Chapter 4: Khushi
She sank onto the bed, a blush heating her cheeks as the enormity of she'd just done sank in.
Did I just ask him to …
Yes, she had. Twice.
She prayed to Devi Maiyya to unmake the madness of the last few minutes - knowing it did no good - before praying for the strength to face him when he emerged from the bathroom.
Hai Devi Maiyya! What on earth possessed me to ask … that … of him?
But she knew what had possessed her – a desire to feel close to him again, to feel his pulse race against hers, to feel safe and warm and wanted in his embrace.
He'd felt so real. So possible.
How easy would it be to pretend it was real?
She'd thought it was real, that he'd finally succumbed to what he'd begun confessing on Holi – What I feel, what you feel, are the same – but that dream had been shattered when she'd woken in a cold, empty bed. When he'd refused to meet her eyes, when he'd avoided her touch – no matter how innocent – for three days straight, she'd realised how deeply he regretted it.
She'd craved any semblance of kindness from him since the night of their elopement, any sign that he cared for her at all, and that night had taught her that she could pretend. She could imagine herself in a reality where they had everything – closeness, understanding, love, desire, and passion.
Khushi had half-formed plans and wishes for the months after August. She knew she would have to move away – she couldn't stay in Lucknow or Delhi, where everyone knew her and her past. She needed to start anew somewhere else. Perhaps she could put her love of teaching to good use at an orphanage. Perhaps she could use her sweet-making skills in a new venture – though she was thoroughly lacking in finances.
She would never marry again, she knew, would never wear another man's mangalsutra or sindoor. She would never feel another's touch. She loved him, fatalistically, irrevocably, and if these six months were the closest she would ever get to truly sharing her life with him, then these six months were all that she would ask for.
Devi Maiyya, help me create a lifetime of memories with him. I'll live my entire life in these next four months. I'll never ask you for anything else.
Khushi, who had never imagined the intimacy, fire, or passion of that one night, was honest enough in her heart to admit that she wanted to share all of herself with him. She craved his soft sounds, his whispered reassurances, and his gentle touch. She had always loved the brilliance of his mind, the sharp focus of his attention, and craved the thrill of having it directed at her, and only her. She craved the safety of him, the feeling of homecoming and belonging.
Her idle gaze snagged on his nightclothes, pooled in a pile where he'd been standing. She rushed over to gather them up.
"Arnav-ji," she knocked on the bathroom door, "Your … your clothes."
"Fuck off."
"I'll leave them here," she said quietly, refolding the clothes and placing them next to the door.