Arranged Marriage to Kill Him

Chapter 12 : Ohas and His Love-Hate

Ohas walked back home, his hands balled into fists and shoved in his pockets. He could still feel the heat of her on his hand, her warm breath and the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest as he had held her. The lingering feelings made cold sweat break out on his neck. But he also saw the hatred that sparkled in her eyes when he had grabbed her, the sort of hatred she wouldn't show to her bastard of a husband, he thought bitterly.

Why hadn't she run away on her wedding day? He had kept a room for her in his apartment with a bed and a closet for all her belongings. He had waited for her behind the tamarind tree at the playground, smoking cigarettes till he ran out of the pack.  Finally, the sky swallowed the sun, spewing a few twinkling stars and Ohas returned home, his restless heart muffled by the quiet sadness of the night.

It wasn't love, he reminded himself. He had never loved anybody in his life nor he could ever love anybody. He had simply gotten way too used to that woman, it was impossible to see her be with someone else. They had known each other since childhood, they had played together, bathed in lakes together, stole candies together and even murdered someone together. How could she be with another man now?

And that man. Ohas felt his blood throb in his head the moment he saw him on the internet in his posh suit and shoes. He hated men like him, men who were born with a golden spoon in their mouths. Men who continued generational exploitation of wealth and power, men who had never gotten their hands dirty like him. Men who got pretty girls like Naina within a snap of their fingers, but discarded them as soon as they had their fill, moving on to the rich ladies with manicured nails, luxury handbags and French perfumes.

One detail was to never be missed, whoever Ohas hated, they were bound to die.

As he plotted ways to kill this man, he spotted one of his tenants who hadn't paid his rent for months, swinging a plastic bag of milk and whistling some Bollywood tune. From across the street, the eyes of both men met, one meek and fearful, another cold and sharp. Before Ohas could close the distance between them, the man swung the packet of milk towards him as if throwing a water balloon during Holi. Little did he know, Ohas had quick reflexes and he dodged the packet, seizing him by the collar the next second.

"I-I will pay y-you the rent soon," the man said, his teeth clattering as if he was freezing. "My daughter's fees, I have to pay---"

"Is that my problem?" Ohas asked, towering over him. He hated weak men like him, men who gave birth to children but couldn't take care of them. His father had been one of the kind, never bringing enough money to the table and eventually succumbing to alcoholism after his mother's death. Ohas was thirteen when he turned an orphan, doing odd jobs at the tea shop or selling cotton candies for a living. He had come far from that little boy, now he had acquired apartments and chawls across Gandhi Nagar and rented them out for a living. Nobody knew how he had acquired them, nobody dared to question him. Only someone like Ohas could handle tenants in this area, tenants who were fraudsters, thieves, raging alcoholics and conniving pimps.

Just as the weak man let out a sigh of relief at the sight of Ohas striding away in disgust, Ohas came back in a flash, gripped the man's hand and twisted it, his thin fingers breaking like twigs. "This should remind you. Next time, no delay."

Silent tears streamed down the man's face as he was too stunned to speak, feeling his fingers crackle like chips and his knees buckle. People passing by threw him a look of pity, but nobody raised their voice. A group of tittering women huddled together, lowering their heads and voices when Ohas passed by them. Young women like them were fed stories by their mother, about how if they didn't return home before it became dark, men like Ohas would kidnap and do dirty things to them.