Khushi
Arnav-ji moved so his forehead touched hers, "That sindoor is mine. The mangalsutra is mine. I am your husband, Khushi. Now answer, as a wife."
She closed her eyes as his fingers tightened on her arms.
Wife. Husband. Marriage.
The words swirled chaotically in her mind. A memory surfaced.
"I'll never grant you the status of my wife."
Still, he'd claimed her every day. Sometimes through words, sometimes through gestures. Once through dance, and tonight, through a performance.
"Whatever hurtful things I said, they have no meaning.
Whatever hurtful things I did, they have no meaning.
Right and wrong don't have meaning in this love.
Only one thing has meaning ...
That I will always ... always ..."
She known what he'd been about to say, had been able to fill his silence using what he'd revealed on Holi.
"What you feel ... is what I feel."
He hadn't moved, and they stood skin to skin, her hands braced on his chest. Arnav-ji shifted, inhaling deeply, and slowly, the moment morphed into something else. His grip loosened. Her breath stalled.
In his embrace – for that was what it was now, an embrace – everything seemed to fade away. Khushi inhaled the orange-bergamot scent of him, unconsciously shifting closer as the urge to drown in him rose within her.
"Khushi-ji, please don't tell Chhote anything. He'll worry needlessly."
Di's plea was a heavy weight on her mind. But so was the mangalsutra around her neck.
Husband, or sister-in-law?
Perhaps for other women it would've been an easy choice.
He'd made a mockery of marriage, but Khushi knew she was doing the same by refusing to answer his question. It was such a small thing, almost inconsequential – she'd been getting medicine for his sister, after all – but her wounded pride demanded silence.
This man, this devil who wore her rajkumar's face, had robbed her of everything – her family, her dignity, her dreams, her life. Her love. And though she'd painstakingly won her place in his household and placated both their families, she was no closer to unlocking his secrets.
What changed, between one hour and the next, to turn the man I love into this?
For the thousandth time, she wished she hadn't gone to the terrace. She wished she'd been by his side for whatever he'd endured.
Her heart seemed to stop.
Shyam-ji. The terrace. What if ...
In the first week of marriage, she'd briefly thought he'd found out about her engagement to his brother-in-law. But it seemed impossible – who would tell him? Not Jiji, or Amma, or Bua-ji. And certainly not Shyam-ji himself, who seemed afraid of Arnav-ji despite all his bluster and bravado.
But the conversation on the terrace, Shyam-ji's pleas to love him, be with him, to forget about Di ...
He doesn't like it when Shyam-ji is near me. What if he knows something?
"I promised I wouldn't tell you," she whispered, her heart quivering in fear, "Di asked ... and I was ..."
He wouldn't have married me if he thought ... if he knew ...
"Khushi ..." he sounded pained, almost tortured.
Her hands slipped up until she was gripping his collar. She was tired. Tired of fighting her love for him. Tired of fighting his pride. Tired of bearing his anger.
Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to prove to him that she was true. That she'd always, always, been his, even when Shyam-ji had tricked her. That she'd always, always, be his, even if he didn't want her.
Her choice was made.
"Di felt dizzy. She didn't want you to worry. I went to get her medicine. Di insisted that Shyam-ji go with me."
Husband. Above all else, husband.
He'd released her before she'd finished speaking, striding up the stairs with a mumbled "Di!"
Khushi lunged for his hand and clasped it firmly between hers.
"Arnav-ji," she choked back a sob, suddenly terrified by the thought of her husband in the same room as Shyam-ji, "Di's fine now. I promise. If she knew that I told you ..."
Please don't go, she pleaded silently.
"I don't care!"
He wrenched his hand away. She'd been balanced on the edge of a stair, and bereft of his anchoring weight, Khushi felt the world tip. She screwed her eyes shut with a gasp, praying for a miracle even as she braced for impact.
A hand wrapped around her wrist. A jolt travelled through her body.
She opened her eyes slowly. Her husband stood there, eyes flashing with conflict, his iron grip the only that prevented her plummet onto unforgiving concrete.
Her breath abandoned her in a rush as she recalled another time, another moment where he'd been the only thing between her and a fall. Then, she'd taunted him, not believing that he'd let her fall until he'd loosened his grip. Now, she waited for him to release her.
"I've had enough of this, Khushi," he warned.
Despair rose within her.
So have I. I'm tired of the charades; hiding the truth of this marriage, and hiding the truth of my love. I've had enough of your hate.
"If you hate me so much," she cried, "then why are you holding my hand? Let me fall!"
"Don't dare me Khushi, you know that I'll—"
"—Then let me go! This is not new; you've done it before."
She watched him swallow, watched as his jaw clenched, and felt his grip loosen. Her wrist slipped through his fingers. She closed her eyes, praying that it wouldn't hurt. And then his fingers tightened as he yanked her to safety, enfolding her against his body. She held his collar, breathing erratically, as his hand found her waist.
Khushi pulled away slowly, reluctantly, her fingers loathe to leave him. His hand tightened at her waist, holding her in place.
"Khushi."
She trembled with the weight of conflicting desires. She wanted him closer. She wanted him gone. She wanted to hold him forever, somehow absorb him into her being. She wanted to run to the other side of the world, where he couldn't hurt her anymore.
He leaned in, close, then closer, then closer still. Her body adjusted, shifting with him until they were pressed together. She sobbed, the small sound carrying with it all her anguish, and all her relief.
"Ssshhh."
His lips found the corner of her mouth for the briefest of moments before he gathered her close. She cried in earnest, sobbing against him.
He did nothing. Said nothing.