1. OS 21. An Unwilling Passion (Part 1)

An Unwilling Passion (Part 1)

HP opened the door, his heart quaking at the sight of the cold-eyed, stern-faced young man standing in the doorway, bag in hand. A storm was building up behind the closed expression of his employer and he wanted no part of it. No sir, he didn’t. Hide behind the atta in the store room after you serve tea, Hariprakash, he reminded himself.

“Arnav bhaiya, shall I take your bag?” he asked as he usually did, his voice low. There was no saying what the reply would be. Some days it was a curt nod. On others, it was silence. On some rare days, it was a grunt.

Today there was no reply. HP stood watching as Arnav Singh Raizada, the tycoon, walked up the steps to his room on the top floor, his bag clutched in his hand.

HP sighed. Maybe Arnav bhaiya had a headache. A dour smile flitted across his lips. Most days it was Arnav bhaiya who gave him a headache.

“Hariprakashji?” Anjali limped towards him.

“Ji, Anjali bitiya?” he asked.

“Did Chotey come home?” she asked with a frown on her face. “I thought I saw him.”

“Yes,” HP confirmed. “Arnav bhaiya went up to his room.”

Anjali pouted. “I wanted to talk to him about the pooja next week,” she complained cutely. “Yeh Chotey bhi na? He never gives me any time.”

HP swallowed hard. Pooja? Oh no! There was nothing more certain to blow Arnav Bhaiya’s temper to saathve aasman than one of his sister’s poojas when all their female acquaintances thronged this house and chattered as though chattering were an Olympic sport and they competitors.

“I will get him tea,” HP muttered before leaving for the kitchen.

“How was his mood?” Anjali called after a retreating HP.

“The usual, Anjali bitiya,” HP replied.

“Bad then,” Anjali surmised with a pout, shaking her head in exasperation. It was better to give her papad ka tukda a wide berth till dinner.

                                                                ***

It wouldn’t have surprised his family to know that Arnav Singh Raizada’s mood was worse than usual, but they would have been astounded to know that he was undergoing acute stress and... fear of the worst kind.

His eyes looked at the bag on his table with dread.

HP knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Arnav growled.

HP entered the room on hesitant feet, more timid than a bride on her wedding night, placed the silver tray with a mug of hot steaming tea with a lashing of lime on the low table by the bag and ran out as fast as his legs and decorum permitted.

Arnav locked the door after him. He stood for a moment, his head bowed.

This was not the moment to feel defeated or tired. This was the culmination of months of work and anticipation. Drawing a deep breath, he turned, marched to the table, opened his bag and pulled out a blue file.

A moment later he was staring at the beautiful face of the gold digging schemer who had wrecked his parents’ life and devastated his family’s existence. His eyes glittered with fury and disgust.

Garima Sasi Gupta. The bane of his existence. The immoral witch who had killed his parents and made di and him orphans. The woman who had gifted him nightmares that never ended, the creature who had sucked all joy and peace from his life, leaving him a mere shell.

He turned the page with pale fingers.

Married to Sasi Gupta.

His lips twisted wryly as he looked at the middle-aged man’s photo. Fool!

One daughter, Payal. No, not daughter. Step-daughter. Sasi Gupta had been a widower with a young daughter when he had fallen for Garima’s tricks. He glanced at Payal’s photo with scant interest before turning the page.

Madhumati Gupta. Sasi’s sister. Had a home in Laxmi Nagar, Delhi. He noted the point for future use.

 He turned the page, his eyes stilling as he looked at the beautiful face of a young girl. He dragged his eyes from her smiling face to look at her name. Khushi Kumari Gupta. Garima’s own sister’s daughter. A blood relation of Garima’s. His face tightened. An orphan adopted by Garima and Sasi.

His eyes hardened. Khushi Kumari Gupta wouldn’t be Khush for much longer when she saw what was going to happen to her aunt.

He threw the file away.

The papers fell on the ground like confetti.

Garima’s photo lay face up.

The muscles of his throat worked as he stared at the face of the woman he hated more than anyone he knew, more than his chacha, more than his father.

In fact, more than he hated himself.