A story of a wife retuned from abroad. A Pandora of secrets hanging around her neck like a noose.
A story of a husband standing at crossroads, not knowing what brought him there in the first place. Him or his ambitions?
A story of a nasty divorce c...
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"Having experienced both, I'm not sure which is worse;
Intense Feeling or the absence of it."
~Margaret Atwood.
❄️
Arhan wiped his sweaty palms to his khaki pants. He was still in the same suit he'd worn in the morning to the office. The only miss was his blazer, thrown in some corner of his darling McLaren.
Inhaling a deep breath he raised his hand to ring the bell but suddenly retrieved it back to his side, afraid the shrill bell would wake up whole of the Hamptons. He glanced at the Mac book tucked under his arm and sighed. He closed his eyes in sheer dilemma and after a beat patted his pant pocket.
On feeling the metallic pen-drive from the fabric did he open his eyes again!
His movements mimicked the steely determination surging through his nerves which was a breath away from turning into cowardice. He took a step ahead and rapped his knuckles against the door instead of going for the door bell like earlier.
On getting no response he turned on his heels and scrambled to the lift whose doors were on the verge of closing. He was just entering the metal box when Oorja's 'We need to help them' rang in his ears, putting a full stop to his fly the coop.
Having cold feet was so not him but could he blame himself? No!
He apologized to the elder lady in the lift for wasting her time and retraced his steps back to the flat he'd fled from a minute ago. He prayed for strength from all the gods he'd ever heard about and whispered 'all is well' to his galloping heart.
Before his brain could send impulses to his motor nerves to jump out of the window from the seventieth floor, he ringed the bell. In his impatience to meet the man in question, he rapped his knuckles thrice on the oak door. On hearing the approaching footsteps from the other side his brain shouted 'code red, code red' before its wiring short circuited and fused out.
Prem pulled open the door and halted the profanity prancing at the tip of his tongue on seeing the blacked out expression of his guest. His eyebrows huddled together as he gave an onceover to his haggard looking friend. "Arhan?" He called out curiously. "What are you doing here at this hour? All okay?"
"I'm good." Arhan ran his fingers through his hair for the zillionth time tonight. And still the strands fell back graciously to the perfect style. Pointing at the living room in front, he asked, "Can I come inside?"
"Ye koi puch ne ki baat hai?" Prem opened the door wide for him to enter.
Arhan threw the laptop on the chaise, walked to the fridge in the kitchen and pulled out a water bottle. While closing the fridge door his gaze zeroed upon the black blister packs kept on the white island, the dichotomy oddly interesting.
