Chapter 25: Candid

Khushi

Khushi slipped her hand into her husband's, at once feeling powerful and unexpectedly weakened by the way he instantly froze.

"You understand that this is not real?"

For a few agonizing, heart-stopping moments, she thought he would refuse to stay.

What right did she have to ask this of him? To ask anything of him?

But Arnav-ji turned, his eyes first finding where his hand was trapped in hers before lifting to her face. Only then did she approach him on unsteady feet, trying to read the sudden emotion in his eyes. Her pulse quickened as she was gripped by a sudden urge to step into his arms. To hold him and allow the steady rhythm of his heart to ease her confusion.

Some far-away part of her warned that it was a bad idea — though it couldn't tell her why — so Khushi instead placed her hands over the marks she'd left earlier on his cheeks. She forced air into her lungs as her will threatened to crumble when heat flared in his eyes.

"I have to ask you something, Arnav-ji."

She was glad that her voice did not shake.

Why don't you love me?

Her vision blurred with tears. The knowledge that she couldn't hold him guided her hands down until she could clasp his hand and hold it against her heart.

"Will you answer a question?"

Why do I still love you?

Some distant part of her noted the feel of his hand against her heated skin. That same part of her whispered that it was — perhaps — not entirely appropriate to hold him so.

But this was her husband — the man she loved — and if not him, then whom?

"Why is it," she began, "that whenever you're near ... my heart beats faster?"

He swallowed.

"I tried so hard to understand it. But I couldn't understand."

Her breath hitched.

"I want to forget, but I can't forget."

He blinked, breathing deeply.

"Why does this happen?"

He seemed on the verge of speaking. He slid his hand out of her grip. Khushi's careful attempt at control shattered when he cupped her face, relief and love and desire finding expression in an almost violent sob. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, trying to steady herself as his face seemed to blur.

"Tell me," she implored as his fingers trembled on her skin, "why does this happen? My pulse ... races faster than my breath."

She blinked slowly, struggling to bring him into focus. The world darkened briefly before brightening again.

Arnav-ji.

Her mouth couldn't form his name. The feeling left her legs. Her eyelids drooped.

#####

Tickles.

Waking felt as though she were rising from a deep lake. Sleep fell off her in waves and rivulets until she could blink her eyes open. Arnav-ji's face swam into reluctant focus. The hand that had been caressing her briefly blocked her view of him as he removed it and the emotion that had gradually crept up on her over the past year grew in intensity until she could scarcely draw breath. It was warm and golden and perfect.

Love.

Arnav-ji watched her carefully — stared, actually — as she thought of how they'd come to be here. The dargah, the scooter accident, the photoshoot, the carpark. And she remembered that she still needed something from him.

"Arnav-ji, you still haven't answered my question," she complained, quite forgetting that she'd been asleep moments before, "You owe me one answer from the other day."

Her husband shook his head, shifting to wipe a tear she hadn't noticed rolling down her cheek, and then spoke in a deep rumble.

"I'll tell you why this happens."

A few strands of his hair had escaped the hold of his gel and now fell against his forehead. Arnav-ji took her hand and laid it, palm flat, against his chest. Over his heart. All the air left her lungs as she looked at where she was touching him. And though she could feel the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, though she thought she could feel the beat of his heart, she found it hard to believe that he was allowing this.

"When you're near me," he said, and she lifted her eyes to his, "then along with your heartbeat, my heartbeat races too."

Oh?

Oh.

"Our heartbeats become one. What you feel is what I feel."

Still, she needed to confirm, "Our heartbeats ..."

"... become one," he finished.

It seemed that all the tension had left her body, leaving it light and free for the first time since he'd taken her to the poolside and demanded that she leave. Arnav-ji tightened his grip when her fingers trembled against his chest. The thumb of his other hand stroked across her cheek, so tender and gentle that it almost brought tears to her eyes yet again.

Because finally, finally, her Rajkumar had returned to her.

"Come," he said a few minutes later, tugging her so she joined him on the tiled edge of the pool.

Then he continued to stare as she, suddenly shy, allowed her gaze to slip from his eyes to his lips and further down. Khushi tried to stand up, vaguely recalling that something about this wasn't a good idea but looked down at a sharp tug. Arnav-ji still held her hand.

He shook his head when she looked up in surprise, causing a tentative smile to stretch across her lips.

He doesn't want me to leave.

Happiness burned brightly within her at the realisation. Khushi leaned forward until she could rest her head on his shoulder and covered their still-joined hands with her free one. He was warm and solid and real. She closed her eyes. When Arnav-ji shifted, sliding his hand across her shoulder to hold her closer, she thought her heart would explode with joy. She swivelled so she could look at him, noting that he dipped his head at the same time, and then ...

Hai Devi Maiyya, he's so close.

A tremble, half fear and half anticipation, shook her as his soft exhalations tickled her fringe. They had been here too, hadn't they?

When Khushi's gaze slipped - again - to his lips, they curled into a smile.

"You make me hungry," she said absently.

His reply — low, rough, and intimate — caused her tummy to swoop low, "I make you hungry?"

"Not ..." she tried to explain, "Not for food ..."

For you.

"But that makes no sense," she finished with a sigh.

She looked up, but there was no anger or surprise in his eyes. Only a gentler version of what had been there on Diwali.

Arnav-ji leaned towards her, "It makes sense."

She stretched upwards.

"Chhote?"

Khushi jerked away, a combination of embarrassment and fear pumping through her veins, but Arnav-ji refused to let go. He shook his head as a silent plea shone in his eyes.

"Chhote," Di called through the closed doors, "Bring Khushi-ji downstairs. The pickled lemon will cut through the high of the bhaang. Hurry, okay?"

Resting a hand on his knee, she tried to reason with her husband, "Pickled lemons."

Although he sighed and grimaced moodily, Arnav-ji stood and pulled her up. Khushi happily wound her hands around his bicep as they walked, but stopped unsteadily at the doors.

"Dupatta?" she questioned.

"Khushi," he husband turned, "let's go."

Her mind would replay the way he'd spoken those words in the darkest hours of the next few nights, but now, she struggled to find the words to explain.

"My ... " her arms wheeled, "that is ... my dupatta ..."

Squinting as she turned, Khushi spotted the cloth on the ground by the pool, "There it is!"

But as she took a few steps towards the poolside, she noticed that Arnav-ji hadn't moved.

"Why have you stopped? You go," she suggested good-naturedly, "I'll catch up. That ... whatever it is ... I'll get it and come."

"No," he crossed his arms, "I'll wait."

Emotion surged in her heart again.

"For whom?" she asked softly, teasing, "For my heartbeat?"

Arnav-ji smiled her favourite smile, "I'm waiting."

She hurried as best as she could, stumbling to the poolside to collect her fallen dupatta before rejoining him. He was with his sister.

"Chhote, where's Khushi-ji?"

Khushi began to speak but fell silent at the look of intense concentration on her husband's features. She suppressed a giggle as he answered.

"In the dupatta."

Di patted his cheek affectionately, further smearing the red powder streaked there, and turned. "Oh, Khushi-ji! I was just coming to get you."

"There she is," Arnav-ji brightened as he spotted her, "My Khu-shi."

Di giggled, "Neither of you should ever have bhaang! Hurry and go downstairs, both of you. Eat the pickled lemon quickly, please."

She waved her hands impatiently when they didn't move, pushing them towards one another, "Hurry, hurry!"

"Let's go," Arnav-ji offered his arm.

Di's smile widened into a grin as Khushi wrapped her hands around his bicep once more. She waved goodbye as they set off down the corridor.

"What did you tell him about us?"

"The truth."

"And he believed you?"

"N-no. He ... he didn't. He still doesn't."

"My Khushi."

"Arnav-ji?" her voice trembled with emotion.

"What happened?" he stopped, cupping her face with one hand as his brow furrowed with concern, "Khushi?"

But her thoughts slipped away like water.

"Lemon," she eventually managed, "pickled lemon?"

"Let's go," he said again, offering his arm with a smile, and Khushi held him tightly as they entered the room his family optimistically called the study.

"Khushi, come!" Jiji tugged at her, but she didn't release Arnav-ji until he nodded at her in reassurance. He took a seat next to Mama-ji as she settled on a chair on the other side of the room.

Silence fell as Jiji passed around a tray of pickled lemon. Mami-ji yawned. Jiji and Aakash-ji squirmed as they sucked on the sour lemons. Nanhe-ji mischievously mimed throwing a piece of lemon into Mami-ji's hair. Khushi winced as she sucked on her piece, making a face that her husband smiled at. Di watched over everyone benevolently.

Her mind began to clear almost instantly; clarity returning to her as a fog seemed to lift. The heaviness that had been her constant companion for the last five days made itself known in the pit of her tummy. Arnav-ji's smile faded away.

Oh Devi Maiyya, what did we do?!

Embarrassment curled within her, and oddly, she was glad when he looked away first.

"Listen up," Di stood, "We're lucky this year that we had NK-Bhai's camera to document Holi. So, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present to you ... my Chhote!"

Arnav-ji, moments from sneaking away — not that Khushi was watching — froze.

"New and improved!" Di grinned before reaching for the remote, "One minute! Watch!"

And there they were, in full colour and high definition. Khushi watched her own eyes close as Arnav-ji streaked gulaal on her cheek. She remembered, too vividly, the tremour that had gone through her at the touch. She watched Arnav-ji lean into her hand, registering anew the sudden flare of emotion in his eyes. She watched him drink bhaang, watched as he danced with her, watched their families hug. Her eyes turned to him, almost without permission, just as he lifted his head to look at her.

He did not look happy.

Worry seeped into her heart.

"So this is the same Chhote who didn't play Holi," Di said gleefully, distracting Khushi, "Never. He didn't drink bhaang. Never. Nor did he dance. Never. But now, he does everything, and to this extent!"

"Di, stop it now."

"There's more," Di laughed.

And there was, because Nanhe-ji had apparently found time to edit the footage. On screen, Arnav-ji chased her around the estate.

"What kind of backwards nonsense is happening in this house?" Mama-ji pointed incredulously at the screen, "Look at me; I run from my wife, and look at him; he runs after his wife."

Mami-ji smacked her husband with a bouquet of flowers as everyone laughed uproariously.

"Before, our Arnav-bitwa was like an art philum; without songs and dancing," she explained, "But with bhaang, he's become like a super-hit philum with dancing and songs, hello, hi, bye-bye!"

Khushi exchanged another look with her husband, feeling the comparison was unfair. Fear quickened her pulse as he looked away again, and she found that it was possible to miss someone even as they sat right in front of you.

"Mama-ji, don't they say that consuming bhaang leads to people saying what's in their heart?" Di was in the mood to poke fun, "Isn't that right, Khushi-ji?"

Khushi reluctantly agreed with a forced smile and prayed for a quick end to the proceedings.

"Di, please just delete this," Arnav-ji was getting angrier.

"Delete it!?" Di's voice rose in disbelief, "Never!"

"Okay, fine," he stood, "I have work. I'm leaving."

"Go, bitwa, go," Mama-ji smiled, "You two have disappeared from the video anyway."

Startled, Khushi turned back to the TV with a nervous swallow to watch everyone dance. She and Arnav-ji were conspicuous in their absence.

"That's right! Where did you two go?"

Khushi swivelled to look at Di just as Arnav-ji froze on the stairs. When he turned, his gaze fell on his sister before it skated to her.

"When you're near me, then along with your heartbeat, my heartbeat races too."

Her heart dropped into her shoes as he grimaced, but still she tracked his progress up the stairs until he disappeared. When she looked away, twisting her hands in her lap, she noted that Shyam-ji seethed in his seat. She looked away quickly.

Arnav-ji's departure, perhaps predictably, soured Di's mood considerably. The rest of the video passed with barely a comment, and no one except Jiji — and Shyam-ji — seemed to notice when Khushi quietly excused herself at the end. She walked slowly (she didn't want to confront him) then sped up (she needed to know what was going through his mind) and then slowed down again (but what if he regretted everything?).

In the end, she startled Arnav-ji as he rummaged in the wardrobe, clearly preparing for a shower. He stared. She stared back. He looked down, at the bed, at the small table between them, at the clothes bundled in his hands, and still she stared. He looked out onto the poolside. She followed his gaze to the sun-lounger she'd occupied not an hour ago. A washcloth, stained red, sat on the table, kept company by a bowl and a jug, both filled with water.

"Our heartbeats become one. What you feel is what I feel."

Khushi opened her mouth, a question on the tip of her tongue, but he surprised her by speaking first. "Do you remember anything?"

She stilled. For the first time, almost since they'd met, Arnav-ji hadn't provided a hint as to what he wanted her to do. His expression gave nothing away.

What does he want? Oh Devi Maiyya, what does he need me to say?

She considered as she fiddled with her dupatta. Did she admit to her full recollection, sentencing them to awkwardness and half-truths as they navigated the new boundaries of this marriage-that-was-not? Or would the truth allow them to move forward, finally on the same page about what they meant to one another?

Did she lie and say she remembered nothing, giving him time to come to terms with what he'd hidden from her for so long? For surely, with some effort on her part, he could be persuaded to admit it again. Or would the lie only allow the other half-hidden truths to fester, eating away at whatever progress they made?

What does he remember?

Khushi fretted, aware that he grew more and more impatient as the seconds ticked by. What had the last few days taught her, if not that lying — even with the best of intentions — didn't solve anything? She was tired, she realised, of hiding what she felt.

She would not lie to him again.

"Yes," she directed her words to the carpet near his red-stained shoes, "I remember everything."

"When you're near me, then along with your heartbeat, my heartbeat races too."

"Our heartbeats become one. What you feel is what I feel."

Here she glanced at the poolside, making her meaning clear as she spoke, "And you ... do you ... remember anything?"

Turning as Arnav-ji cleared his throat, she waited as the seconds of silence stretched into minutes. She wondered if he'd felt like this while he'd waited for her answer.

"Yes. I remember."

Oh.

Swaying on her feet as relief slammed into her, Khushi took half a step forward as if seeking permission to approach. But Arnav-ji turned and disappeared into the bathroom without another word. She remained where she was, staring at the closed door.

But ... what ... what did I do to upset him now?

She decided to venture into the kitchen to distract herself from the disappointment that made her limbs and heart heavy. Once there, she prepared a quick meal from the breakfast things and, seeing no one else around, ate standing in the kitchen. The thought of her diabetic husband had her fixing a plate for him and carrying it back up the stairs.

She was distracted by the sight of her sister rummaging frantically through the drawers in the study.

"Jiji," Khushi set her burden on a small table, "what are you doing?"

"Maa-ji wants headache pills," Jiji didn't turn around, "and I can't find ... oh, wait ... here it is!"

Her sister pulled out a large box, out of which she began pulling out boxes and tubes and bottles of medicine, and Khushi suddenly remembered something.

"Can you hand me Arnav-ji's pills too?"

"I don't know what they look like," Jiji said uncertainly, "all these pills look the same to me."

It was a testament to her unorthodox introduction into this household that Khushi couldn't identify her husband's medication as she looked over her sister's shoulder. But they were saved by Hari Prakish-ji, who chose that moment to enter the study.

"Hari Prakash-ji! Can you help us find headache pills for Mami-ji? And Arnav-ji's medicine."

The man stepped forward with a smile, "Of course, Khushi-bhabi."

Bhabhi.

No matter how many times they said it, her heart still stuttered.

Hari Prakash-ji took a handful of packets from Jiji as he explained, "The headache pills are in this box, see, they're white and round, and two to a row. Arnav-bhaiya's pills are these ones, they're bigger and there are three to a row."

Khushi listened attentively, even taking the box from Hari Prakash-ji to study it, before thanking him.

"I'll take Arnav-ji his things," she placed the pills on her tray, "Jiji have you eaten?"

"I'll eat after I've taken these to Maa-ji," Jiji waved, "thank you Hari Prakash-ji."

Arnav-ji was buttoning his waistcoat when she returned to the bedroom.

"I brought you some food and your medicine," she set the tray down, "I ate in the kitchen, but I wish I'd waited for Jiji."

She might have been more prepared if she'd been paying attention. But as it was, Khushi was taken completely by surprise when she felt his hand at her elbow. He guided her up until she faced him. She stopped breathing. Her heart hammered as he leaned forward.

She closed her eyes. His hand slid up her arm and behind her head.

Oh.

It was finally happening, and she'd waited for so long.

But he only pressed his lips to her forehead before rocking back on his feet.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

She twisted her hand into his shirt, unsure if she was trying to steady herself or hold him closer. Maybe both.

"Are you okay?" he shifted his weight, "You had a lot of bhaang today."

He smiled at her nod, "Okay. Maybe you should get changed?"

Blushing, Khushi moved away from him to fish out an outfit from the basta she kept her things in and then padded to the bathroom, leaving him as he settled on the sofa and uncovered his lunch.

#####

It must be almost midnight.

He didn't kiss me.

Khushi lay on the sofa, watching her husband sleep on his gigantic bed. He seemed comfortable and content, her opposite in every way.

Why would he kiss you? her mind questioned.

He said he feels what I feel. And I want ...

Her mind drifted sluggishly, her imagination combining memories of today and Diwali to create an entirely new scenario where he leaned in to kiss her.

Twice now, he's almost kissed me ... and twice he's ...

But at least he's not angry or pretending not to remember, she reasoned, and he did kiss me. Sort of.

But not like she wanted him to.

She turned with a huff, her mind skipping from one puzzle to the next. All night she'd been plagued with a nagging feeling that she'd forgotten something, something of great importance, but nothing came to mind no matter how hard she thought.

Oh well, if it's important then I'm sure I'll remember again.

Whatever it was, she felt at once frustrated and guilty when she turned her mind to it.

This is impossible.

Twisting her mouth in vexation, she slid off the sofa and shuffled sleepily to the bathroom to wash her hands and face. She studied herself in the mirror, spending a few minutes trying to work out the source of her unrest before padding back to the bedroom.

She crawled into the bed with a yawn, where sleep found her a few minutes later.