Head over Heels ☑️

Chapter 41

🎶 Ek Tukda Dhoop - Raghav Chaitanya

The monsoon had come early this year. Khushi registered the fact with a kind of muddled detachment, her gaze drifting past the windowpane. The glass was cool against her temple as her eyes traced the grey-washed world beyond.

The rain had quieted down, a gentle drizzle streaking the glass with a mosaic of shimmering droplets. The window stood slightly ajar. A fine mist of rain carried through, dampening her skin in delicate bursts. She watched one droplet linger on her arm, caught between staying and slipping away before surrendering to the heat of her skin and sliding down in a slow, glistening trail.

Perched on the windowsill, her knees drawn to her chest, she idly ran her fingers along the metal latch, it was cool to the touch. It had become a habit of late, this restless fidgeting.

"Haan haan, Payal bitiya is in the newspapers again, we know..."

Bua-ji's voice, muffled but unmissable, echoed from the living room with the weight of someone narrating breaking news.

"Yes, Titaliya is here visiting, let me call her!"

Khushi had barely three seconds to rearrange her face before Madhumati burst in like the human version of a monsoon alert. Her eyes swept the room before landing on Khushi. Tossing her braid over her shoulder, she ambled over and announced, "Vimla Mausi and the others are here, come!"

"Yeah... I'll be out," Khushi mumbled, swinging her feet off the sill—only for betrayal to strike in the form of pins and needles. A sharp yelp escaped her as the numbness gave way to agony.

Bua-ji let out a sound like a pressure cooker releasing steam. "Kahan khoyi ho [Why're you so lost], Titaliya! Since the time if your visit, you've been a ghost in a shell. Now come, they're all asking for you!"

Plastering on a smile with tremendous effort, Khushi walked into the living room, greeted by the women of the Mohalla [neighborhood] with all the enthusiasm of being served as the main course.

"Eh lo, the younger one is here," Bua-ji declared grandly, steering Khushi like a malfunctioning rag doll into the middle of the circle.

Shashi cast his sister a look that hovered somewhere between affection and a silent plea to stop. His eyes softened as they met Khushi's. She smiled back, briefly—there was an invisible weight pressing down on the corners of her lips, stubbornly refusing to lift.

"Bade Damad-ji [Older son-in-law] and Payal-bitya look so regal!" Vimla Mausi cooed, holding up the newspaper like it was holy text. Chaudhary Chachi-ji adjusted the saucer-sized glasses perched precariously on her nose and leaned in for a better squint.

"But where is Chotte Damad-ji?" someone chirped.

"Aakash-ji doesn't prefer being on the media's forefront," Khushi replied, collapsing on the couch—not from fatigue, but from the sheer gravitational pull of Bua-ji's hands still weighing down her shoulders.

"Haan, Aakash-bitwa is shy," Bua-ji declared, swelling with pride. "But no less capable. Hai na, Titaliya?"

"Yes," Khushi replied softly.

"And look!" Bua-ji beamed, pointing dramatically to the wall. "Khushi brought these frames, and we've put up the clippings for our memory's sake! Of course, I know—everything is available on those digital platforms, but newspaper clippings have their own charm, don't you think?"

A wave of nostalgic agreement passed through the room. The conversation meandered toward the good old days of ink-stained fingers, postmen with predictable routes, and the fall of civilization as heralded by the youth's addiction to their phones.