Note: This one happens to be inspired by my father coming home tonight after a long trip. My mother has a tendency to steal his shirts, much to his irritation. This oneshot isn't quite as lighthearted, but I hope you like it all the same- it's similar to Combust in the sense that it uses smell to a great extent, but it's not a sequel.
-***-
She reached into the dark depths of the closet, her fingers tired and searching for one specific outfit. Her intricate ghagras lay discarded on the floor as she continued to search, pulling the clothes out.
The stiff BSD uniform that stank of musk and sweat. She would have to remember to send that to the special washing later.
The rough jean jacket he favored.
The white kurta that made him look regal.
The tight black shirt she loved. Her hands paused on that one, recalling the way it would hug his body, allowing her to feel the taut muscles tremble under her fingers.
Ah, there. That one.
The silky, soft material fluttered over her, the faded scent of gunpowder wafting into her nose.
She inhaled deeply, fingering the worn, royal blue fabric with reverence. Her eyes closed involuntarily, soaking in the feeling of having him wrapped around her. Her hands fisted up the excess cloth that hung past her fingers, clutching it with near desperation and twisting it tightly.
The scent was fading. The familiar, smoky smell that hung over her in the morning after a long night was almost gone. It was tainted by the smell of roses and sandalwood that mingled with the gunpowder, softening it. It was an odd combination of the epitome of femininity and masculinity, coming together to form something that smelled wonderful, smelled familiar to her own nose.
It smelled like them.
She always saved this one for last, for the nights that were particularly difficult when he was not by her side. It had been almost a year since she had last worn it, felt its soft corners caress her curves and comfort her.
It had been a year since she had found out about... her.
She felt the painful pangs of envy bubble up once more, her hands fisting more tightly into the fabric.
She knew he was hers now, that he would never leave her for that lady, but she couldn't help the green monster that lifted its head every once in a while. She was just so beautiful, so raw and seductive- she was everything that she wasn't. How could he go from her to... her?
She had found out accidentally, when the woman had caught sight of her at the market. She still recalled the cutting remarks, the taunting descriptions of their passion, their relationship. She had turned towards him, knowing that it was true, but hoping somewhere... that it was not.
The look of anger, weighed down by the guilt in his eyes, had shattered her.
She wouldn't have minded if he had just told her. But he hadn't. It was like he was hiding something, keeping a part of himself away from her. She knew he wasn't like that now, but it hurt that he didn't trust her to believe that.
She had remained quiet and dignified at the market, refusing to let the woman see her pain. But when they had gotten home, she had broken down into tortured sobs, crumpling to the floor.
He hadn't understood.
He had yelled at her, accused her of being insecure, jealous, and everything that she was feeling. He had accused her of not trusting him, thrown words that cut like jagged edges of a broken mirror.
He had called her khoobsurat, and not in the endearing way she had come to love. It was a taunt, a reminder of their old days.
She had left that night, gathering up all her ghagras and fleeing to Mamisa's without a second thought.
He hadn't come after her.
One day passed, and then two, and slowly, painfully, it was almost a week since she had left the haveli. She missed him, oh, she missed him desperately.
She longed to feel his rough hands over her skin, feel his hair between her fingers. She wanted his smell, that damned gunpowder she had once hated, to engulf her in the mornings, making her night clothes smell of him. She came to miss his fingers threaded between hers, his arm heavy weight underneath her head.
That was when she had found it.
Nestled between her ghagras was the blue, spotted kurta, the one he had given to her to change into when she had been his prisoner. She rubbed the fabric before bringing it to her nose, inhaling deeply.
It still smelled like gunpowder.
She had put it on that night without a second thought, ignoring the confused and slightly disapproving glance of Mamisa at her attire. She was in the airy black salwars that billowed around her legs and his shirt. Every time she moved, she would be hit with his scent, soothing her hurt nerves.
She wore it to bed that night, and the next night too. By the eighth night, it had absorbed her own smell as well, smelling like that fateful combination of roses and gunpowder, with a tint of sandalwood.
She felt a deep sense of loss at the mixing of the gunpowder with her smell, as if he was slipping out of her fingers. Her heart was almost constantly tight with pain, knowing that he had not bothered to call, had not bothered to come.
Did he not miss her at all?
As she curled up in bed that night, under the foreign covers of Mami, she heard a sputtering. Her heart jumped at the idea, ignoring the part of her brain that told her it was a mirage.
She bolted out from underneath the sheets, hastily reaching for the pins she kept on the side to pull her bangs back, when a large figure loomed in the doorway, blocking her light.
The figure walked up to the mirror, reaching for the Pond's sandalwood powder kept neatly together with a cluster of bobby pins.
He turned around when he was finished, his head bowed down and guilt written all over his face.
She didn't give it a second thought, murmuring apologies and berating him as she threw herself into his arms, allowing herself to be engulfed by him.
He smelled like gunpowder.
She sighed, opening her eyes and coming back from the vivid memory.
He wasn't due back for another three days. It was a ten day trip to Jaipur, and she would have accompanied him if it had not been for the wailing that came out from outside in the courtyard.
She smiled softly upon memory of their son, who had arrived nine months after the night he had showed up at Mamisa's. Jija was currently playing with the two month old baby, insisting that Paro take the night off, citing the dark circles underneath her eyes. Dilsher had nodded his vigorous approval, claiming he needed to spend quality time with his grandson.
So she had come back to their room in the corner, smelling the baby powder that perfumed the air, the windows open and letting in gushes of cool wind. She shivered. Without him, the room felt empty. He never said much when he was there, but his absence spoke volumes, creating the unpleasant void in her heart.
She looked down at the kurta, the buttons lying open and revealing a hint of black lace from her bra. She blushed, realizing she had been standing at the window in this state. She reached up a blue cloth covered hand to close the buttons when a familiar, husky voice stopped her.
"Paro, don't button that."
She whirled around. He blocked the light streaming in from the courtyard, the BSD uniform clinging to his figure, damp with sweat. His hair stuck to his forehead, grimy with dust from the mission. His eyes were exhausted, dark circles surrounding them.
She flew towards him, forgetting about the unbuttoned, oversized shirt.
As she wrapped her hands around him, inhaling deeply, she savored the scent.
They smelled like gunpowder and roses.
CID
