Khwaish Sinha and Virat Ranawat---Enemies Bound by Marriage.
The Sinha and Ranawat families share a legacy of political influence, woven tightly together by the bonds of leadership. As their children, Khushi and Virat, grow up side by side, a beauti...
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VIRAT
That godawful night, I flew to Delhi on a poor excuse of a business seminar. I skipped the three-day rally across Himachal Pradesh, and when I returned home last night at around 11:45, Dad lectured me in the drawing room for a painfully long hour. Mom came to my rescue, dragging him to their room. Just on cue, Arjun showed up with a box of beer. We sat on the backyard patio, downing seven cans each while I listened to him chunter about Dad.
Stumbling into my room, Khwaish was asleep on her side of the bed. I'd sat on the edge, withdrawing my hand each time it tried to touch her face. Brush the hair away from her lips. Unable to resist the urge, I stroked my knuckles down her cheek. I blamed it on being drunk for the uncalled apology. But it didn't matter because she couldn't hear anything. She'd done nothing to piss me off and I walked out on her in front of our family — I felt like I owed her one.
When she rolled onto her back, sleep-talking in a baby voice, "Virat... are you home? When will you come back? I... really, truly, wholly hate you," something blossomed through the cracks of my broken heart. Given my drunken state, I couldn't remember how long I watched her before I got on my side of the bed, falling asleep to how pride warmed my chest when Dad praised her ability to handle the rally and press in my absence, cleverly answering the media's questions regarding our marriage and my whereabouts.
"Fuuuuuck."
What was I thinking last night?
I want to dig my hands into my hair and pull them out. And scream. Yes. Scream. I've never screamed even as a child.
The worst part is I remember what I did, how I felt.
Arjun punches me in the back. "Watch your mouth. We're outside a temple." His tight smile and hands clasped in front of him remind me of what we're here for.
"What else can we expect from a devil?" Khwaish ridicules me, yet effortlessly maintains a cherry appearance for the multitude, who passionately listen to Dad's speech. "I'm surprised he hasn't burned to ashes yet. God must pity him."
