Chapter 15: Khushi

They asked the rickshaw-bhaiyya to drop them around the corner from the house, out of sight. Khushi skipped ahead as Jiji paid the fare.

He wanted to meet me. He thinks we're compatible. He likes me.

Okay, he didn't say the last one.

But he didn't need to. It was there in the way he'd caught her and in his patience as he'd answered her questions without complaint. It was there in the way he took her name.

The other women ...

Khushi shook her head, trying to dismiss her worries. Whoever they'd been, they were no longer a part of his life. He'd agreed to consider women for Nani-ji and had picked her himself.

Surely he wouldn't have agreed if he still wanted any of them.

She paused on the verandah, allowing Jiji to walk past her and into the house. Arnav-ji had all but admitted that his complicated relationship with faith stemmed from his mother.

I don't understand. I turned to Devi Maiyya when Amma and Babu-ji ... Devi Maiyya would have granted him solace, given him peace, and helped him move on.

He doesn't force his views on others, her mind argued.

There was a permanent temple inside the home he'd built. The rest of his family practiced there, and even invited their friends for functions.

He won't stand beside me, but he won't stop me either.

Khushi agonized as she stepped into the house, trying her best to reconcile the future she'd envisioned all her life with this new reality.

Khushi! You should've asked him about this when you had the chance.

"What happened to your sleeve?" Jiji asked, now busy chopping potatoes in the kitchen.

"Huh?"

"Your sleeve. The pom-pom is missing on that side."

Gasping, Khushi turned in a circle on the spot, searching for the errant pink ball on the ground.

Jiji laughed, "It probably fell off in the market, Pagal."

Khushi released a heavy sigh as she readied the water for daal.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Jiji. It feels like everything is ..." she waved her hand, trying to find a word that described the tumult inside her, "... uncertain."

"What did Arnav-ji say?" Jiji's tone sharpened.

"Nothing! He answered my questions, that's all."

"And ..."

"And ... I don't know. What do you think, Jiji?"

"Religion is a big part of your life. Do you think you can marry someone who doesn't share that?"

"But he does share it, sort of," Khushi argued, "He came to the aarti, and he doesn't stop his family from praying. He hasn't even objected to my fasting on Teej. But ... but he did say he doesn't believe in it."

"Is that enough? Will he sit beside you for havans? Will he take aarti with you? Will he be there for you for your parent's death anniversary?"

"I didn't ask," she admitted in a small voice.

"Ask him. Don't have expectations of him, Khushi, you'll only be disappointed."

Khushi nodded glumly. She felt her sister take her hand.

"I've seen what's in your eyes. He makes you happy. The last thing you do every night is message him, and the first thing you do every morning is reach for your phone. You count down the hours until you can see him again. You rush to the phone every time it rings, hoping it's him or his family, saying yes."

"That's not—"

"Shush!" Jiji hugged her tightly, "If you want this, then I want it for you too."

She blushed, glad that Jiji couldn't see her face. They broke apart as Amma entered the kitchen. Khushi discreetly wiped her tears on her dupatta.

"What are you two doing?"

"Nothing Amma, we're just making lunch," Jiji answered.

"Potatoes!" Khushi pointed to the pile set on the counter, "If you send me to the market, then I'll come back with potatoes."

"Let me do it," Amma smiled, "Payaliya, your Bua-ji needs help with some embroidery."

Khushi worked in compatible silence with her mother, falling into familiar patterns in the small kitchen. She took advantage of their isolation.

"Amma ... I uhh ... I want to talk about something."

"Hmmm?" her mother hummed.

Khushi dipped a spoon into her pot, stirring the contents as she gathered herself.

"I have a friend who likes a boy ..." she began.

"I see," her mother turned to her, eyes narrowed, "Is it Preeto?"

Khushi quailed. Her palms were sweaty and her heart thundered against her rib cage.

Hey Devi Maiyya, give me strength.

"No," she answered.

"Varsha?"

"Amma stop-"

"-Ananya? Diya?"

"It doesn't matter who it is," Khushi interjected, "what matters is that she likes a boy. But he's ... he's had relationships before. Girlfriends."

Amma turned back to the potatoes, "And this bothers your ... friend?"

"Not as much as it should," Khushi fretted.

"This man. Has he been close to his girlfriends?"

"Amma ..." she rolled her eyes, "... of course he was close to his girlfriends!"

"No, I mean ..." Amma sighed, "What do your silly heroes do with their girlfriends in your films?"

"They're not silly!" she cried, "They buy their girlfriends flowers, give them presents, watch films with them, and take them nice places to eat."

"And ..."

"And ..." Khushi blushed, realizing where this was going, "they compliment them, tease them, hold hands with them."

"And ..."

"Kiss them," she whispered to her mother.

"How do you feel about Arn- I mean, how does your ... friend ... feel about this man kissing his girlfriends?"

Oh.

Khushi recalled holding hands with him as they strolled around the lake. The thought of him doing even that with anyone else was enough to sour her stomach. But kissing?

What if there was more than kissing? What if he'd ... touched ... them?

She fought back tears. She knew that men and women touched, that fingers crept under pallus of saris, across bare backs and into shirts. She recalled, too vividly, the trick that Raj had played on Simran in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. Lipstick marks, all over his chest. Another thought occurred to her.

What if they'd touched him? Left lipstick all over him?

Her tummy twisted at the thought. Khushi fled to her bedroom and tried to muffle her crying in a pillow. Everything inside her ached.

Her mother joined her soon after. "Shhhh, child. It will be okay."

"No it won't ... He ... They ..."

"Shhhh."

She buried herself in Amma's lap, weeping her misery for several long minutes. Her heart, having laid claim to him long ago, twisted in anguish. When her tears slowed, Khushi looked up. A truth finally found its way to her lips.

"I can't do this Amma. I like him too much."

The hopes and dreams she'd woven around him cracked, leaving an ashen taste in her mouth.

"If it was me," Khushi sobbed, "If I'd had ... had b-boyfriends, they wouldn't even look at me. They'd say I was immoral. Un-untrustworthy. And he ... there have been th-three ..."

"Shhhhh, child. Devi Maiyya will guide you through. She'll give you strength."

"I'm tired of being strong."

"Oh, Khushi."

Amma stroked her hair as she lay there, trying to bring some order to her confused thoughts.

"What would you do, Amma, if you were me?"

Her eyelids fluttered closed as she waited, her body exhausted by sorrow. And finally, Amma spoke.

"I'd remind myself that people make the best decisions that they can at the time. Sometimes, with hindsight, we wish we could change the past, but in the moment, we all act according to what we think is best."

She started to speak, but Amma wasn't finished.

"And I'd ask myself whether it was more important to be the first woman he'd touched, or the last."