Making Her Mine- An IPKKND story.

Chapter 8 - Swelter

Garima Aunty and Buaji were at the door when they arrived, in time for breakfast because Di thought the Guptas should have a chance to look after their Daamad. Buaji smothered him in a hug, to Arnav's great discomfort and surprise. This woman had once threatened to essentially beat him up herself, and the last time they had met (while sober), he had just eloped with her niece.

But Garima Aunty had always been sweet and never overbearing. She welcomed them with aarti into the house, and when she offered him the Prasad, a glistening white petha, Khushi snatched it from her Amma's hand and popped it into her own mouth.

"He can't take sweets, Amma!" she explained as the two women tutted at her.

She always did this, pouncing on whoever threatened to offer him something sweet. As if without her, he would have been force-fed sugar. But somehow, it always gave him a little warm feeling when she did this—it was much less painful to pass up sugar when she was there protecting him so zealously.

For all her sulking and moodiness, though, Khushi was still sweet. She had brought along a pot plant, of all things, and she explained it was for when he missed his plants at Bua-ji's house. She had told him this as matter-of-factly as if talking about his toothbrush.

It was definitely hot in the Gupta house. The windows were wide open, and the noise of the streets assaulted them in the living room. But it was still hot, made worse with the odor of food, not just from the kitchen but from outside: sizzling, oily food cooked in unclean stalls.

Khushi's father was in his wheelchair at the dining table. He bobbed his head when Arnav folded his palms in greeting and seemed to be watching him closely while the women bustled around the kitchen.

Arnav preferred Khushi's Babuji for company. There was no pressure for small talk, so they could sit around in silence. He did look a bit better than the last time. Arnav recalled they had just returned from some treatment camp thing. He wondered what kind of father he was. A good one, obviously, because Khushi loved him fiercely. But he had wanted her to marry Shyam. He hadn't known the truth about Shyam, of course. But still, Arnav wondered if he knew Khushi had been so unhappy. Arnav remembered the brief period of Khushi's engagement to the then-mysterious Shyam, her Bua-ji's paying guest. How distressed she had been. Had it been only him who had noticed? No, Di had said something about it too, even though she hadn't known about him and Khushi, or about what happened at Diwali. About how he had ruthlessly broken her heart and driven her to accept marriage with a man she didn't love.

The women bustled out with food: puri, aloo, and halwa. But the food they placed in front of Arnav was different. Boiled vegetables, some sort of colorless dal, and dry chapati. When he looked at his in-laws in surprise, Garima Aunty kindly explained that they had cooked this "healthy" food just for him because he had been unwell—that's what Khushi had told them. He glanced over at Khushi, who was stuffing her face with puri, gloating.

Fine, then. She was being clever, looking for ways to irk him because of their bet. Just like he had looked for ways to torment her when she was working at AR. She had won then. He could admit it to himself now. She had been a clever, infuriating little thing, getting herself out of every situation he had thought up to make her life miserable. Well, he was Arnav Singh Raizada. It was a good thing she had the chance to get back at him, finally. But he wasn't going to lose. He was every bit as resourceful as her.

Except it was hot, and he could feel rivulets of sweat running down his face. Amazingly, the Guptas and the Gupta Singh Raizadas seemed unfazed, dry and comfortable in this muggy heat. Buaji turned on a noisy air cooler that didn't do anything except perhaps make the place more humid. They decided that the cooler wasn't close enough because Arnav was still sweating, and when they couldn't pull it any closer, they made him stand up and moved the table closer, and then Buaji fiddled with the knob of the cooler and it broke. Honestly, that was for the best because that thing was pointless. The two women flapped around him like worried hens, and he had to tell them he was fine, really. He wished they would stop fussing over him, proving Khushi right with every passing second and making things awkward as hell.

The food couldn't be helped, either. He couldn't bring himself to tell them he would prefer the aloo-puri too, so he swallowed the bland food miserably and went outside to wash his hands. The sink outside had a cracked mirror and a cracked green soap embedded with dirt.

No handwash. Gross. Fine, Khushi. He could play this game: he called Aman and asked him to arrange to send everything he needed—an air conditioner because he couldn't tolerate the sticky heat, especially when he worked—and all his toiletries, and a bunch of towels.