CHAPTER 40
AARAV
I don’t know who started the damn countdown, but suddenly, every direction I turn, someone is shouting “Happy Holi!” and throwing color like it’s an Olympic sport.
Music blares, kids are running around with water balloons, and someone’s already slipped and fallen near the lawn.
Classic . I didn't know when Maa said she had invited some people over, it would be so many but that's on me because when Maa and Badi maa say that it usually means at least hundreds of people.
It’s chaos. Mostly the good kind. The loud, messy, colorful kind that used to give me a headache when I was younger. Now I barely even notice the noise. I’m too focused on one thing.
One person.
I scan the crowd, ducking a splash of pink that barely misses my shirt.
I’ve already escaped four attempts at getting colored.
It’s like a mission now. No one colors me until she does.
Call it cheesy, I don’t care. I waited twelve years for this Holi with her.
I am not big on Holi—too much wastage of water.
I don't see the joy in it, but I know she loves it.
And this is our first after twelve years, and that too as husband and wife.
A marriage she still keeps at arm’s length, sure, but she’s here. She’s here, and I get to see her again in that white kurta she wore every Holi—the one that ended up a painting by the end of the day. Except today, she’s been avoiding me like I’m the actual plague, and it’s starting to get to me.
I keep playing the last afternoon in my head on repeat.
The way her body went still in my arms, the way she’d leaned into me like she couldn’t stop herself…
and then ran the moment where I didn’t say anything when she said, "This is just six months.
" The quiet anger in her eyes this morning. The way she looked at me like I’d broken something. Again.
Not because it wasn’t worth saying something about.
Not because I didn’t feel the punch of that line in my chest. But because I’ve always been more afraid of losing her than I’ve ever been of saying the wrong thing.
I couldn’t tell her she was wrong because part of me is scared she’ll use that as a reason to walk away again.
I’m not sure I’d survive that this time.
So, I wait. I wait for her to come to me.
I wanted her to fall for me and initiate first, but now that's not a requirement because the hurt in her eyes and in her voice was evident enough that she feels the same way about us as I do; she wants this, she wants us to exist.
I hear a loud, unfiltered laugh, and my head snaps in the direction, and then I spot her. Of course she’s standing at the bhaang counter.
I stop walking.
What the hell is she doing?
She’s talking to the man behind the counter, and he is smiling wide, too wide for my comfort, and she is giggling. And chugging the bhaang like it’s… vodka? What?
“What is wrong with you?” I mutter under my breath and start moving toward her, pushing past a group of aunties who are too busy gossiping to notice me. Thank you, God, for not letting me squeeze to death.
She throws her head back and takes another sip. Her cheeks are already flushed, and her eyes… yeah, she’s completely gone.
Oh boy.
I reach her just in time to hear her say to no one in particular, "Why does this Thandaai taste better than that one?"
Right. Of course she doesn't know. I glare at the man who's eyeing my wife, and he cowers under my gaze and looks down.
She turns and freezes when she sees me. Her face lights up like she’s seen candy. “Aaruuu!” she yells, arms wide, sloshing bhaang everywhere. That nickname. It does things to me, although I hate it, but it sounds like music from her mouth: “I was looking for you!”
“No, you weren’t.”
She gasps, dramatically offended. “Okay, maybe not looking. But thinking about you. You were in my brain." She frowns and tilts her head, "Like… like a mosquito. Constantly buzzing.” She giggles.
“Thanks. That’s flattering.” I shake my head.
“You’re welcome.” She beams, then frowns. “Wait. That wasn’t a compliment, was it?”
“Nope.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I missed your face.”
I bite back a smile. She’s too cute when she’s like this. Wild and unfiltered and saying everything she’s too stubborn to admit when sober. I think I am glad she doesn't know the difference between thandaai and bhaang.
She squints at me. “You’re still clean!”
“Was trying to stay that way.” I smile.
“Nooope.” She grabs a packet of pink gulal kept on the counter like she’s going to war. “Not anymore.”
She smiles sheepishly as she throws some color on me, and I let her. She smears it across my cheeks, my jaw, and even my neck. Her fingers linger, making my heart race. She giggles like she’s accomplished something major.
“There,” she says proudly. “Now you look less… serious.”
“That’s your goal today? Make me look less serious?” I narrow my eyes at her.
“That and… maybe do some thumkas.” She pouts; her lips look so kissable right now. God, she might be the death of me.
“Not happening.” I mutter, trying hard to keep my hands to myself.
“Coward.”
“You’ll survive.” I feign a smile.
She looks me up and down, wobbly on her feet but clearly plotting something. “Color me,” she says suddenly, handing me a packet.
I blink at the directness. “You sure?”
“Yes!” she throws her hands up. “It’s Holi! You’re my—” She stops. Tilts her head. “—my… roommate.”
“Wow.” I raise my eyebrows and chuckle, "Interesting choice of words."
“What? I forgot the word!” She exclaims and stomps her foot like a child and sways again.
“You mean husband?” A small smile forms on my lips.
She points a finger. “That! Yes. That thing.”
I chuckle. “Nice to know it means so much to you.”
“Oh, shut up and color me.” She rolls her eyes.
So I do. I let my fingers brush across her cheeks, soft and slow. I press some color to her nose. Her forehead. She stills. Our eyes lock. There’s a moment—brief, fragile—where the noise around us fades and it’s just her and me. Like time itself has paused to watch us.
She blinks up at me and breaks the silence. “Are you going to kiss me again?” she whispers.
I don't hide it, “Thinking about it.” I nod.
She gasps, scandalized. “Shameless!”
“You kissed me back.” I state.
“No proof.” She smiles smugly and crosses her arms over her chest.
“I remember the taste of your lips, darling.” I chuckle.
“Lies!” Her eyes widen.
“You moaned.” I mention it as a matter of fact, because she did, and I love that sound. It still rings in the back of my mind.
Her jaw drops. “Aarav!”
I burst out laughing; she does too. We’re both just standing there, covered in color, her slightly high, me completely sober, and everything feels strangely… okay.
“Let’s get you some water,” I say, looping an arm around her so she doesn’t topple over.
“But I want another bhaang—”
“Yeah, no.” I look at her sternly; she pouts but walks with me, clinging to my shirt like a koala.
I guide her to a quieter corner away from the noise and sit her down on one of the swing chairs. She kicks her feet lazily, then looks up at me with her hair flying in every direction and says, “You smell nice.”
“Thanks.”
“You always smell nice. It’s very confusing. Stop it.” She whisper-yells.
I am loving this. “I’ll try.” I reply, trying to stifle my laugh.
I watch her amused as she sings the song playing at the top of her voice as her eyes brighten and she smiles widely, making me smile in the process.
Although I love the drunk Anika, I think it’s better if she sobers up before she ends up hurting herself.
“I will go bring you some water, okay?” I caress her face, and she smiles softly at me, knocking the wind out of me.
“Stay here, okay?” I say softly. She nods, and I march towards the counter where the water is kept, not before giving her one last look. She looks so happy, and that makes me so happy.