Cherished Wounds#2 NOTE Pg 66- Page 36

-Tess Gerritsen, The Mephisto Club

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The dawn had just broken through the night, colouring the distant peaks a periwinkle blue to the eyes of the few passengers awake on the moving train. Khushi had not been able to sleep a wink despite the overwhelming exhaustion. Her eyes were drooping, near closing, but a dull ache, an incomprehensible thirst for understanding the tirade of events coursed through every niche of her body.

She wondered to herself repeatedly, what exactly had gone wrong. His father had been ill, hence he couldn't leave his side and come see her when she was about to leave. There was nothing remotely wrong about it. He was going through shock, grief and he might have lost control of his senses. There could have been no way he would have trusted his father with anyone else, even for a second.

She tried contradicting every word, every sentence that like tiny hoard of bullets kept storming her mind, unrelenting, telling her that there was obviously something more to it than what only she wanted to believe.

He had been with her when his father was ill.

Did he blame her?

Did he blame himself?

He didn't come to meet her.

One last time.

And somehow the thought that she wanted to ignore the most screamed the loudest of all. What if she didn't meet him again? Was this supposed to be the very last time?

The train rumbled on, a hazy afternoon approached, throwing slivers of burnt sienna across Khushi's face, which had somehow after hours of relentless thinking, she had slipped off into a disturbed sleep.

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"He's stable now Arnav. It will take month or so to recover completely, but he will get there soon." Aakash tried to get the words understood by Arnav who sat beside Azaan, his face buried in his hands. "Will you please go get some air Arnav, please? Its been ages since you've stepped out of this room!" Aakash paused to wait for a reaction, an outburst, a single word. But nothing came. He was as still, as calm as a stone since his father's illness and Khushi's departure.

"Arnav...please, just go outside for ten minutes at least. Take a walk, eat something, I'll not move from here, for a second, promise!" Arnav looked up, and couldn't help but let a small smile invade his face looking at Aakash enacting the gimmicks of a kid with as much efficiency he could manage, touching his fingers to his throat, and mouthing I swear to him. Arnav looked back at the frail looking image of Azaan's face, and then nodding at Aakash briefly, quietly left the room.

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"Amma, I can't eat anymore, please..." Khushi grunted through a mouth full of kheer as a plump old lady piled on two more crisp puris onto the plate before Khushi. Usha chaachi or Amma as Khushi called her had been taking care of Khushi since the day her mother had appointed her as Payal's aayi. The second she had seen Khushi's worn out face she had known something was more than wrong, and then she did what she had always done to bring back the smile onto her bogged down face. She whipped up kheer and golden yellow puris and in a matter of minutes Khushi had attacked the long forgotten mix of Amma's food.

Khushi sat with Amma on the rooftop, sipping on buttermilk waiting for Babuji to return as the clock struck seven. And Khushi couldn't help notice how Amma diverted her gaze every time she questioned about her father. "Will you just tell me where he is?" Khushi asked exasperated. "He had left for this small protest march in Darjeeling a week ago and since then he never contacted. I called Mahesh Dada's place too, but we couldn't reach him. Khushi...sorry beta, I just didn't want you to worry..." Usha chaachi's voice became muffled by the last word, looking at Khushi's flaxen face. "I'm leaving for Darjeeling tomorrow morning Amma," Khushi spoke out into the damp air unbeknownst to what the future held of her in Darjeeling.

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Mr Robertson had taken the drained, harried Khushi by evident surprise when she stumbled onto him at Mahesh Dada's place. The old wooden floorboard cottage scented of rich coffee and sandalwood incense sticks. And it had always attracted tourists, the babus and memsahibs from Old Britain, especially during these days. So stumbling onto Robertson was nothing extraordinary, but that unruly mop of dirty golden hair tousled over his forehead brushing across Khushi's cheeks had her look up and finding her eyes colliding with the softest shade of emeralds. And those eyes twinkled with faint amusement providing competition to that near infectious smile riding on his face. "Hi...Brian here and you are?" Khushi recovered almost immediately from the startling effect of those beautiful eyes,"...Khushi, listen do you have any idea where I can find Mahesh Dadu?" He simply put a hand on her elbow, encircling it firmly, and leading her towards a lone staircase, as Khushi's mouth opened and closed in mild shock.

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He found himself in front of Hospital even before he knew how his feet had brought him there. It was there, that faint question, that tiny thought, what if he had been there, just a few days before. The troubling question hung on, unanswered, ticking on like an old clock, seeking for something, anything to make himself understand, make him finally absorb the fact, that now as he stood a breath away from the hospital door, when he would finally open it, there would be no Khushi running about harried in the gloomy corridors. There would be no more sightings of an amusing, flustered Khushi, squatting away that singular tendril of hair repeatedly back as it obstructed her vision of him. There would only be memories, though still painfully crystal clear, hanging on to every nook and cranny of the hospital. Behind every closed door, he could still see the image of a flushed Khushi leaning away from him, with that coy smile playing on her lips as he would tower over her. Sauntering into every locker room, he could still feel her silken skin under his calloused fingertips, the dance of her lips against his.

It would be there no more. He wouldn't, couldn't see her every day.

Khushi had left.

And he had let her.

Let her go, and had not for once even tried to stop her.

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Brian, known to his fellow colleagues at the Wenger's Tea Production Ltd as Sir Robertson had then taken away Khushi and landed her up with himself at a deserted library that scented of weathered pages and molten wax.

"What...?" Khushi asked, a little appalled by the warmth thrown her way by this handsome stranger standing in front of her.

"Are you Mahesh Dada's..." Brian questioned, still smiling down at the hassled face, which was then adorned with an adorable frown, her eyes mirroring impatience.

"My father is a dear friend of his. Where can I find Dada?" Khushi paused, as Brian continued. "...He has left for the Shialdah Jail, an hour back. He had to look into some case regarding the prisoners being held in charge of a recent protest march!" Khushi felt the ground slid beneath her feet, her hands found support against the door handle, as she imagined the worst that could've happened. "...Are you okay Khushi?" Brian put a hand on her shoulder, and almost immediately she slapped it away. "Where can I find a taxi to Shialdah?" Khushi asked uncaring of the startled man's in front of her.

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An hour or so later, Brian stopped the brand new Ambassador out the Shialdah Jail, as Khushi scampered out of the car within a minute.

They wouldn't let her meet Shashi, the local inspectors, giving her in broken English, that they had orders from the Sahibs. Khushi almost broke down in front of them, the pent of frustration form the past few days finally rushing out as the floodgates forged open.

Brian led her back to the car, and offered her a crisp white starched handkerchief, which she politely denied. "You know you look much more beautiful without those wretched tears," he said, his voice developing a timbre of liquid honey, dropping down suddenly as he gave away a flirtatious smile towards Khushi's way. She gave him a small hesitant smile in return, not trying to understand the antics of the man in front of her, at least not then.

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Mahesh Dada, almost always clad in Navajo white kurtas, spoke to Khushi as sympathetically as he could, considering her raging dialect and infuriated, unsettled mind. "I have tried beti, as hard as I could stop him from participating in that calamitous protest. But your father's a very stubborn man. He wouldn't listen and now look where it has gotten him. They will not grant us a bail, not for months until and unless we have an approach of one of the Sahibs!"

"But how...?" Khushi whispered, immediately silenced as she saw Dada's head nodding, as if conveying utter hopelessness the situation bore. The evening drew to a deploring close, bringing with itself unwanted thoughts and heady apprehension.

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Arnav had dialled the only number she had left with Aakash before departing, to find it unreachable, every single time.

Even though he had made up his mind strolling repeatedly in front of her apartment in Kashmir, that he wouldn't enter that place, he couldn't stop his heart from giving into a glimpse of a few nights before.

He nearly choked; his breathing turning heavy the second he stepped onto the carpeted floorboards of the apartment. Was it caffeine, or just the faint streetlight streaming into the room, lighting up a plethora of dust particles, and memories of a distant night under the moonlight that made Arnav fall onto the bed they had shared just days ago.

He felt unusually thirsty. Thirsty for those pearl like water droplets cascading down her nose, the wet strands of her hair that fallen all over his face that morning long gone by. He wanted, needed to place his lips on hers, on her cheeks, and cherish every touch, every move, and make sure it lasted, a little longer, this time. He longed to quench that almost painful longing, tugging somewhere deep inside his chest, for one chance to see her, one last time.

Arnav didn't know when his hands and balled up the soft white bed sheets, bunching them up and bringing it close to his face as he buried his head into the pillows they had shared nights ago. Her scent still lingered on, the faint lavender, sometimes jasmine, those shy smiles, that crimson blush, all of it, all of her, swam before his eyes, but alas, he was too far, too late to catch hold of it.

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Inspired by one of my all time favorites-

[YOUTUBE]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5anLPw0Efmo[/YOUTUBE]

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