Chapter 13: Khushi

Arnav-ji was not good at texting.

Khushi sat on the bed, her phone in her hands, a cup of tea and a small plate of jalebi balanced on a tray in front of her. She'd spent the last three days experimenting.

His messages were short, concise to a fault, and utterly unromantic. Questions – Your favourite book? – were usually met with brief replies, and open-ended observations – Anjali-ji is organising a picnic! – with silence.

Help me Devi Maiyya, he doesn't even understand emojis.

"Khushi?"

She slid the phone under her leg as her sister returned to their bedroom.

"So," Jiji spread her towel on the windowsill to dry, "Are you finally going to tell me about your walk with Arnav-ji? What did you two talk about?"

"Nothing," Khushi sipped her tea.

Her sister pouted, "You can't even tell your Jiji?"

"It was really nothing. Just festivals and flowers."

Jiji joined her on the bed, "He doesn't say much, does he?"

"Abhishek-ji doesn't speak a lot either," Khushi pointed out defensively.

She felt her cheeks heat. Her sister considered her as she sipped from a second cup.

"You really like him."

"I'm being smart," Khushi claimed, dodging Jiji's question, "Abhishek-ji lives in Delhi but your proposals came from all over. I want to stay near you, so I'll only consider men who live here."

"Is that so?"

"Did you know that it only takes twenty minutes to get to Abhishek-ji's house from Shantivan?"

"And how long does it take to get to a mental asylum?"

"Jiji!"

"When you were younger," Jiji giggled, "you thought that we should marry brothers. That way, we'd always be together."

"Abhishek-ji doesn't have a brother, only two younger sisters, so I had to look elsewhere."

Winking, Khushi gathered the cups and plate and headed out of the room. She paused on the other side of the door. Arnav-ji's rich laughter rang in her ears. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his fingers against hers, recalling the heady mixture of sandalwood and cedar that had clung to her clothes long after she'd returned his jacket.

"Khushi," she heard his voice.

Her eyes flew open, but she was alone in the corridor. She shook her head at her own folly as she made for the kitchen. Babu-ji's voice floated to her as she set the tray on the counter.

"There's nothing to worry about, Jiji. Devyani-ji just called to clarify a few things."

Khushi froze.

"Like what?" Bua-ji asked.

"A dowry. She mentioned that —"

"—They're so rich, Nand Kishore," Bua-ji spluttered, "what do they need a dowry for?"

In the kitchen, Khushi took half a step forward, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Jiji ..." Babu-ji began.

"The nerve of them! He hasn't even said yes! Neither has our Sanka Devi. And they're asking—"

"—Jiji!" Babu-ji interrupted, "Devyani-ji called to say that they aren't expecting a dowry. She sensed hesitation on our part and wanted to clear that up."

"Oh."

Khushi released the breath she'd been holding, feeling her pulse calm a little.

"They don't hold with the old ways of thinking," her father continued, "They don't expect a dowry or gifts, or anything else you might want to call it. She also said something else."

"What?"

"To let them know as soon as Khushi makes a decision."

"The boy makes a decision," Bua-ji objected, "and then we ask the girl. It's how it's always been done."

"This is what they want."

"And what about what we want? What your Parmeshwari wants?"

"I think it's clear what she wants. I'm less sure of him."

"Thank Nand Kishore. I thought you'd ignore the truth forever. He's Godless!"

"He has morals," her father sounded tired, "He respects his elders, he's smart, and kind. That's more than what could be said about some of the other men who came here."

"Kind!" Bua-ji scoffed, "Just how many more meetings are you going to allow? That Nirmala, who brought his photo, she's always coming over and asking for news. Sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. Your Garima doesn't know how to answer her."

"There will be gossip and rumour wherever there are people."

There was a heavy silence in the sitting room. Khushi turned away, her mind racing.

Amma will know what to do.

. - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

The next morning, Khushi helped her mother hang out their washing.

"Amma," she began, "I have to ask you something."

"Mmmm?"

"Do you like Arnav-ji?"

Her mother finished hanging a sari before turning. "Do you like him?"

"Amma ..." Khushi complained, "I asked you first."

"He comes from a good family," Amma listed, "He's always been polite and well-mannered, and he's hardworking, a self-made man. But he doesn't participate in religion, and his family has mentioned his temper more than once."

"So, you don't like him?" Khushi felt a coldness seep through her.

"I didn't say that. But it's you who has to spend a lifetime with him, child, not me."

"How did you know Babu-ji was the one you wanted to marry?"

"We had a lot in common and wanted the same things from life. We understood each other. It felt like fate, like Devi Maiyya was speaking to me. I can't have children and he already had your Jiji."

Khushi toyed with one of Jiji's dupattas. "Arnav-ji and I don't have much in common."

"You like bright colours, and he likes black. You could talk a mango into making pickles of its brothers, and he says very little. Devi Maiyya is your best friend, and he doesn't sit in poojas."

"That's not fair! He knows what it's like to lose someone. He values his family; he takes care of them. He has Anjali-ji as I have Jiji."

Her mother smiled, "So you do have something in common?"

Khushi turned away, shaking out and hanging some of her kurtis and dupattas as she gathered her courage.

"Arnav-ji makes my heart beat faster," she ignored her blush, determined to get answers, "Did that happen to you?"

"Ahh, that's a good thing. It means you like him."

Khushi spluttered, a denial on her lips, as Amma continued.

"It means you like him as a woman likes a man. Like your film heroines like their heroes."

Happiness burst inside her.

The dhak-dhak is normal! There's nothing wrong with me.

"I asked Jiji but she didn't mention anything like this," Khushi complained.

"Come to me with your questions. Your sister won't be able to answer you all the time."

"After the first day," Khushi confessed in a whisper, "I thought the dhak-dhak was acidity. I thought I'd made his barfi wrong. Is this love?"

Amma, who had started to giggle, suddenly became serious. "No. But it could turn into love if you give it time."

"But ..."

"Love isn't what you see in your films, Khushi. It isn't all stolen glances and promises to die if the other person leaves you. Love grows where there's trust and respect. A marriage is built on communication, dear. You need to know your partner, respect him and have his respect in return. You need to trust him, confide in him, share the deepest parts of yourself with him. The way he makes you feel is important, but consider whether you can build that kind of relationship with Arnav-bitwa. If you can, say yes. If not, say no. If you're not sure, keep meeting him until you can answer the question."

"Okay," Khushi turned her attention back to the clothes, her mind full of questions she had no answers for.

She spent the day in a haze, pondering her father's words, her mother's advice, her sister's blushing remarks about Abhishek-ji. She thought about Arnav-ji's smile, the things he'd said to her, and the things he'd never said.

That night, she prepared for sleep as quietly as she could, mindful of her sister's exhaustion. Jiji had spent most of the day with her in-laws, busy with wedding planning, and had fallen asleep almost instantly. Khushi carefully slid into their narrow bed, cocooning herself in the blanket.

Sleep refused to come.

The truths she'd worked hard to ignore couldn't be avoided any more. Arnav-ji didn't share himself with her. He didn't speak of their future. He didn't ask about her dreams, her goals, what she wanted from life, and he never spoke of their married life.

Give me strength, Devi Maiyya.

Khushi reached for her phone, finding his name and almost pressing the call button before recalling the late hour. She typed out a quick message instead, praying that he would answer. He didn't disappoint her.

Tomorrow. 10am.