A Life Of Lies | ✔

Hansika • 1

Your husband is introducing you to the world. Put on a smile and act like his most beautiful possession.

I don't know how many times I had to repeat this to myself. His proximity next to me has not reduced at all since the time I joined him on the podium. It's like we're Siamese twins.

Ironically enough, Ayansh's hands were soft around my waist. They were there alright, but the touch was as flimsy as that of morning sunlight in winter: soft, calming and precious, even.

You're his possession. He's only showing you off, I remind myself.

Ah, these voices in my head. Let's face it. 'The voice inside my head' is the bane of our existence. Demotivating, insulting, harsh: it is everything we ever fear to hear. But I can't help but think that the voice inside my head is just trying to save me from doing anything that will put me in danger. But it is a tough job trying to save a person living in a glass house with a pile of sharp stones just outside and a plenty of people who are ready to shatter her life.

"Baby?" Ayansh whispers in my ear.

I glance at him sideways as I arch a single eyebrow.

"Are you tired yet? My face hurts from smiling so much. I think I'm actually stuck with this expression," he says in a low voice, and truly enough his face doesn't show any kind of emotion except that big smile.

I chuckle hard and tease him, "At least it looks good on you."

Suddenly, his grip gets firm on my waist. When I look at him, he quickly winks at me.

Goddamnit, Ayansh!

He's so smooth and quick with those winks and I hate how much I'm affected by it. My face gets a little hot as I turn away from him.

A few more people come our way and we've to smile and pose as a couple again.

No, it's him as a successful man and you as his possession.

Well, I think that's better than who I was before. For now.

"Ah, the Mr. and Mrs. Mishra! You both got nothing on the stars above tonight!" An old man says as he smiles slyly. There is a twenty-something girl toy clinging on to his arms. I try all my might to hide my disgust. 

But then again, I am a twenty-something girl toy clinging on to Ayansh's arms. I am in no position to judge her. 

"Thank you so very much, Mr. Pratap! Hansika, this is Mr. Pratap, one of the well-wishers of Mishra Co. And this, sir, is - "

"Oh, we all know, Ayansh! Everyone in this room knows who this uber - beautiful piece of art is, and whose she is," the old man adds the ugliest laugh at the end, and I join in just for the heck of it. I am uber - beautiful, and a piece of art, and his for the evening to flaunt. So, despite his vile tone, the ugly old man said the truth. 

But Ayansh probably didn't feel the same way because his fingers are digging into my waist. I look at him from the corner of my eyes and he shakes his head half a millimeter, but with firmness at that. His face is stern. I slightly raise my eyebrows but stop laughing. 

"She's my wife, Mr. Pratap," he says curtly. And then an uncomfortable silence settles in. 

I could've let it go at that, but I couldn't resist seeing the indifference and marginal bitchy attitude on the girl toy's face. So I say this, "Is this your daughter, Mr. Pratap? She looks lovely with all your facial features on her."

All three of them look at me with shock plastered on their face. I look at them, presenting my biggest doe eyes as I die of laughter inside. 

"Ex-excuse me," the pedophile says as he calls after his girl toy striding away in anger. An unapologetic giggle surpasses my throat.

Score!

"You, my dear, are a beauty with savage brains," Ayansh said, his breath hot against my ears before the harsh exhale of his giggles hit my skin. Our heads clink against each other as we softly giggle, and it feels like family for a second.

But that was when I realized... One second is not long enough.

***

The breeze in the wind is flirty as it eases into the atmosphere. The moon casts a wonderful brightness on all objects it can cover, making a wonderful wingman for the breeze. Waves of the sea were dancing with each other in their own routine of salsa, creating music with their feet as they kiss the sand below, a speculation staged under the stars.

And I can feel all of it. The kissing sounds of the ocean waves, the flirty messages of the breeze and the glory of moonlight. But all these fade as I feel something superior.

Lying under the warm sheets with Ayansh's chest as my pillow, I feel his heartbeat. I feel it beating for me.

I feel love.

I know that it is not to be misunderstood for being in love. Ayansh and I are most certainly not in love with each other. But as I feel all these little trivial factors of the universe form one harmonic unity in my mind, I imagine the probability of a girl like me and a guy like him in love, in an alternate universe. I sigh, thinking how extremely probable it was in any other universe, any other situation.

But life is just a shipwreck of our wishes against the fate carried by our stars.

"Chocolate for your thoughts?" Ayansh asked, his voice softly rumbling under my cheeks.

I smile. "Chocolate first, thoughts next," I say in a child's tone. He chuckles softly and removes his hand from my back as he reaches out to the stash of Kisses on the nightstand. Yes, we have chocolate in the bedroom, within reach any time we want. Yes, we're brats.

Ayansh removes the wrapper from the chocolate bar and looks down at me as he presses it against my lips. Smiling, I open my mouth and take the chocolate in, my tongue gliding over the sweet ambrosia of the human race. The pad of his thumb brushes against my quivering lips.

Oh, how loyal of a wingman chocolate is to our romance! But don't mistake me, though. Our relationship does not have love, but it sure has romance. I of all people know how entirely different those two are.

After the chocolate melts under my tongue and mixes with my saliva, coating my insides and leaving down my throat, I click my tongue against my lips and get ready for spilling some words.

"I was thinking. About your father. About how proud he would've felt today if he were amongst us," I murmur lightly.

His hand snakes around my back in a loving grip as he says, "Papa would've been so emotional if he were here. He's one of the very few people I know who was compassionate about everything. I think my speech would've made him tear up just a little."

I raise my face to meet his eyes in surprise. "Your dad didn't have the "men-don't-cry" complex?"

He smiled and shook his head. "No, he was one of the most woke people I've ever seen. I was born in a house where men were not stereotyped not to cry and stamped with the term "mard ka dard" (men's pain)."

I settle my head back on his chest as I hum. Wow, what a great life he had. Sometimes, no, at all times, I wonder why he wanted me to be a part of it. I wonder how I, a raw cotton cropland, fit into his big Gucci life.

The voice in my head gives me a clear answer.

Maybe you don't have to fit in, Hansika. You just need to pretend like you do.

For your own good.

***