|Arnav&Khushi| Shadows of Desire-[On Temp. Hiatus]

Shadows of Desire

I have been inspired to write this story for a multitude of reasons. The first being my Indian Music teacher, and second being Devi (publicenemy) from IF. Through her brilliant works, she has driven me to think of scenarios that develop in a different world. And I am trying my hand at those very ideals.

Also, my friend Amrita (amritab) from IF will be helping me out with the translations and other necessary bits that are compulsary to this story.

The story's inspiration comes from the language and culture in Bengal. Specifically, it is based in Darjeeling.

More shall be revealed later as I go on and discover the story myself.

I would be honored if you would join me on their journey.

Prologue: An Unexpected Guest

The scene was observed passionately by the otherwise dispassionate young woman seated on the rickety chairs. Her violet eyes-unusual for a Bengali woman-glittered mutely in the light filtering through the cracked window.

Turning her gaze back to the tea that lay stone cold upon the table, she exhaled defeatedly. Little rings appeared on the surface and did not cease until she had poured it down the drain.

There was more light in the cramped kitchen now, as usual.

It seemed as if Mother Nature herself was against the young woman's peace of mind. The moment she would dispense of the sickening liquid that held too many memories, the sun would rise. It would color the otherwise gaunt room with its ebuillient shade, succeeding in its attempt to give the cramped area a slightly humane air.

But how could it be? When the room belonged to Khushi Sen, how could anything be understood to be humane?

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Peeling paint coated the ancient wood door that lay intimidatingly ahead of him. It stood in his way, almost as if proclaiming for the young man to turn around and leave.

He took a deep breath and opened his suddenly weary caramel eyes. He had not undertaken this debilitating journey to resign at the final moment. A man of his word was he, and his word he would keep.

Three sharp raps resonated around the soundly asleep mohalla, alerting them to a newcomer's presence.

Standing there silently, he determinedly gathered what remained of his equilibrium and slowly exhaled. An old, smiling face appeared in the doorway about a few seconds later. She motioned for him to come in, putting a pudgy finger across her lips in the process.

He entered stealthily, removing his shoes behind him without any unneeded instructions. He might have been born American, and he might have understood the traditions of the modern world. But he was an Indian at heart.

Arnav Singh Raizada had returned. And he was here to stay.

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