Chapter 8: Collar

Khushi

"Khushi-ji ... I mean, Khushi-bhabhi, Anjali-didi has called everyone into the hall."

She followed Om Prakash-ji after giving Lakshmi-ji a final pat, trying to swallow down her worry for Nani-ji. Everyone was already downstairs when she arrived, arranged on the plush sofas and focussed attentively on Anjali-ji.

"It's good that you've arrived, Khushi-ji," she greeted, "Now we can begin."

Khushi stood behind the seat her husband had chosen, noting that he'd showered and changed since she'd last seen him. She toyed with her dupatta as Anjali-ji approached her.

"Khushi-ji, you will not be accepted as this household's daughter-in-law ..."

The world seemed to shrink. Suddenly dizzy, Khushi twisted her fingers into the fabric of the sofa as Arnav-ji stood.

He moved in front of her and faced his sister, "Fine, if this is what you—"

"—I'm not finished Chhote," Anjali-ji's tone was steel, "Don't interrupt, this is not your office but your home."

Khushi trembled, hating that she'd come between her husband and the most important person in his life.

"Khushi-ji, you can't become the Raizada family's bahu," Anjali-ji started again, "until you complete the Griha Pravesh and all the post-wedding customs."

Hope, dim and fickle though it was, surged with her.

Maybe I can still find a place here, maybe this can be my home too, even if for a short while.

Arnav-ji's eyes found hers in the shocked silence, but she was distracted by Anjali-ji before she could decipher the storm in his eyes.

"Change into this bridal outfit," his sister instructed, "and then we'll observe all the rituals."

Khushi ran her fingers over the soft fabric, the vivid reds and vibrant greens bringing tears to her eyes. It was everything she wanted and everything she couldn't have all at once.

###

Khushi used his bathroom to change into the outfit, acutely aware that he sat just outside, fiddling with his phone. They'd barely spoken, despite everything that had happened, so she prepared herself for a long overdue conversation by mentally rehearsing the things she wanted to say to him. But a knock sounded just as she emerged from the bathroom, and she breathed a sigh of relief as Arnav-ji opened it.

Anjali-ji stood at the door, jewellery boxes in her hands, "Wear these and come downstairs. We're ready for the Griha Pravesh."

She deposited them on the bed before glancing at Arnav-ji, but left without speaking to him. Again, Khushi felt wretched for tearing them apart. She settled in front of his mirror to thread on the earrings, affix the maangtikka, and slip on the necklace. She pulled her mangalsutra out from behind it before opening the second box.

Bangles.

A memory slammed into her, and she was out of her seat and rushing out of the room before Arnav-ji could utter a sound. She found the small bag she'd left in the guest room untouched, and rummaged through it until she found a long, slim box. Then she slipped on the orange-red bangles, uncaring that they didn't match the outfit and fighting tears as she recalled the way he'd smiled in victory as he'd confirmed that she'd worn his gift.

Where did he go, the man who became a waiter for me, the man who bought these bangles for me, the man who kissed me at the poolside and challenged me to do the same?

She was beginning to understand that what he'd seen and heard on the terrace had destroyed the foundations of whatever it was that had held them together.

Maybe irrevocably.

Arnav-ji wasn't in the bedroom when she returned, so Khushi sat on the bed until Anjali-ji came to fetch her. Downstairs, her husband looked up as they approached, and for a second she imagined that his expression matched the one he'd worn on the night of the photo shoot. But it was gone in the next instant.

There was none of the happiness or fanfare she'd imagined for her wedding when Anjali-ji performed an aarti to formally welcome them into Shantivan as a married couple. Instead, there were the disapproving looks from Mami-ji, tears from Jiji, disappointment from Anjali-ji. And Shyam-ji's jealous stare.

"Now you two can enter the house," Anjali-ji invited.

Kicking over the small vessel of rice, Khushi made to step forward when Anjali-ji spoke again.

"Stop. Our family has a tradition. Chhote has to carry you into the house."

Dread swelled inside her, knowing that he wouldn't agree. And sure enough, he protested, "Is this really necessary, Di?"

"It's tradition, Chhote. You must."

"Aakash-bitwa had to carry this Khoon Bhari Taang too," Mami-ji interjected, "Though how would you two know, busy as you were with your own personal marriage?"

The guilt that had been her constant companion since last night swelled inside her chest.

When Arnav-ji looked at her, asking a silent question, she tried to nod her acceptance. He hoisted her up in a smooth, practised motion. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to grip his collar, the familiar act seeming suddenly too intimate. But then he seemed to soften, his gaze warming slightly as he noticed the bangles she wore, and he carried her over the threshold and into the house before depositing her near the stairs.

She stumbled, cursing the too-long skirt of her borrowed outfit, and had to grab onto him for support.

"Careful, Khushi."

She righted herself, somehow finding it within herself to blush, as Anjali-ji approached.

"Chhote, wait here," she said, "and we'll prepare for the next ritual."

It wasn't until they were in his bedroom that Khushi realised what the next ritual was. Shyam-ji was already there, and the bed was decorated with a curtain of flowers.

"Anjali-ji, this isn't—"

"—We must complete all the rituals, Khushi-ji, even if you and Chhote have rendered them meaningless."

Khushi blushed crimson at the insinuation that she and Arnav-ji had already observed their Suhaag Raat, and she realised with dawning horror that her own family must have come to a similar conclusion. A shiver of revulsion shook her frame as Shyam-ji paused in his work to stare at her. She pulled her dupatta around herself, watching Anjali-ji shower the fresh white sheets with red rose petals. The lights and roses and candles seemed to mock her with everything she and Arnav-ji weren't.

Khushi shook as Anjali-ji helped her onto the bed before arranging her skirt and dupatta. Shyam-ji stood to the side, delicate rose petals crushed in his fist.

"I'll call Chhote," Anjali-ji announced when she was done.

Horror brewed within her at the prospect of spending the next few minutes alone with Shyam-ji, but Anjali-ji called him over as she left. Her relief was short-lived, however, because he paused at the door to stare once again. She suddenly felt filthy, every bit as disgusting as Arnav-ji had said, arranged on a bed in a bridal get up while another woman's husband leered.

Arnav-ji strode up the corridor just then, his eyes narrowing at Shyam-ji, and the other man left without a word. Relief spread through her even as she noticed that he was yet again full of rage.

But why wouldn't he be, she asked herself, when his sister's husband is so despicable.

"I don't know how I'll stand it," Arnav-ji turned away as if the mere sight of her nauseated him, "sharing a room with your for all these months. Breathing the same air as you. Disgusting! When I think about it I want to ..."

Khushi scrambled off the bed, her heart suddenly heavy.

"You know why we're doing this," she said softly, "It's not like I wanted this either ..."

But this was clearly the wrong thing to say.

"I know what you want," Arnav-ji barked, suddenly towering over her "and I won't let you have it."

He dragged her forcibly to the poolside, "We'll act like a happily married couple outside of this bedroom, I know you're adept at acting. But inside this room you're insignificant. You mean nothing to me."

And with that, he slammed the glass doors shut and disappeared into his bathroom.