out of his arms and towards the drawing room of his house, where the function was taking place.
"Careful," he called after the running child, his lips twisted in a slight smile.
"Baba?"
Virendra turned towards his girl at the soft question. "Yes?"
She was still staring at the door Manas had entered the house from. "You just allowed Manas because you didn't want him to cry, right?"
"No, beta. I meant it."
Her eyes were narrowed as she considered his reply. When Juhi faced him, there was a challenge in those dark eyes so like his own. She has my eyes, he thought.
"So boys are allowed to apply mehndi?
"Yes. Just as a girl is allowed to play football or cricket. It doesn't make them any less of who they are. And these things don't matter, Juhi. What matters is if you are kind and honest as a person."
"Will you apply it too?"
There was no way he could refuse her. Not after saying all that he had said just a few moments ago. Virendra felt his heart swell with pride. With a chuckle he leaned forward and planted a kiss on her forehead. "Of course, my clever, clever girl."
He allowed Juhi to lead him to the crowded drawing room. As he navigated a way to its centre, his eyes met his wife's, who gave him her bright, infectious smile. She was seated next to her sister, his son in her lap.
"Baba, see this." Manas flaunted the simple henna design on his palm.
"Hatthi," Juhi left his side and ran to Purvi. "Babbar Sher wants to apply mehndi too."
The tittering of all the women around him soured the amusement of seeing Purvi's eyebrows almost touch her hairline.
"What? Viren, what is Juhi saying?" his mother asked from his side, hardly bothering to conceal her amusement.
The idea had quickly turned into a nightmare, now that he had half of Rewari to snicker at him. But there was nothing to be done now. He would have to sacrifice himself to this teasing for the sake of good parenting.
"Juhi is right," he said, in his Mukhiya tone, glaring at anyone who tried to so much as crack a smile at him.
The girls sitting beside his wife instantly moved, clearing some space for him. Virendra arranged the shawl draped around his arm as he took the offered seat.
"Purvi, here you go." His mother quickly handed her a henna filled cone. The sheer excitement on her face caused him to scowl in answer. Prakashi's smile widened all the more. "Make sure you cover his entire palm."
Virendra rolled his eyes and turned to his wife. He extended his palm to her. The heat of her skin was searing as she took hold of it.
"Bawrii," he said, and quietly thanked Ram ji that the word didn't sound breathless at all. "Get on with it. I don't have all day."
"Didi, make sure you write your name on his palm too," his sister-in-law contributed into the conversation, setting off a fresh round of tittering.
"Why?" he asked his wife.
His eyes were riveted by the sight of her throat moving as she swallowed. "They say…"
His eyes jumped up to meet her caramel ones. Virendra's left eyebrow lifted in a question, a demand for her to continue.
"People say that we should write the name of the person we love on our palm. If they love us back, the colour of the henna comes out dark."
"Maalik?"
Virendra comes to the present at the question from his secretary, who is standing next to his armchair. His eyes flick upwards with reluctance, loathing the fact that they have to look away from the smiling visage of Purvi. "Yes?"
"What should I tell the suppliers?"
He shakes his head and closes the file with a flick of his wrist. "Munshi ji, I'll let you know tomorrow. I'm not able to concentrate right now."
Virendra rises to his feet as he dares the older man with his gaze to tell him that he can't concentrate because he's sitting out in the hall, in the middle of a god-damned circus instead of his quiet study, where he could actually get some work done. But the man just nods. He takes his leave with a bow.
Pathetic. Virendra looks up at the ceiling as if he will find the answer to his dilemma written up there. This is a new low for him, neglecting work in this manner. And for what? Virendra closes his eyes briefly. He knows exactly for what.
He can scream right now from the frustration. He traces the word Sakshi on his palm with his index finger. Why did you leave me? How could you leave me here?
Gathering his things, he strides towards his bedroom and to the quiet of his study, away from this noise.Away from these people. Away from her.
~fin
comment:
p_commentcount