152. OS: 7: The Other Woman (Part 12)

Section 12

“Khushi,” he murmured, relieved that she was sharing the same space as him, trapped in the room with him. She would have to listen to him, accept his plea for forgiveness...

She turned her head away.

ASR walked up to her. “Khushi, look at me,” he said softly.

Khushi refused to look at him. “Why did you want to see me?” she asked, her voice cold.

This was not how their conversation was supposed to go, Arnav thought, frantic. All night he had imagined a hundred ways in which he would apologise and she would accept, a thousand scenarios, many ways in which this scene could play out, none of which had included a cold Khushi refusing to look at him.

He had expected her to be angry, sad, tearful, wary...but not cold. Because coldness was not part of her nature. She was warm, sunny, soothing...

“Kehene keliye kuch baaki bacha he, saale...saheb?” she asked, her eyes on the rich red drapes covering a window. “Some abuse that you forgot to utter yesterday? Ab yaad aaya aapko?”

Ice had much to learn from her.

“Khushi, suno,” he tried to touch her shoulder. She shrugged his hand away, her very stance signalling rejection.

How could she push him away from her? How could she refuse to acknowledge his need for her forgiveness?

He caught her by her shoulders and turned her around to face him, his hands firm. His eyes burned in to hers. Her eyes were no less scorching.

“Don’t turn away when I am speaking to you,” he hissed, trying to pull her closer to him.

She stood her ground in more ways than one. “What will you do if I do, you saale...saheb?”

He swallowed hard. Fire and panic burned him in equal measure.

“I am sorry, Khushi,” he blurted out.

“You are manhandling me because you are sorry?” One brow rose up.

“I am sorry, Khushi,” he murmured, his fingers loosening on her shoulders but not letting her go. That was beyond him. “Sorry for misunderstanding you, sorry for the rubbish I said...”

“Aren’t you sorry for kidnapping me?” Khushi asked. If she was getting an apology, she wanted a good one.

“Yes, I am sorry for..kidnapping you,” he admitted.

“For accusing me of stealing your sister’s husband?” she asked, her gaze direct and merciless.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“For saying that Shyamji gives me money, jewellery and holidays?” she asked, her head cocked.

“Yes,” he whispered, ashamed of himself. His contrite eyes looked at her bare neck covered only by her dupatta, the cheap trinkets hanging from her ears, the glass bangles on her arms.

“What kind of work do I do for Shyamji, saale...saheb?” Khushi asked, her eyes spitting fire at him. Her arms rose to clutch at the lapels of his coat.

“You deal with his files, answer the phone,” he murmured, the muscles of his throat stiff and frozen.

“How do I make Shyamji ‘comfortable’?” she asked, shaking him or trying to shake him as he had done to her, her distress at her humiliation at his hands very evident to him. “Who do you think I am? Am I Shyamji’s girl friend? His rakhail?”

“No, no, Khushi,” he whispered, shocked and distubed by the glimpse of the ocean of pain she was carrying within her.

“Do I destroy families, break hearts?” she asked, shaking him, her fingers clawing at the fine fabric of his coat.

“No, Khushi. You don’t. I am sorry,” he said softly, conscience-stricken.

“Would my parents have died of shame to see what I have become?” Tears filled her eyes but her voice was firm, her hands hard.

“No, Khushi. They would have been proud of you,” he whispered, abashed.

“Is my family selling me to the highest bidder?” she asked, each word a missile to blast his pretensions.

“No, no,” he cried out. The faces of Buaji and Payal rose before his eyes.

“How dare you say bad things about them? How dare you?” Khushi pushed him.

 He let her push him to the wall. He stood with his back against the wall, letting her spew her hurt at him.

“I am sorry, Khushi,” he said quietly.

“Sorry,” her lips twisted in contempt. “What was it that you promised to give me if I made you ‘comfortable’?” she asked.

He gulped.

“More money, more gold, more fun, right?” Khushi asked, not letting a single tear filling her eyes leak out.

“Khushi,” he breathed.

“Shall I tell you what you can do with your money, your gold and your fun, Mr. Arnav Singh Raizada?” she challenged him.

“Khushi, I am sorry,” The words left him on a pain-filled sigh.

“You don’t have enough money to buy me, Mr. Raizada, and you never will, even if you are the richest man on earth.” Her statement was quiet and the more potent for it. “I work hard for my living. And if at some point I am unable to work, I will kill myself rather than sell my body to you.” Her honest eyes looked right in to his.

“Marry me, Khushi.” The words slipped out of his mouth, shocking both of them.

The jolt of the bombshell dried the tears in her eyes. She fell back in shock, her hands letting go of his coat.

He stood staring at her.

He hadn’t meant to say it. He had thought it in the darkness of the night, had hidden his longing for her in the dark recesses of his mind, had never imagined he would propose marriage to her or anyone, but once the words were out of his mouth, he was pleased, at peace. He wanted her in his life. He wanted her honesty and her fire and her laughter and her innocence and her warmth and her smiles in his life.

“Marry me, Khushi,” he said it once more, loving the way the words sounded. She would be his forever, always with him, a part of him. Nothing and no one could take her away from him, he thought, his heart settling down.

Khushi’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “Acha? Why should I? Why should I marry a man who kidnaps girls and then offers to buy them at their going price? A man who is apparently as immoral as he thought me to be?”

Section 13