Guilty Pleasures

62

62

His mother spares him a glance of her disappointment, and he resigns to it without an ounce of expression. His sister too radiates her coldness as she fixes him with gaze and coupled with his pounding head, and aching heart he wonders how much longer he can take it.

He doesn't last longer than he had hoped, and as he stands, he spares his wife a look through the rounded window. A sigh escapes him as his fingertips trace over the glass, and with his guilt choking him, he turns sharply on his feet.

He avoids Farhad's gaze as he passes him by, and takes a sharp left followed by a right  before taking the steps to god knows where.  He collapses then, his hands covered in her dried blood and as he looks upon them he sobs in guilt, with hate for himself and relief.

Sweat laces his forehead, and he forces himself to stand on shaky legs. He does not know where he is going, but his Lord guides him to his sanctuary. He stands for a moment frozen, taking in the soft serenity and the calm smile his God wears. It anchors him. Gives him hope that he thinks himself to be unworthy.

He steps forth then, and holds a hollow diva in his palm, taking a pot of oil in another. He draws out a circle with the oil and as he steps into it he lights it on fire. His eyes falter back to his Lord, and as he throws the blown out diva to the side, he finds peace in the sound of it shattering. He hums a breath next and as he moves into position, he begins his own tandav. The flames of destruction lick at his feet, and as his eyes close, his Lord in mind, his heart thinks of her.

He spins with a flare of violence, transitions with ferocity and he vibrates his authority in the centre of the fire. And as his own inner emotion rages his steps thunder to the beat. He ends in position mimicking his Lord, his bare chest laboured and as he breathes heavily, swear matting his hair, he allows the moment of stillness to calm him.

It centres him effortlessly and as he feels something wet against his feet, his attention is turned to his mother who watches him with rigidity.

"Amma." He states monotonously. He steps away and grabs for his discarded shirt, his eyes avoiding hers as his fingers fiddle with the shirt buttons. He finds the task distracting enough.

"What did you do?!" His mother growls, and his hands fall in defeat.

"You've pushed your wife to the brink of suicide Raghav!" They say the truth hurts fellow readers, and it does. Perhaps more so than any other physical pain.

He meets his mothers gaze but stays silent.

"Fix this." She all but seethes. The hiss of the syllables curl at his eardrums cruelly but he levels her with a look.

"Fix this." She continues. "Or Keerti and I will leave you again." For a moment he does nothing but stare at the woman before him, perhaps more of a monster, his creation from his sins he echoes.

"Fix things with your wife Raghav-"

"No." He breathes gently and his mother rises to slap him. He intercepts the blow easily, and holds her wrist gently until she all but rips it out of his. He lets her. And she moves to take him by the collar then. He is shaken violently, demanded to sort out the situation, the chaos he had created, and at her demand he cuts her off with another resounding no.

"You should have never placed the ultimatum before me mother." His own tone has grown unforgivingly cold.

"You have made pawns of us both, you threatened me, manipulated me by putting out a condition that you knew I could not refuse in your own selfish desire for a daughter-in-law." His mother scoffs and cuts him off before he can continue.