Yash-Arti FF: Meri adhoori kahaani - Part 4:pg8 - Page 4

The days darted past, and almost immediately, it seemed, a week had elapsed since Arti's abrupt materialisation in Yash's life.

And in that one week, in so many minutely significant ways, his life had changed into something more than just bearable. He woke up early, to breakfast in bed, and began to casually, naturally think up ways to make the day matter, to make Arti smile. When she did, even if it was the slightest of smiles, as though merely to humour him, it seemed thaw a small part of his heart. They had tea in the balcony, watching the excuse the polluted city had to offer for sunset. In the muffled sulight, the specks in her eyes shimmered, like the ripples of a gurgling dimpled mountain stream, pure and untainted. They spoke, but never about themselves. They spoke about meaningless nothings, and in her voice - the winds whistling through hollow bamboo - everything seemed like it had been infused with something that felt special, magical. He had begun writing again. He had stopped dying. Maybe, she was the muse.

Then one day, as he was returning from a meeting with his editor, he found a poster bearing her photograph with the overbearing burning red caption of 'Missing' and a meeker one bearing a phone number.

It took almost a minute before he was sure that it really was Arti. She seemed younger in the photograph, and her slightly plumper, pinker face was devoid of bruises. And she was smiling, a laugh of a smile. He could not help but be enthralled. This, surpassed, by far, all the ways he had imagined she would look like if she smiled. It was a broad, exultant, unapologetically uninhibited smile that caused her nose to scrunch up, crinkled her eyes and painted them with a naughty gleam. Who could have imagined that the same person could have been reduced to the person he knew to be imprisoned by her nightmares?

He stood there for a long time and felt himself smile too. And in that sigh of a smile, he felt the weight over his heart lighten somewhat. The pain which he had always denied but that had persistently simmered within him for all these years, suddenly, miraculously, appeared surmountable.

It was the same pain that had translated itself, after a few bright-eyed years at university and a successful first novel, into the unbearable loneliness that he tried to convince himself was by choice; into the bitter cynicism that had caused Arpita and his daughters to drift away from him, leaving him more insular than ever.

But all the pain, the guilt, the anger, all of it could be healed, she seemed to smile.

And soon enough, the realisation came, like a blow. Missing. Somebody had put that poster up. He had gotten used to the idea of there being nobody in the world but him and her and their many cups of tea. But there was somebody else too. Somebody who knew what a smiling Arti had looked like, could look like. Somebody she had smiled for. He could not fight the thought that soon there would be nobody in his world but him. The feeling that she was much more than just a muse, his muse, had never been more inescapable.

The apartment was smelling of warm food, well-fried onions, when he entered. Arti had cooked. His eyes searched for in mild frenzy, as they somehow always did after he had left her for some time. This time, the frenzy was quickened to a feverish haze, as the echoing image of the poster thumped and hammered against the insides of his brain.

She was curled up in his armchair with one of her books in her hand. Moby Dick. He noticed that she had just showered; the tip of her nose was shining. It was also red, so she had been crying too. She got up to serve lunch, attempting a feeble ghost of a smile. It was nothing like the smile in the photograph he had seen. Her pain was more tangible to him then, than it had ever been. It was more than a character trait now, it was something that he felt, that made his eyes sting.

"I saw a poster," he said, finally, "with your picture. Missing."

He had thought that he would finally see her smile. Even if it would not be for him, it would be something, something to remember fondly. But her eyes had widened to wet red pools, and she began to hyperventilate, as though she was drowning, engulfed in lethal depths of terror. He rushed to her, and abandoning all thoughts and second thoughts, enfolded her in his arms, holding her as tightly as he could, feeling as though his life depended on it, that moment. Slowly, her breaths steadied in pace. She was still shaking though, in arrhythmic uncontrollable sobs.

He pulled himself away from her, and sat her down gently. He held her face in her hands, and said, as he had on the first day, that she could stay for as long as she liked.

"In fact, forever would be rather nice," he added, in a light-hearted tone, before he could stop himself.

She let out a fraction of a chuckle. But his smile had faded away. His eyes were penetrating hers, in silent, desperate longing, and she realised just how much it scared her that she felt she could not look away, that she felt like staying forever too.

But she freed herself from his smouldering gaze, and gasped, "I can't."

She said nothing else.

Her thoughts had receded to the world she wished she could obliterate. She knew she was more than these stifling memories allowed her to be. She thought she could see that person in Yash's eyes, but it was beyond her reach, that elusive delusive spectre.

She would always have that other person inside her, the girl nobody had wanted, and paradoxically so, the symbol of a family's good name. A burden she had to be thankful for in every day of her existence. For she had been chosen to live for no nobler purpose than to keep the good name good, and soothe the egos of the men above her. Then, parcelled off to another house, as soon as it was legally possible, she became the woman, the dutifully shrouded wife, the symbol of a husband's honour. Another burden to be thankful for.

She would never be able to forget the time when she had most ungratefully gone back to her parents after being battered for the first time and they had turned her away. Her father, who had taught her to read and love books, even against the concerned admonitions of the rest of the family. Her mother, who was her mother, for crying out loud! All shunned her, carted her back to him, to him. In the name of tradition and custom. For the good name.

How her husband was delighted to see her again. He knew he had won. She had nobody, and she belonged to him.

"Arti?" Yash whispered, concerned. His hands were still cupping her wet face. She flinched and retreated, away from him and the emotions brimming in her own eyes, and he let go, sadly.

...

Part 4: https://www.indiaforums.com/forum/punar-vivah/3148310/yash-arti-ff-meri-adhoori-kahaani-part-4-pg8?pn=8�