PART THREE: SAY GOODBYE
The damning pile of items grew and grew as Rudra sat across from them, the chair-back holding him up, like a hard arm propping up his collapsed back. He watched expressionless, as the bedroom was ransacked. As exclamations, muttered curses, stifled sobs and loud demands to be told what the hell was going on rained around him. She was gone. The pale light of dawn filtered through the open windows, dappling the chaos in his room with dancing light. Ravaged faces looked even more drawn and ugly in the bright light, as his household milled around him, still trying to understand what had happened to shatter their world overnight.
Rudra had fallen asleep in this room with Paro nestled in his arms last night, a million years ago. And this morning, he had woken up to her...gone. She was gone. He mouthed the words to himself. Saying them aloud made them no less monstrous, no less brackish with disbelief. Like a center-point in a whirlwind, he felt oddly removed from his family as they swirled around him, as they tore his bedroom apart looking for his wife. Or, rather, as they gathered evidence after evidence of her planning, her careful, dedicated severing of relationships with them. The symbols of his wife's departure piled up, each a clue about what she thought of them, what she thought they needed.
It was Sunehri herself who found her wedding joda, hidden under the bed. Rudra's hooded eyes noted the delicate wrapping of tissue and the use of gold ribbon-- even in this artistry, Paro had given something of herself for her sister-in-law. The intricate, absolutely regal ghagra was unveiled to startled silence. Sunehri's hands trembled as they touched an ornate, beaten gold border. Noting the design, Rudra immediately understood that Paro had sacrificed her own wedding trousseau to create this confection for Sunehri. Small patchwork flowers, cut from tissue and gold cloth, large pearl and stonework embroidery he had noticed on his wife's dresses once now decorated this gift. A vaguely familiar dupatta sprinkled with diamond stars had been carefully packed alongside, to crown the youngest Ranawat when she became a bride. Sunehri, always the most expressive among them all, threw herself onto the wedding outfit, crushing muslin and silk underneath her as she sobbed her heart out onto her Paro Bhabi's farewell token of love to her.
Rudra watched silently as Sunehri cried, as Aman reached forward to hesitatingly stroke the bent head be-dewing the wedding outfit with her grief. Paro had wanted this, Rudra realized. This new connection, this future marriage, this potential love story. Aman lifted the young girl to her feet, smoothing tears off her upturned red cheeks, murmuring his promise to Sunehri, that he would fetch his -no---their----Bhabisa back. Vowing that Parvati herself would dress Sunehri in this gift, someday. Rudra's lips twisted in a grimace, noting the promise. Paro had wanted this, it seemed. And it had happened.
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A small turn of Rudra's head, and the slim, heaving shoulders came into view. Samrat, stoic, troubled, a pillar of unwavering support now held his exhausted wife close, sitting on the ground, with her leaning into him. Maithli's voice had dimmed with her hoarse cries going silent, but her shoulders still trembled with the force of her loss. Scattered around her lay small outfits, each a perfect miniature doll's creation. Each a gift for the baby girl who would soon enter this house. The little niece Paro had longed for, planned for, and now left behind, without even meeting. But even here, he saw her intent, lovingly instilled into the gifts she had left behind. Each outfit she had made was a clever version of something Maithli herself wore.
A small dress from the same pattern as the chundri Maithli was wearing right now. A tiny jumper and knit cap covered with flowers that mimicked the ones Maithli often tucked into her hair. Overalls with the intricate embroidery copied from the design on Maithli's own wedding sari. It was the little party ghagra that had triggered Maithli's wails, a small, exact replica of her own favorite purple and yellow dress, the same skirt, the same tiny choli, the same heavy border of wirework and thread. Paro had meant to tell Maithli that the little baby who was such a longed for arrival was Maithli's daughter ---not just in name, but in reality. The clothes she left screamed this faith, her belief in her Jija. The clothes Paro had created were outfits, dressed in which the baby would exactly replicate her adopted mother ---it was blindingly clear that Paro's faith in her Jija's love and strength transcended such terms as adopted and "paraya". The little girl would not be an adopted orphan. She would wear what her mother wore.
For Paro, the new baby would be a part of Maithli, not an afterthought or a charity case. A real daughter who would grow into the image of her loving mother, with her missing maasi's blessings to guide her there. Maithli had understood this seconds after Rudra himself did, and she had screamed her pain out loud, the bitterness of Paro's loss mingling with her gratitude for the belief, the faith represented in her parting gift. And in Maithli's voice, ran the thread of anger, that Paro would believe such things, and not be there to see them come true.
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Danveer stood, incongruously holding a picture album with a missing picture clutched to his heart. Rudra, from his seat on the whitewashed armchair watched him now, wondering why his uncle said nothing, but stroked a blank page on his album. Rudra cocked his head to the side, as Danveer avoided his eyes, and he watched his uncle's face as it worked convulsively, trying to blink back his tears. Samrat asked the question Rudra himself was thinking, and Danveer's voice cracked in the middle as he explained about the picture Paro had removed from his family album. There was note she had left on the empty page for his uncle. Rudra stilled, a predator scenting a clue to his victim.
But it was not information about Paro's destination. Danveer, after several tries, read out a simple message from his wife. She had asked for her Kakusa's forgiveness, she had committed the crime of theft, Paro had written out in her loopy, rounded handwriting. She had taken a picture of Danveer's family, but she had left another for him to put in its place, if he wanted it. Danveer shook the album, and a picture tumbled out, fluttering to land in front of Rudra. He looked down at the image on the ground before him. A vision in red and black, the doe eyes steady, serene, the smallest smile touching the glossy lips. A picture of Paro that Geetanjali Maam had taken, telling them that a beauty like Paro should have many pictures of herself. Paro had protested, blushing, that she did not have even one, and Maam had given this one to her, teasingly telling her to keep it safe--- it would remind Paro when she was older that she had been a beautiful young woman once.
Rudra remembered the excitement Paro had then tried to disguise, the innocent pride with which she had stared at her own picture. The way she had smiled at it, gleefully noting that she looked quite good in it. This innocent, feminine pride in her own beauty had made him laugh. He had watched the way her fingers had traced her own features, as she had self consciously pointed out how kajal and lipstick changed her normal, ordinary features into quite a nice snapshot. Rudra had teased her for being vain, and she had pouted, but tucked away this picture, telling him naively that she had no other picture of herself, and this was such a good one, she would keep it safe even if he mocked her for it! That picture, that moment of pride, when she had felt worthy of her Major Saab, worthy of her last name, her place as his wife----this picture now resided where some ordinary, everyday picture of his family once had.
She had given her pride and joy to Danveer, the very best picture of herself she owned. But unsure of whether she was worthy of being put into a family album, she had left it unattached, leaving it upto Danveer to decide if she deserved a spot in his world. That was Paro, he thought, staring at the image even as Danveer picked it up to tuck it carefully into his album. Never presuming, when it came to others. So ready to back away. She did not even wait to find out if she was unwanted before she decided to leave. Danveer sniffed loudly to himself, and Rudra looked away.
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Aman had left the bedroom, too choked up to speak to anyone. Long minutes of leaning against a pillar, staring at the last spot he had seen Parvati--serving them tea as they laughed and joked just last night-- calmed him down, somewhat. Rudra's expression when he had come to his room after finding Paro missing was going to haunt Aman for many days to come, but right now he needed to think. He left the bedroom with the Ranawats behind him, striding purposefully to blister the ears of the BSD guards posted outside the haveli. They came instantly, knowing that the Major's Bride was missing, desperate to make sure the major and Officer Aman knew they had no hand in this calamity. They had not slept on duty, they had the log hours and each other's witness to prove it. She had...slipped away somehow, and done so at some point between midnight and dawn. The guards were ready to swear that no one had come in, to get her.
Aman himself believed this, as he called HQ to issue a search party, and to do traces on incoming and outgoing calls inside the Haveli. Paro had left, she had chosen to leave. How had she managed it? Aman wondered to himself. The Ranawat Haveli was secured, impregnable. Aman had made sure of this, with Major Ranawat recovering from an attack, and with Parvati Ranawat, their only witness to a massive terrorism case living here. The BSD had made sure to give the Haveli their best security. The proof inside the bedroom----that for weeks, Paro had quietly, silently prepared for this flight, made it clear that it was not a case of kidnapping. No outside threat had taken her hostage.
She had slept the night before in the same bed as the most alert, most frightening and certainly the most dangerous man in the Indian Military----it was inconceivable that Rudra would sleep on, and not be aware of his wife being stolen from his very arms. She had planned this. Why she had done this did not matter to Aman. He had seen the bleak desolation, the swirling typhoon inside Rudra's eyes, but for himself, Aman could, and did push his emotions aside about why she had done this to them. He would deal with the betrayal, the pain, this sense of grievance later, he thought, even as images of Parvati's face flooded his head. She was so...vulnerable. An innocent unknowing of the world's evils--so many evils.
Aman clenched his fists, wondering if she was safe. She had to be safe! But Parvati---she could have come to him! Hadn't she done exactly that, for weeks? Asked Aman to take care of Rudra? To bear with his brooding, to distract him? To be with Rudra in ways she could not manage to do? Had he, Aman failed her? Somehow not given her confidence in him, that he would help her, protect her? Was he not her brother? Did he not have the right to help her out to solve whatever had made her run away? Did Aman not deserve her faith, her confidence when she knew her Bhaiya..? when she knew that he would not be able to bear it if Rudra fell apart again!!
Didn't she trust him to watch out for her? He was a senior BSD official, her husband's best friend. If there had been a danger, he should have been told! What had happened that had frightened her so much that she...Aman stopped, finding that he was shaking with tension and worry. He tamped his rising anger, his grief down again. Right now, the much bigger issue was...not why she had done this...that would come later. All he should focus on was---where the hell was she?
Aman's phone beeped, information started to scroll across the blinking screen. A record of the internal phone calls made from inside the Haveli showed up, local numbers, calls to the BSD HQ. But then, an odd detail--several calls made for mere split seconds, to an unknown number.
In..Delhi?
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Dilsher found the letter. It was only fitting, as it was addressed to him, but he had not been looking for it. When Rudra's hoarse cries of "Paro!!!" had woken the entire household, Dilsher had been the first person to burst through into his son's bedroom. Rudra had been wild-eyed, a madman tearing through the Haveli, pushing open doors, screaming for his wife in a voice rendered unrecognizable with terror and rage. Maithli joined him in his search, then Samrat ran to the roof. Aman rushed out to check if she had gone out early for groceries, like she sometimes did. But in his bones, the odd silence in the Haveli had whispered to Dilsher what the others had not immediately understood. Dilsher had known. She was gone. And Dilsher had stood, statue still as the realization had finally crept over them all. She was not in the kitchen. She was not injured, lying unconscious on the kitchen. She was not missing. She had left, and done so deliberately. She had just...left.
The change over Rudra, when this knowledge finally seeped into his eyes...
Dilsher had only enough strength now to sink onto his son's rumpled bed. He had not been able to see Rudra as he calmed, withdrew deep into himself. The terror Dilsher felt was only exacerbated by the silence with which Rudra handled what had to be soul destroying shock.
Betrayal. The first time, it had stung with a poison so thick and glutting, it had taken 18 years to drain out of the monster the young boy had been forced to become. But that first betrayal had a healthier Rudra to feed on. The younger Rudra had cried, railed, screamed. Made mad bargains with God, pleaded with his family, sulked. But he had a career, and he had a purpose created in his life. This betrayal would...What? Dilsher stared at his Rudradev, a son whom he suddenly no longer knew. The seconds, then the minutes ticked by, as everyone waited for the infamously volatile Major to react, to create the tandev of destructive rage. This loss--the impossible loss of her...this loss would undo the veneer of the civilian, would reveal the madman beneath. It would bring Paro home. And all Rudra did was---he sat down. Heavily, as if his legs were not working. But he had sat down.
Rudra had not raged, railed, called his missing bride a stupid woman, he had not run for his jeep. The most obstinate, most possessive man Dilsher had ever known had, apparently, just--- accepted. And Rudra had watched them all, silently, as his family slowly started to piece together the story of what Paro had done. As they compared things she had said, odd comments she had made, Rudra had simply listened, his dark eyes moving from face to face, his own expression shuttered, like the empty windows of an abandoned home. And, when they searched his bedroom, now and then glancing in his direction, they had started to find, bit by bit, the gifts she had left for them. And Rudra had quietly, silently, sat through it all, the discoveries, the tears. His family looked at him, fearfully, with shock, with unease. Not knowing what to say about the missing woman--or her missing gift. For Paro had left her one true love---nothing.
Dilsher himself had not been helping Aman tear Rudra's room apart, or assisting Samrat as he called Paro's Mami-sa's cell phone, to see if Paro was there, in Birpur. That was the only idea that any of them had about where to look for Paro, since Rudra was not...saying anything. Mami-sa soon confirmed, with her cheerful voice and questions about Paro Baisa and her husband's health, that she was not harboring her runaway niece.
Dilsher needed to distract himself from the nightmare of this morning, where he felt as if he was caught up in a repeated loop of time, a ribbon of events that grotesquely stretched back and forth between the past and present. When Mala had done this to him then, and when Paro had done this to...Rudra, now. All this had happened. Deja vu. Just like this, once before. Another bedroom, ransacked. Another wardrobe examined for telltale missing clothing. Another family, searching their memories, and each other's faces for missed clues, for possible news. Dilsher could not face this happening again, this time to his son...He could not.
Dilsher had turned away from his son, blindly reaching for the tumbled books by Paro's bedside table, picking and reorganizing them with shaking hands. He had been thumbing through the pages of one novel without thinking about what he was doing, when the letter addressed simply, "To Bapu-sa" fell out of the loose bindings. One glance at the hand-writing, and Dilsher had crushed the paper into a ball, hiding it in his fist. Letters frightened him. He needed to read it, of course, but letters now held an atavistic, primal fear for him. He would read it later.
So Dilsher had said nothing, as his household cried around him, as he heard Maithli's muffled screams, Danveer's barely restrained tears, as Sunehri had sobbed into her Bhabi's gift. But as he sagged at the knees, falling heavily down onto the bed, it was not their grieving faces that Dilsher avoided, but Rudra's blank, silent one. The sight of his son's face---ravaged, but without a single emotion on it---not anger, not fear, not even that old friend, rage---- that eerie blankness had frightened Dilsher deeply. Too deeply to have the courage to look at Rudra's unwavering eyes, too deeply to risk seeing...nothingness... inside those amber depths. Hobbling to his feet, Dilsher made his way out of Rudra's bedroom, and into his own.
It took him three tries to smooth out the wrinkled paper, to wipe his swimming eyes. To school his aching head enough to make sense of her words. And when Dilsher did...he read and re-read Paro's letter, turning to see it better in the light. He was engrossed, shivers of horror, of fear and pity weaving through him, leaving him wrung out with loss. And so Dilsher missed the quiet creak of his bedroom door, as it swung open. Tears running down his face, Dilsher finally turned, a small sound breaking through the fog of Paro's words. And he turned---to look up and stare straight into the Jallad's burning, ironic eyes.
Rudra stood right behind him. He reached for the white, crumpled letter, never looking away from his father's grey, shaken face. Dilsher panicked, stumbling back, but the eyes did not waver as they stared holes into his skin. So--- defeated, shuddering--- with hot tears running down his wrinkled face -- Dilsher let Rudra take Paro's final letter from his hands.
And he prayed for his son's sanity, as he did so.
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NEXT (and final) Part---to be updated after you comment, Baisa! You, yes you, lovely, silent reader! Please do give me your feedback!!
PS: I was not going to write on Rangrasiya all that much, anymore. I planned to just finish up on Yesterday and Tomorrow and then--"go gentle into that good night". Leave the forum. There. I said it. The forum has become so toxic, with two or three people commandeering the RR train and forcing negativity down people's throats, for me, it had become stressful to be on India-Forums. But you know what? I read a post today that burst the whole morose, unhappy mindset for me--thank you, hiral! This update is for you. Screw the negative trolls!
SO-- Comments, please, baisas! You've been waiting long enough for this update, please accept my apologies for being a (momentary) coward in the face of unreasonable people. Please do give me your feedback, love, brickbats and analysis!
