Four Shot: SAY GOOD-BYE--Part 3, Pg 26 (updated--June 17th) - Page 7

Originally posted by: napstermonster

SAY GOOD-BYE

It would have been madness to say goodbye. So Paro did not. It had been difficult. To silently help as Jija decorated the room next to her bedroom, for the baby from the orphanage. To nod and agree as Jija made plans for them to go to some Fair in the village, knowing that by then she would be gone. To quietly tolerate Jija's sparkling eyes, her wide smiles, her affectionate caresses. To smile without tears as she listened to Jija's sly demand for a little brother or sister from Paro for Jija's new baby within the year.

Paro had to sit in the courtyard with Jija as she oiled her hair, as she tried to bring a smile to Paro's face by whispering how much she was loved, how much she was needed. To choke down her favorite aam-daal that Jija made especially for her, scolding Paro for growing too thin from taking care of Devar-sa and not herself. Paro had wanted to say goodbye. But she had not said the words bubbling in her throat. She had not turned, to throw herself into Jija's arms, sobbing into her sister's breast, begging her for forgiveness.


She would never see Jija's little daughter, the one Samrat-sa and Jija were going to adopt in a few weeks. Paro had already made small little clothes, knitted the hats and woolen jumpers the baby would not need for months. Jija had teased her for working on baby clothes that she would not need until winter came, but Paro had known she would not be here during that winter. So she had stayed awake nights, sewing, knitting, embroidering. Leaving a part of herself behind, since she herself could not stay.


As Jija quietly took over the reins of the Haveli, as she directed workers about their business, as she decided on the pujas, as she planned the menus and handled the servants, Jija turned to Paro again and again. Paro could not say no to Jija, could not tell her that in just a few days, she would be the only one in charge, that Paro, the sister she so trusted, the one she so loved, was going to leave her behind. Jija did not know. She kept asking Paro for her advice, giving her responsibilities, demanding her younger sister Paro help her deal with everything that her mother-in-law had never allowed anyone else to come near. Jija wanted Paro to be her equal.


Jija often said, teasingly, that she shared three relationships with Paro, more than anyone else could claim to have--not even Devar-sa had as many claims on Paro as she did. Wasn't she Paro's sister in law twice over, and her sister too, for good measure? Jija was serenely confident that these three ties would bind them together for life. Paro's heart had constricted as she had nodded, the denial dying on her lips in the face of that certainty. Jija laughed so much more now that there was no one to bitterly mock her happiness. She sang the songs and hymns she had grown up with as she and Paro hung up the washing, sunned the pickles or came back, laden with new and exciting things to cook from the markets. She was blossoming like a rose, a woman with happiness in her life, a loving husband, a new child.


Paro could not tell Jija about the bus ticket to Delhi tucked into her folded clothing, nestling like a scorpion in her cupboard, waiting to sting Jija with her disappearance. A week ago, Paro had been at the point of tears when Jija had whispered her mischievous suggestion to her, as they sat folding clothing in Jija's room. Jija had looked comically around, like someone about to commit a crime as she had pressed the crisp rupees into Paro's hands. The money was for something silky and sensual for Paro to seduce her husband with--perhaps like the nightgowns they had recently seen in that ladies' magazine?? Jija had said this, giggling like a school girl as she saw Paro's blushes.


Devar-sa had never seen Paro in anything like that? Well, he was a man, and given Samrat's reactions to a silk nightgown, Maithli wanted Paro to have one, too. The bus-ticket had been bought with the money Jija had forced into her hand, money that was supposed to help Paro get that little brother or sister for Jija's baby. No. It would be madness to hurt Jija, to tear apart her belief in her three unbreakable ties to Paro. So she did not.

*****************************************

It would have been madness to say goodbye. Danveer Kakusa had already suffered so much. Paro felt a fierce affection for him roar within her as she heaped extra food onto his untouched dinner plate. She would rest a hand on his shoulder, moving him away from his bad memories, smiling into his eyes as she encouraged him to eat his meal. His children would watch him, still too distant to be able to help their father-- but she would be right there, watchful, ready to tend to the man broken by his wife and son's betrayal of his blood.


She would bring Kakusa his tea, softly unfolding his newspaper for him as he sat in the courtyard, lost to his thoughts. She would send her Bapu-sa to his brother in the evenings, as she hovered nearby, until she heard the rich bellows of laughter between the brothers, and could finally leave them alone, satisfied that Kakusa would not be lonely and unhappy for one more evening. She could not say goodbye, because she knew he did not blame her, or the Major, for his wife's sins. She knew he liked her, perhaps even loved her. He certainly accepted her as his very much loved nephew's wife.


And, having accepted Paro as the wife of the nephew his own wife had tried to murder, she knew that Kakusa felt guilt, corrosive and haunting, for having been too weak to stop his wife. He had been too blind to realize how far she would go out of hatred and greed. But Paro still felt pity for what she had done to him. Paro still felt guilty as she watched the slight figure of her Kakusa slowly walk into his empty bedroom, as he turned to speak out of habit to the empty chair to his right at the dinner table.


She knew he did not blame anyone, but he did blame himself. Sometimes, as he slipped into abstracted worry, his forehead corrugated with lines of tension as he imagined what his own wife and son had almost done, Paro would soothe him as she herself had been soothed by Mamisa as a little girl. Standing silently behind him, her soft fingers pressing and kneading the pain away from his weary forehead, Paro would try to communicate something of her regret, her compassion. And at those moments, Kakusa would hold her hand softly in his own, draw her down before him and kiss her gently on the forehead. His hand, resting on her head, would in turn soothe her throbbing forehead, wordlessly absolving her of blame, silently granting her absolution for his pain.


And in that moment, Paro would feel the almost painful longing to warn him about what she must do. To tell him to be ready to forgive her for a greater betrayal, a larger loss. Not just about her small theft, though she had committed one. She had taken a picture from Kakusa's collection of family photos. Like a thief, she had selected a large one from the gold embossed leather album he kept next to his bed. A picture of him, his family, a snapshot of all of them dancing together during her Sangeet. She had put her stolen treasure into her jhola, so she could carry a piece of him with her, wherever she went.


But it would have been madness to say goodbye to man who had already lost so much. So she did not.

**************************************

It would have been madness to say goodbye. Sunehri could barely keep her own secrets, much less Paro's. All day, all night, Sunehri chattered and laughed as before, only occasionally dimmed into quiet contemplation when she remembered her mother's deeds, or her brother's actions. But these were occasional reasons to be quiet, not permanent reasons to hate and feel anger towards her Bhabi and Bhaiya. Sunehri's nature was so open, so loving and happy, she took even the loss of her mother in her stride.


Innately good, innately honorable, she had accepted far more easily than anyone else that sins must be punished. If her mother had tried to poison Rudra Bhaiya, if her Sumer Bhaiya had brought the stuff to commit this crime--well, then, it was a horrible thing to do, and they must be punished for it. Things were black and white in Sunehri's world. She mourned their loss, but she truly believed they deserved their punishment for their crime. Sunnily sure that after the case was settled, after the missing family members had returned from their punishment, they would be changed, they would be repentant for their crime.


This was how Sunehri's mind worked, so she, unlike everyone else, was able to simply go on as before. She neither hated Paro, nor did she feel the need to act differently because she and Maithli Bhabi had exposed her mother to the authorities. What if her mother's actions had actually worked, and Rudra Bhaiya had died? What then? Her mother would be a killer, right? And Rudra Bhaiya dead? No, what Bholenath had wanted was what had happened. So Paro, as she tried to ask Sunehri's pardon for her role in her mother's unmasking, found herself loved instead, by a cheerful, normal sister in law. Paro was glad, gladder than she had believed possible, to have Sunehri in her life for the past few weeks.


Her uncomplicated affection had not changed. Her cheerful nature, her hidden picture of her long lost prince remained the same. Her obsession with Officer Aman of the BSD, her peeking at the man from behind pillars she fondly believed could hide her from that army man's eyes. Her sighs, her longings for love. Her teasing, her laughter. The music from her room still blared into the quiet Haveli, murabbas and sweets still disappeared from the kitchen. The sudden hugs from her young sister-in-law still came, as she returned from her college. She still braved his growls, and ran into Paro's room to chat with Rudra Bhaiya, recovering on his bed. Her love stayed the same, and Sunehri stayed the same.


Paro was grateful for her, and could not imagine breaking this girl's world even a little bit more than she already had. She was clinging to her remaining family, and Paro was one of the people she saw as family.


Paro instead made a truly dazzling gift for Sunehri, cutting up her favorite ghagra for the exquisite gold border, using up her newest ordhni, the one with the pearls and diamante work that Sunehri had so adored. She had used silk from her own wedding finery, tassels from her own heavy work ghagras. Paro had made a wedding jora for Sunehri, a gold tissue and diamond sprinkled confection sure to make her into any man's dream. She had hidden her gift, wrapped in tissue paper, under her bed, knowing that it would be found later, when she was gone.


Paro wanted, more than anything, to see Sunehri's face when she put on this ghagra, the best thing she had ever created, made out of the most precious clothing she owned--a ghagra fit for a princess. But then, Sunehri would have looked at her with surprise, and she would have asked her why Paro made her a wedding gift, a gift for a bidaai when she was still there, waiting for her prince. It would have been madness to say goodbye. So she did not.

***************************************

It would have been madness to say goodbye. Officer Amandeep Singh was a constant presence in the Haveli. Paro had turned to him more and more over the past few weeks, and like a stoic rock in the face of crisis, he had proved himself to truly be the brother she called him. but he had been Rudra's brother, not Paro's. She did not resent this. She appreciated his love for her husband, his dedication to his friend. Aman Bhaiya was always there, he had taken leave from his office duties so he spend his time with Rudra, at the Haveli. Paro never had to ask for his help, because Aman Bhaiya was right there, cheering up his commanding officer, telling him the news from their current missions, reminiscing about old postings, past adventures and missing comrades.


If Rudra was recovering, it was as much for the emotional support and the distractions that Aman Bhaiya was quietly providing as it was for Paro's nursing and the doctor's medications. Aman Bhaiya would help Rudra with the things she was not allowed to do. Changing his clothes, helping him to the bathroom, supporting him through the kind of male bonding and conversations that Rudra thrived on.


Paro knew that the Major, always so in control of himself, needed this distraction from the irritation and anger he felt towards his slowly healing body. Rudra hated being helpless, hated showing his weakness in front of his family. But between army officers who had shared a tent in countless battle zones, who'd been injured, who had come under fire from the same enemy, and saved each other's lives, there was no shame in physical weakness, no reason to hide pain because of male ego. And that bond was so strong that even though Aman called her Bhabi, it was a relationship that Paro knew was a corollary of the fact he saw Rudra as Bhai. He was Rudra's, after all. Like her.

Paro sometimes found herself itching with the need to just...talk... to Aman Bhaiya. To steal a little of that man's love, to filch a few minutes of that man's understanding for herself. To unburden herself to someone who would not judge her, would not call her stupid, or question her motives. Who would understand, even if he did not approve. She longed for a friend like him, but she knew he was the one friend she could not have. It was not because he did not care for her.


Paro knew Aman Bhaiya did care. His kind eyes rested on her as she gave Rudra his medications, as she silently bore his grumblings and his anger. He watched over her as she patiently fed the Major, offering the morsels of food again and again, until, defeated before her determination, Rudra allowed her to feed him at every mealtime. She knew Aman Bhaiya liked her, even admired her. But she also knew that he thought she was Rudra's, in every way. His wife. His to keep. She did not blame him for his thoughts, it was only the truth, after all.


No matter what the strident feminine wisdom of the day said, about belonging to herself first, about being independent, about being her own person-- Paro was Rudra's. But though he would never judge her harshly for it, she didn't think Aman Bhaiya would agree with her interpretation of what being Rudra's Paro meant.


And because he would be instantly suspicious, being an army officer, a BSD man, he would question her if he had any inkling, she kept quiet as she poured him his whiskey, as she fried him the pakoras he had become addicted to. She wanted to tell him about her plans---the trip to Delhi, a city she had only ever heard about. Jaipur had frightened her, bewildered her with its noise,crowds. The foreignness of it all had alienated her, the overwhelming newness pressing into her from all sides until she had fled into her husband's arms.


The thought of Delhi petrified her to the point she could feel her very blood run cold with teror. She wanted to show Aman Bhaiya the small cardboard business card she had kept inside her trunk -the small card with Devyanti-ji's address on it. It was in English, she did not know what it said. From the land-line, she had called the number on the card, but no one had answered. She was terrified about what waited for her in Delhi, since she had not been able to talk to Devyanti- ji. What if she was not there at all, but on holiday, or at another house visit? What if she did not want to help? What if she turned Paro away? But she had to go. There was no choice left to her, but this one.


She wanted to ask Aman Bhaiya about where she would have to change buses. Should she take along some food? How long was the trip? How much money would she need to get to Devyanti-ji's office from the Delhi bus stop? Was it very far? Could she walk to the address written on the little white business card ? Where could she stay, be safe, if night came, and Devyanti-ji did not? But she knew he would stop her-- and because she would break down before his sympathy, his all knowing eyes, Paro knew it would be madness to say goodbye. So she did not.

*****************************************

She had not said the words, held them within her like a poisonous secret for weeks, not allowing anyone to even glimpse her anguish, her despair. And she had not left them anything written, to explain herself either. After writing over two dozen letters, some simply saying she loved them...some filled with memories...some thanking them all profusely, some just containing a few cold lines of farewell---at the last moment, she had not left behind even one of these.


She had thought, right until that final moment, that she would allow herself this much. This little moment of grace, this small excuse for the monstrous crime she was doing. She would explain herself, she would bask in their understanding even after she was gone. She had written the letters over several nights, sitting up on the terrace, a hurricane lamp her only light as she poured her heart out onto the parchment pages.


She had written them, halting over each word, agonizing over the spelling mistakes she might be making. She had carefully hidden herself, behind the water tank on the Haveli roof. Night after night she had written to each of them, away from the bedroom windows that might see the glimmer of light, and come and find her at her task. After thinking about what color ink to use, what paper--after licking the tip of her pen and laboriously writing for hours in her best, rounded, girlish penmanship, she had finally poured her heart out onto the papers.


But even as she carefully sealed each envelope she knew that this was cheating. She had to leave. Without explanation. A bargain between her and God could not be explained, made trite by long winded language. What was the point of a pact with God, if she made everyone a part of that pact? These letters were after all, her way of staying in their minds. Living on, in their memories. A subtle blackmail of their senses, a way of begging them to understand her. She thought that they might even think that these letters were her way of asking that they come and find her. She could never come back here.

No.

Letters would be cheating. She would not cheat her Bholenath, he had lived up to their bargain, she would do the same. If she was to give up Rudra, she had to give them all up. This evening, taking the letters from their hiding place among her books, she had sneaked to the roof again, before the evening dinner preparations had to star. She burnt the shredded letters, all six of them, watching them curl into blackened whorls in her little bonfire. It would have been madness, to leave them behind. So she had not.

She stood on the roof, watching the sun set over the sand-dunes. The ornate towers and minaret style haveli roof all around her glowed with faceted brilliance. The sandstone edifice, glittered red and orange, peach and cream, the myriad small crystals in the stony walls catching every last ray of the goldenrod sun, reflecting into her eyes as if in farewell. She stood there on the roof for the last time, watching her husband's ancestral home glimmer before her dazzled eyes, like a fairy tale castle. She stood there, until the evening sky swept over the indigo horizon, the pale round moon rising in dominion over the grey and purple sandy hills.


She wished she could have shared this final moment of beauty with someone. That she could cry with the poignancy of it, the majesty and pain of it. But it would be madness to show up in the kitchen with swollen eyes. She was leaving tonight, and so, at this last moment, it would be madness to reveal her agony, her loss. She wished she could say goodbye to these walls, to this home. Kiss every pillar, touch every carved wooden door, run her finger across every precious inch of her home. But someone would see her do this, someone would suspect. It would be madness, then, to say such a goodbye. So she did not.
______________________________________________

PART TWO: to be continued.
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👏

awesome post..when will part 2 come?

I have a huge lump in my throat ...I am crying and I can't bear to imagine what Paro's goodbye to Major Saab is going to be like!

Beautiful! You weave magic with your words. Those emotions from the deepest corner of her heart- so beautifully described.
It is only when I read this that I realise how difficult it is to leave that place that gave you hope, shelter,family, love and all when you had none..
Spectacular writing! Waiting:)

That was awesome!!! Too heart breaking...

Just wow--- waiting or the next part.

PART TWO: Tonight was the last night. She did not dare pretend any longer that he was still ill, that he still needed her to watch over him. Truth be told, for three days and nights now, he had regained the full use of his right hand---three days before the doctors said it was possible for him to recover. The leftover poison had been sucked out. He was no longer weak, he had been moving around the Haveli, impatiently following her from room to room, getting in her way as she did her chores and watched over his family.


Paro watched him prowling around the Haveli like a great, caged tiger because he was not allowed to return to work yet, glancing at her from time to time, almost daring her to send him off to bed. He looked sulky, and just a little apprehensive, as they stared at each other. He would go, if she made him, those eyes said. But it would not be easy to make him, those eyes warned. She knew what he was wordlessly telling her as she smiled at him, her own eyes brimming with tears. Of course, he should rest. But she couldn't help the pleasure it gave her to see him around her like this, a spoilt boy inside the strong man roaming these halls, relaxed, yet wilful.


Tenderness engulfed her as she watched him sit with Kakusa, as he laughed with Aman, as he eves-dropped on Sunehri's chatter with Jiji. At one point, he startled everyone by reaching out to pull at Sunehri's braid, sneaking a pompom off the ends. She gave chase, indignant, and, grinning with an openness Paro had never seen, Rudra ran behind pillars and dodged around chairs, Sunehri's loud demands that he return her hair-band undercut by her helpless laughter and his family's encouraging shouts to them both.


Paro thought she could almost see him flashing back and forth between the man he had become, and the mischievous boy he had once been. These ancient walls had seen him, after all, in all his incarnations. Paro could feel her heart swell and her tears prickle her cheeks, as she now imagined him as that child made whole, as a restored innocent. As if the poison, draining out of him had somehow returned to him, along with his strength, his lost relationships with these people, and the joy of his lost childhood.


Just this one day, then, to see this new Rudra. To see his family around him, seamed with tear-lines, but back together. All of them a tapestry that had once been ripped apart by cruel hands and had been mended, now, by caring ones. She wished she could hold onto this moment, throw herself into this tableau of a loving family. She wished she could cry. Weep her regret at leaving him behind, just when he had been found again, by these people. But if she gave in to the blazing misery, they would all turn to her in concern. He would look at her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. She would have to explain, he would tolerate nothing less than the truth. It would all come out.

It would be madness to say goodbye. But this, the bigger madness---laughing aloud through her devastation, forcing her tears down, smiling into his laughing face as he turned to his Paro, to catch her eyes with his own. This--she did.

******************************************************

Paro should have left the day he emerged from his bedroom-- but the medication had been specified until tonight, so Paro had cravenly taken this opportunity to stretch her stay until he swallowed the last tablet, until his final dose had been fed to him by her hands. The doctors had told her to make sure the chelation tablets were given to her husband on time. Every four hours, for two weeks. Rudra hated them because they were bitter, so Paro would patiently powder them, one by one, and pour the medicine into her homemade badam-kheer, which he liked to eat. He would certainly avoid all the pills if he could get away with it, and she did not trust him to take anything on time.


For two weeks, Paro had slept fitfully at night, never allowing herself to fall into a deep sleep in case she missed a dose. She had listened to medical advice as if it was gospel from heaven, earning many a rude comment from Rudra about her habit of literally believing everything she was told. She had noted down the massage and hand exercises they specified, the diet they prescribed. Not by an iota had she deviated from her instructions.


Rudra would demand that she leave him alone, of course. He hated being fussed over, and her touch seemed to make him panic more than Aman's or Bapu-sa's did. But religiously, five times a day, she would sit by his bed, grab his stiff right arm. She would wait for him to be done with his cursing. Then, with the heated herbal oil that was her own contribution to the treatment, she would firmly knead, stroke and press her long fingers into his muscles. Chanting below her breath, even though it made him mock her, Paro would whisper healing prayers solemnly as she massaged his arm, restoring circulation, forcing inert veins to pulse and throb.


When he got too irritating with his constant demands she that leave him be, she would dig in, just a little harder, and he would wince, scowl, and back off from bothering his wife. He would sit up in his bed, staring into her face, a look of suspicion and slight awe in his expression.


Paro would carefully avoid his eyes when she massaged him, her own fingers tingling and her body feeling warm, heavy with the honeyed sensations pulsing from where she was touching him. She would chatter through the uneasy, charged silence, talking about the household, about the adoption---anything to distract them both. Then, once done with massage, she would manipulate his fingers, wrapping her own small wrists around his hands, pulling, pushing, stretching his arm into the exercises he was supposed to do by himself---exercises that he would not do correctly, or do often enough to suit Paro.


Rudra would scowl and say rude things to her as she did all this, but once, when she had been five minutes late because the herbal oil had to be reheated, she had come to find him staring at the clock and waiting for her. His kurta sleeve had already been rolled up as he paced back and forth in front of his bedroom, impatiently glancing around for his wife. When he finally saw her, he had huffed in exasperation, looking pointedly at the time. She wanted to apologize--for not just being late right now but for all the times she would not be there, in the future.


It would have been madness to say goodbye. But this, the bigger madness---tending to him, letting herself love him with every heartbeat. This-- she did.

****************************************************

Paro had become adept at ignoring his grumbles and his flashes of temper, because if she gave into even one of them, she would have found herself quickly on the other side of his bedroom door. So she did not give in. There was a minute by minute countdown ticking down the days in her head. She had no time for emotional breakdowns. She knew she had no time to savor the peace in the bedroom at night, as he relaxed against white sheets, his dark, brooding gaze stroking like a caress across her sensitive skin.


Instead, like an account keeper preparing a list of treasures, she carefully absorbed these moments, prosaic as they were, knowing she would need to spin these threads into memories to wrap around herself, to warm her lonely heart in the days to come. But she did not allow herself to luxury of taking more from Rudra than just these odd moments. She was genuinely afraid to do that. She was afraid that when the time came, she would not be able to leave if she had more of him than just these small little moments to hold.


So, when they lay together in bed, staring into each others eyes, when he would reach out to touch her face, grazing across her silken cheek, she would turn over to the other side, trembling with reaction. When he then whispered her name in a guttural tone that made her womb clench, she would murmur an excuse, and rush from his room. His low chuckle would follow her running footsteps, and outside his door she would clutch her hand over her heart, feeling that organ twist within her chest as if in mortal pain. She would rub and rub, and the ache in her breast would not ease.


She wished she could go back inside, throw herself across his chest. She imagined doing that, oh, often. As she fed him his every meal, her fingers grazing again and again against incredibly soft lips, she imagined what she wanted to do, so badly she ached all over for it. Her hair spraying like a ocean wave across his body, her cheek against that throbbing vein in his neck, the warmth pulsing across her wherever they touched.

Her arms were not wide enough to encompass his body, but wherever they reached was safely, was a haven against the world. She wished she could burrow her nose into his chest, breathe him in until his scent invaded her throat and soothed the hard lump that nowadays lived in there. She would cuddle close to him, shamelessly allowing her soft breasts to crush against his unyielding male hardness. But the feel of his arms banding around her back, her shoulders lightened from their load, her very being held close to his---all this would be a sweet reward for her daring.


She knew he would hold her to himself, her distress always made him instinctively soothe her, clutch her close, as if he was trying to absorb her pain through his very pores. But to do this, to feel his heart hammer under her own, to never want to let go---she wished she could sob her regret, her goodbye into his arms.


It would have been madness to say goodbye. But this, the bigger madness---this nurturing of his body, this longing for his soul--This she did.

*****************************************************

To make sure that her calm did not falter, her resolve did not shake, Paro had kept herself so busy, she had barely any time to breathe, much less dwell on what she was about to do. She bought fresh spices, new packets of tea, atta, milk, storing these items in her own containers. She washed everything that touched her husband's body over and over again, to make sure his sheets, towels, clothes, even his pillow cases and shoes were not tainted in any way. She walked every morning to the market before anyone woke up, to get the vegetables and herbs she knew were good sustenance for ill patients.


She washed, prepared, cooked and served his meals with her own hands. The herbal kadhas he absolutely hated were made by Paro, and she would wait, holding the steaming hot glass patiently for him to finish cursing at her, until he finally gave up in the face of her stoic calm, and drank it down. Every morsel of food, every drop of water that got to him was as pure as she could make it.

She tasted everything, not because there was still any fear of poisoning--but almost as a dare to her Bholenath. If there was another attempt, if there was another danger, she, Parvati, would take it upon herself, and Bolenath Himself would have to find another way to reach her husband. Even if she prepared the milk she forced Rudra to drink, she still sipped it before he was given a taste.


He had gotten increasingly sarcastic over being given her "jhootha" food every day. She understood his feelings, even accepted that he felt a little foolish for having been so easily victimized. She understood that her obsession over his health made him feel uneasy. His snarls and scoldings that she was smothering him made sense. She knew she was probably doing exactly that. But she comforted herself knowing that he would not suffer her presence for very much longer. If she was guilty of anything, it was trying to squeeze a lifetime of caring, a lifetime of love into these two weeks of time. He did not know that, she told herself as she blinked away her tears. She thought, sometimes, she should listen to him and back away.


But Paro could not bring herself to stop. It was some odd leftover panic from those dread seconds when she had seen him dying in her arms. Without wanting to, she still replayed that entire scene again and again in her mind, and every-time she did, it made her pulse with remembered panic. Loss. She thought perhaps it was selfish of her to guard him the way she was doing, because his safety mattered more to her than it did to him.

Maybe she was doing it because she knew she would not survive his death, even though she was a strong person, even though she had survived so many other deaths during her short life. But somewhere, deep inside, she knew that his loss would be the fatal one for her, the mortal cut to her soul that she would die from. She would leave him as strong as she could make him, as surrounded by love and care, as whole and happy as he could possibly be.


She thought that she finally understood why being her Protector all these days had mattered so much to him -- that responsibility, that sense of ownership over another person's safely was a heady wine to sip, indeed. It was an intimate act, this--to care for another person's well being. Tonight would be the last night she ate his food before he did, the last night her lips would touch his drink before his own.


This was also the most intimacy she had ever had with him, this sharing of sustenance. It bonded her to him, in a way. Perhaps that was also why she could not make herself stop doing it. She would have no other bonds, after tonight. So she braved his temper and allowed herself this indulgence, this protectiveness. She wondered what he would have said if she turned to him tonight, gave him her guarantee that all this was happening for the very last time, to forgive her this final time.


It would have been madness to say goodbye. But this, the bigger madness---where she absorbed his danger, where she lavished every thought, every attention on him, where she cared for him more than herself. This-- she did.

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Perhaps he knew, somehow, that Paro was leaving this night. That was why tonight he had punished her as he had. Why tonight, before the entire family, and Aman Bhaiya too, he had grabbed Paro's wrist as she stood next to him, serving him his meal. Why he had dragged her almost into his lap, not letting her go as his uncle and father watched her struggle, too amused by their Banna to utter a word in her defense. Why he had insisted he would not eat without Paro eating too, until she had blushed scarlet and sat on a chair instead of his generously offered lap.


Why he had drawled to his father to see how fully recovered he was ...and had then used his right hand to pick up morsels of food on his thali, to feed them, slowly, lovingly, to her. Why he had loudly whispered into Paro's ear, as a scandalized and envious Samrat-sa looked on, that he was not being besharam.That he defied anyone to stop him from touching her wherever he wanted ...even at the dining table. Why his eyes had darkened and his lips had smiled as she had stuttered to him to stop being...so...so...!! Why he had instead reached for her face to caress a hot red cheek, and to push away her fringe in full view of an entire, grinning family.


It had been a punishment, of sorts. Paro knew him too well to not realize that he had meant to embarrass her, get his revenge for being ruled by her during his weeks of convalescence. But there had been nothing malicious in his actions, there had been a new tenderness, a new gentleness in his sarcastic teasing. He had been ... playful. Overwhelming, yes. Shameless, yes. But ... flirtatious.

The entire evening, after dinner, he had hovered over Paro in the kitchen. Then, later he had made her sit with him and the whole family as he had continued his attentions. He had carried dishes into the kitchen, sticking so close to her, she could feel his heat along her back. He had brushed non-existent lint from her bare back, causing goosebumps to erupt along his fingertips. He had played with the string of her choli, touching her skin there with roaming fingers, telling her to not move as he fixed her up. Insisting the dori was coming loose, when she knew very well it was tightly tied.


In an undertone she had begged him to leave her alone, go to the living room with his family but he had instead grazed his long fingers across her arms, touching her face and hands as freely as she had touched him for the past two weeks. Jija had giggled into her pallu as he had "helped" Paro wash the dishes and prepare the evening chai. Paro had tried glaring at him, scowling at him like he always did at her, but he had only laughed, reaching to smooth her frown out with a finger. He then did her one better, using his fingertip to outline her pursed lips so that she gasped and reared back from the sensation.


He had told Maithli to leave them alone, drawling that it was his right to do whatever he wanted with his Srimati, and if that included doing the dishes, well...he would damn well do the dishes. Maithli had run from the kitchen, openly laughing at Paro's beseeching request to stay, to not leave her alone with her crazy husband. Paro had watched him helplessly as he tasted her tea before turning the cup and making her sip from the same spot, as he had bitten into a sweet, then fed her the rest with his own hands.


He had stroked her hair from her face, his eyes becoming intent, as they focused, boldly, on her trembling lips. Only the realization that she must stop this, that this would be the one thing she could not survive---only this realization had given her the strength to leave the kitchen with the tea tray. But for the rest of the evening, she was like a mouse mesmerized by a cat, being drawn closer and closer to its death and still powerless to stop it.


So when, before his family he had again fed her, touched her hands, and made her shiver with longing, she played along. She was caught in a web of her own torment, her huge eyes staring into his own as she allowed him to do whatever he wanted. She did not say no, did not blush when she was teased, did not look away when he looked deeply into her star-struck eyes. He was enjoying his payback. She knew this was a game. But she forgave him, because he did not know that his teasing, his affection was cutting her already lacerated heart into ribbons.


She knew it was madness. And still, she did this. Still she let him play with her, not knowing that for her, this was deadly real, and no game. This was the last time she would feel him act like this, see his eyes light up like this. It would have been madness to say goodbye. But this, the bigger madness-this wounding of her soul so she could absorb a bit of him into it, accept his pretend affection as his true love--- This she did.

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PART THREE: TO BE CONTINUED..
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Whew! That was a long update huh? I am working on the next, FINAL segment, but for now, I wanted to give you readers Paro and Rudra, uncensored in all their glory. Please LIKE and please COMMENT, so I know you are reading, and not bored! Thanks, guys...it means a lot when I hear back from you. Stay tuned Baisa, for the final part to "Say Goodbye."

Stunning! She will leave! So sad! This piece was nice on the emotions that you were able to convey from Paros POV. It's nice that she had such a good clear voice in these pieces of work. Absolutely loved that Rudra was interacting with his family and coming back to them in bits, as the boy he once was. He will be shattered by her departure. Great work as usual.

I'm sorely tempted to wait until I read the last part to leave my comment. I have this ominous feeling about the last part, and I can't figure out why.