There was a voice calling his name, half in sobs and half being comforting. He couldn't make himself recognize it, but he knew it was familiar. And in the dark, cold emptiness that was all around him it was all he had. He clung to it with all his might, yet more and more he felt he it was slipping away from him. He heard his father then. Disapproving. Scolding. Shouting. And terrifying silence again. Then he saw her, his childhood love, the one he had pined for all his life, hoping she would be his. "You cannot catch me!" she laughed as she avoided his searching arms and devilishly made him long for her beauty, twirling a strand of long hair around her finger. Mischief on her face remained and it seemed to him her adult face was getting younger by a second, until he was left gazing at her being a little girl, that same girl who once had burned her feet as she was running over a heated sand to catch a last glimpse of him. And then she was grown up all over again. She came into his arms and he held her tight, yet somehow it did not feel what he thought it would. Something was amiss, as if he was only hugging a body, whilst her soul and mind were elsewhere. There was a thunder. He felt it more than heard it. And soon enough it turned violent, tearing parts of his whole world apart, bringing anguish and pain. He looked at her face and was not surprised to see her eyes turned brown and her features changed. She was not Paro, but that other one, the one he knew he had heard before..... He wanted her to speak. He wanted to listen to her. Forever. He pleaded her to talk to him. She looked at him indifferently. "Ram." No. That was not what he wanted to hear. He told her so. But even more coldness was there in her features. And then she just faded away.
He came to his senses finally, finding himself lying among soft cushions in an unfamiliar room. He got up from the bed, wincing as pain from his shoulder shot through his arm and back. His wound was dressed, tightly and with care. He did not have to ask who had treated him. The room was spacious and richly furnished with things both English and Indian, stuffed with expensive little things that Chuni Babu had always been so fond of. Devdas opened the door and stepped out, realizing he was on the upper floor with a gran view of the ground floor. The house was magnificent, very unlike Chuni Babu's city house, where everything seemed crowded thanks to the amount of artworks nobody admired and furniture nobody needed. This actually reminded him of his own home back in Tal Sonapur somehow, with its high ceiling, elegant staircase and warm rays of light streaming in through arched windows. Except for the room he had woken up in the house was very much unlike its owner. It was more like himself really. And her, who appeared at the top of the stairs with a silver jug in her hands. She avoided his eyes, but otherwise there was no hesitation in her voice or manner.
"You're awake. Good. I brought you some water."
She passed him and entered the room, setting the jug on the table. She expected him to follow her inside, but he kept standing on the spot. She returned to him.
"Does it hurt much?" she asked, gently brushing her fingers over the bandage.
"Only when you touch it," he said coldly. She immediately lowered her hand. She smiled a little then, her eyes remaining numb still.
"How is Paro?"
No matter how hard he tried it was impossible for
him to detect any sarcasm in that simple question.
"How do you know I met Paro?"
"Chuni Babu told me. And...Ram told me."
"How does he know?"
"He followed you for the past few days."
"Why?"
"Because he wanted to make sure he could find me. Because he was in trouble. That is the only time he ever comes." She sounded bitter all of a sudden and her brow, perhaps unwillingly, frowned.
"Who is he," he asked finally with sharp strictness, but before she cold answer a laugh, resembling a coughing, as if the person letting it out suffered from weak lungs, was heard and a low voice from somewhere bellow spoke: "Why ask her? Come and ask me! She will only tell you nasty thing about me anyway, leaving out my numerous good qualities!"
Chandramukhi turned her face away, retreating
swiftly to one of the rooms. Devdas now had two
options. To go and listen to the boastful and
unpleasantly patronizing thief, or to her, his
temptress, whose mere presence was making him dizzy. But her he could break. And her spell he could shake off. He knew he could.
She pretended to be busy with arranging flowers. In a room that was apparently hers. Even in such a short time she had managed to stamp her authority and personality to it. There were no useless tings in here, just a large bed and several mirrors and trunks, otherwise only soft, colourful carpets and pillows spread on the ground, inviting one just to sit and rest. There were vases full of flowers and among them Chandramukhi's beloved idol of Lord Shiva. She must have created that private little paradise for him. She herself seemed lost within it now.
"He is a thief," he broke the silence. "And a murderer too by the looks of it. Am I right?"
"Yes. He is a thief. And a murderer, though he keeps lying to his conscience, trying to make the whole world responsible for what he is."
"And how, may I ask, do you know him? Or should I just assume he got rich once upon a time and slept with you?"
Her tender wrist made a hardly noticeable move and a flower in her hand fell victim to it, its beautiful crown of pink petals bowing down sharply. It would fade and die too soon.
"Is that what you think of me?"
"I don't know what to think about you!" he exclaimed. "You seem to be saint tainted by us sinners. But are you really? As far as I can see you are a liar! Yes! A liar! I had asked you once about men in your life and believed back then I received an honest answer. How foolish of me!"
He would have said more but without thinking he hit the door frame with his fist - and was immediately rewarded by a sharp pain in the shoulder. He expected her to rush over to him, but to his great surprise she did not such thing.
"You are hurting yourself," she said softly though. Another snap of her wrist, another flower doomed to quick end. "Please, you need not to move that arms for several days at least. And do not try to trick him again. Next time even I won't be able to stop him. When he is furious, there is nothing he would listen to. When he is furious..... nobody can stand up to him. Please don't do it again?"
Was this actually happening? It was as if he had found himself in some other world, where villains ruled and Chandramukhi did not care. Pleading him not to do anything because he would get hurt? Wasn't it more of a case of her being worrying about that low-life? Why? Why did it hurt so much?
"So you love him," he said and it was not a question.
"Love him? Love him?! I hate him!" she cried out.
"Is that why you take care of him so lovingly? Is that why you call out his name when you have nightmares, even though you lie in bed next to me?!"
She finally met his eyes. Never, never has he seen her so upset and angry. It took him aback. Even in his attempts to make her the most evil person in his mind her somehow never could have imagined her fury. He had never seen it, never felt it. Now it was all right in front of him. No avoiding of his eyes anymore, no tears and comforting talk. She reminded him of a tiger at that moment, beautiful and dangerous to even look at. She pushed the fragile vase off the table, but the sound of glass shattering did not bring her any relief. She paced the room quickly for a while, finally stopping by one of the trunks and hitting it with both fists, causing herself pain, that would enable her to start thinking more clearly again. She let out a sob when one of her bangles broke and pressed the sharp end into the skin of her hand, but she composed herself right after.
She faced him fully again.
"I hate him. I am just not vengeful enough to let him die. After all, as he likes to remind me again and again, he is my brother."
