#arshi

I have no idea whether this will become a second chapter or remain a one-shot indulgence, but for now, it is exactly that: a small, shameless indulgence :}

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It was a truth privately understood by every aunty within three lanes of the Gupta house that a wealthy bachelor, once sighted within visiting distance, belonged to public discussion until he was either married off or proved unsuitable beyond repair.

Madhumati Gupta treated this not as gossip, but as civic responsibility.

By six in the evening, she had delivered the same intelligence in four different rooms, to three relatives, two neighbours and one unwilling tailor who had come only to return Roshni’s altered salwar. 

Akash Singh Raizada was in Lucknow. He had arrived for the wedding of an old college friend. He had come with his grandmother, Deviyani Raizada, a lady of refinement, lineage and excellent silk sarees. Most importantly, he belonged to that faraway, glittering class of men whose bank accounts were discussed with great authority by people who had never seen a bank statement in their lives.

“One hundred crores,” Buaji had whispered that afternoon, with the reverence usually reserved for holy places. “Maybe more. Choudhary auntyji says nobody knows the real figure. These people hide their money in companies, shares, foreign accounts. Hai re Nandkisore, such suffering also Devi Maiyya gives only to chosen families. Imagine having so much wealth to manage. Poor boy needs a good wife.”

Khushi Kumari Gupta, who had been pinning Payal’s dupatta at the time, looked up with solemn concern. “Then we must pray for him, Buaji. Such poverty of free time must be very painful.”

Garima had murmured her name in warning, although the corner of her mouth had betrayed her.

Buaji did not consider the remark worthy of encouragement. “Do not show this tongue outside the house today, titaliya. The Raizadas will be there. Good families observe girls before speaking.”

“Then I shall stand in one corner and blink at regular intervals,” Khushi had replied, fastening the last pin with unnecessary care.

Payal had lowered her face, but not before Khushi caught the smile she was trying to hide.

Now, standing beside that same sister at the edge of Bandini’s wedding reception, Khushi wondered whether good families also observed girls while they held dandiya sticks with the restlessness of an impatient sipahi. If so, the Raizadas were likely to be disappointed before the evening had properly begun.

The reception had surrendered itself to splendour. Lucknow and Gujarat had met beneath a canopy of marigolds, mirrorwork lanterns and coloured bulbs, with the generous confidence of two old cultures determined to outdo each other in hospitality. 

Bandini, their childhood friend, was Lucknow born, soft-spoken when elders watched and flamboyant among her own circle. The groom was Gujarati, smiling, prosperous and visibly adored by a family that had eventually forgiven him for falling in love beyond approved boundaries. Their match had survived resistance, tears, negotiations, sulks and at least one threatened fast from an elderly aunt on his side. By the time both families had agreed, the wedding carried the moral satisfaction of a court case concluded in favour of romance.

Even Buaji, who disapproved of mixed-community marriages on principle, had come dressed in her best silk and armed with opinions.

“Ladka toh hamare kaum ka hona chahiye,” she had declared three times since morning. “What was wrong with finding a decent boy from our own community?”

“Nothing,” Khushi had said each time, with indulgent patience. “But Bandini is marrying him, Buaji, not us. Since Payal jiji and I are still dangerously unmarried within our own community, society need not begin mourning just yet.”

The argument had not improved Buaji’s mood. Nor had the chaniya cholis Payal and Khushi had chosen for the evening. Payal’s was pale blue, delicate with silver thread and mirrorwork, while Khushi’s was saffron and deep pink, its skirt full enough to answer music before music had even summoned it. Buaji had examined the outfit as though it might invite an administrative inquiry.

Kashvi and Roshni had not been granted such liberties. At fourteen and seventeen, respectively, they were considered young enough to be governed and old enough to resent it. Both had been placed in sober salwar suits stitched from Payal’s chikankari work, and both had spent the journey to the venue protesting that their lives had been ruined by fabric.

“One day,” Roshni had muttered, adjusting her dupatta with tragic displeasure, “I will wear whatever I want.”

“On that day,” Khushi had told her, “kindly remember to return my bangles before beginning your kranti.”

Roshni had made a face. Kashvi had giggled until Garima shushed them both.

Their family arrived early, as respectable families did when they wished to pretend they were not eager. Shashi Gupta walked with his mild, thoughtful air, greeting acquaintances without haste. Garima kept one eye upon her daughters and another upon Buaji, which required greater skill than any domestic science exam. Payal moved beside Khushi with her usual composed grace, carrying herself as though noise were only another form of weather, something to be passed through without becoming part of it.

Khushi adored that about her sister. Payal did not need to announce goodness. It lingered in her quietly, like the softness left in a room after a prayer.

The last few years had changed the shape of the Gupta household in small, significant ways thanks to Jiji. Payal’s involvement in their chikankari business had brought new orders, better designs and a steadiness that made even Shashi sit with the account books with a little less worry in his brow. She had a patient eye for thread, a disciplined hand and the kind of taste that made women trust her with wedding trousseau and old heirloom sarees.

Khushi, after several valiant attempts, had discovered that she possessed neither the patience nor the talent required for embroidery. A crooked stem, a badly spaced motif and one unfortunate kurta sleeve later, she had accepted defeat.

Her gifts had gone elsewhere.

When Central Public School appointed her as a temporary teacher for Physics and Mathematics, the entire neighbourhood had been informed before the ink on the letter had dried. When her appointment became permanent after a year of service, Buaji had distributed laddoos with such overbearing enthusiasm that even people who had never met Khushi accepted two and blessed her future. Shashi had looked at the appointment letter for a long time, folded it carefully, then placed his palm upon her head without speaking. Garima had cried into her pallu. Payal had hugged her until both of them began laughing. Buaji had announced to anyone who would listen that her titaliya had acquired a sarkaari naukri, which in her estimation ranked somewhere between sainthood and owning a reliable scooter.

Khushi had also received a district-level commendation for improving mathematics participation among girls in the secondary school section, a certificate printed on stiff paper and signed by officials whose names Buaji mispronounced with pride. It was not a grand honour in the way rich people understood honours, but in the Gupta house it had been placed near Devi Maiyya for three days. Shashi had said, very quietly, that a girl who could make children stop fearing numbers had done honest work.

Khushi had carried that sentence inside her ever since.

At twenty-two, she knew her life was neither fashionable nor remarkable by the standards of people who arrived at functions in imported cars. She corrected notebooks, negotiated with chalk dust, saved money in a bank account that grew with schoolteacher modesty, and returned home every afternoon to a house full of voices. It was enough. More than enough, most days.

Only Payal’s marriage had become the uninvited guest at every meal.

Rishtas arrived and departed like fickle weather. Some families admired Payal’s beauty but disliked her work. Some admired her work but wished to absorb its profits after marriage. Others spoke of gifts, customs and expectations with such polite indirection that dowry looked almost respectable by the time chai was served. Shashi refused quietly. Garima worried quietly. Buaji, to her credit, thundered loudly whenever a family forgot that Payal was not merchandise.

Yet each failed proposal only heightened Madhumati’s determination to find another. 

Tonight, therefore, was not merely Bandini’s reception. It was also, according to Buaji, an evening of possibility.

“Stand properly,” Buaji murmured, appearing beside them with the suddenness of divine judgement. Her eyes moved over Payal first, softened, then turned to Khushi and grew suspicious. “And you, keep that sharp tongue of yours in check. Wealthy families prefer girls who know when to lower their gaze.”

“Then we must hide all evidence of my existence,” Khushi replied under her breath, rolling her eyes.

Payal touched her wrist, though her mouth curved. “Khushi.”

“I am only saying,” Khushi murmured, tapping her dandiya sticks together, “if a man requires silence in a wife, he should marry a cupboard. Very reliable. Hardly any opinions.”

“Hai re Nandkisore,” Buaji growled. “See this tongue. One day it will bring our ruin.”

“Not today, Buaji,” Khushi assured her. “Today is Bandini’s wedding. Ruin can wait until Monday.”

Before Buaji could respond, a subtle change passed through the gathering.

It was not silence, exactly. The speakers continued their cheerful assault upon the evening. Children still darted between lehengas. Men still laughed near the food counters. Yet something near the entrance altered, a soft rearrangement of attention, as though the crowd had inhaled and not fully exhaled.

Khushi turned with everyone else.

The groom had gone personally to receive the new arrivals. At the centre of the little procession stood a young man in an off-white sherwani of remarkable simplicity, the fabric so fine that it declared expense by refusing decoration. He was tall, pleasant-faced, and wore glasses that gave his handsomeness an unexpectedly approachable quality. His smile was immediate and unguarded. It moved from the groom to the groom’s parents to the surrounding guests with unaffected courtesy, and people responded to it almost before they knew they had chosen to.

“Akash Singh Raizada,” Buaji breathed, as though announcing the arrival of a visiting prince.

Beside him walked an elderly lady in a silk saree the colour of old ivory, her bearing regal without severity. Deviyani Raizada possessed the rare accomplishment of looking distinguished and kind at once. She accepted greetings with folded hands, listened properly when addressed, and gave every elder the comforting impression that manners had not yet died in wealthy houses.

“Look at her,” Garima whispered, admiration softening her face. “Such grace.”

“Of course,” Buaji said, as though Deviyani’s grace had been arranged by her personally. “I told you. Old family. Proper family.”

Khushi was prepared to agree. Akash seemed every bit as amiable as the whispers promised, and Deviyani Raizada had the kind of warmth that made admiration feel unforced.

Then she noticed the third man.

He stood slightly behind Akash, not neglected or uncertain, simply apart. He did not smile. He did not seek conversation. While Akash and his grandmother seemed to bring light into the courtyard, this man appeared to collect the brightness around him and fold it inward. He wore a three-piece suit in disciplined shades of darkness, charcoal at the edge, black at the chest, black at the tie, black in the deliberate stillness of his body. Against the colour and clamour of the reception, he did not look improperly dressed so much as privately opposed to festivity.

Yet even from a distance, Khushi could not deny the force of him. His face was cut with an austere attention to line, cheekbones and jaw composed with a severity that would have been forbidding if not for the faint shadow of stubble at his jaw. His hair had been disciplined too, though one dark strand near his temple had escaped whatever authority governed the rest of him.

His gaze moved across the hall, pausing nowhere, approving nothing, accepting nothing.

Then it reached her and paused.

Khushi had the absurd impression of being briefly placed beneath a lamp. She held his gaze for a moment before turning back to Payal, annoyed by the small, unexplained disturbance in her breath.

When she tentatively glanced back, he was no longer looking at her. He appeared to be studying nothing in particular, a flower arrangement, the floor, perhaps the ineffable tragedy of being expected to attend a wedding reception.

The introductions began soon after. The groom’s mother led the Raizadas from one cluster of guests to another, fulfilling what was evidently a carefully negotiated duty to display them before every respectable family in attendance. Khushi watched Akash offer his greetings with unfailing courtesy. He seemed neither bored nor self-important. If he was aware of the frenzy produced by his presence, he hid it well.

The man behind did not hide boredom. Yet nothing about him suggested true indifference. He was inattentive to the festivities, yes, but not to Akash. His attention moved in narrow increments, measuring those who approached Akash and Deviyani, assessing smiles, gestures, hands folded too eagerly, compliments offered too soon.

Khushi recognised the habit too well. She had watched Payal that way all her life.

Then the party approached the Guptas, and Madhumati straightened as though a military inspection had begun.

“This is Shashi Gupta and his family,” the groom’s mother said, smiling broadly. “His wife, Garimaji, his elder sister Madhumatiji, and their daughters, Payal and Khushi. Everyone knows their chikankari work. Bandini’s mother still says Payal saved two of the wedding outfits.”

Payal and Khushi folded their hands together. “Namaste,” they said in unison.

Deviyani’s face lit with immediate warmth. “Khush raho, bitiya,” she said when both sisters bent to touch her feet. Her palm rested first upon Payal’s head, then Khushi’s, light but sincere. “Such lovely girls.”

“My grandson, Akash,” she continued, turning with pride.

Akash folded his hands. “Namaste,” he said, his voice gentle and unforced.

His smile changed when he saw Payal properly.

Khushi noticed because she noticed everything about her sister. The alteration was not crude, nor even bold. It was simply the helpless pause of a man who had expected to meet another polite stranger and instead found himself momentarily deprived of ordinary thought. Payal lowered her eyes, but Khushi saw the shy awareness that touched her face.

Interesting, Khushi thought, and felt her mood improve.

“And this,” Deviyani said, with a glance towards the man in the dark suit, “is my eldest grandson, Arnav.”

Brother, Khushi thought, faintly surprised by the relation. The two men looked nothing alike. Akash was all easy light and open expression. Arnav was cut glass and shadow, his reserve so immaculate it seemed tailored with the suit.

He acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod. Nothing more.

Buaji’s smile lost a fraction of its courage before recovering in haste. She turned her attention to Deviyani with such enthusiasm that the omission might have been intentional. Akash, meanwhile, made a visible effort to speak to Payal. Everyone present pretended not to notice. Everyone noticed.

This left Khushi and Arnav standing slightly apart, silent spectators at the edge of a conversation neither had been invited to command.

Khushi, who considered silence a challenge, glanced up at him. His gaze was trained on the Guptas, missing nothing. His posture remained rigid, spine straight, shoulders set with the unyielding discipline of a man accustomed to standing guard irrespective of the occasion. Still, she had sympathy for overprotective siblings.

“Would you like a pair of sticks as well?” she asked, lifting the dandiya in faint invitation. “The dance will begin soon.”

Arnav looked at the sticks first, then at her.

It was fortunate the music was loud, because the breath she drew would otherwise have betrayed her. For reasons she could not defend, she had assumed his eyes would be black, in keeping with his clothes, his manner and the impenetrable displeasure he wore like armour. They were not. They were brown, but not the soft, sweet brown of jaggery or tea. They held the colour of burnished walnut under low light, warm in substance and remote in permission. Long lashes only deepened the contradiction. His gaze did not welcome. It summoned attention and withheld comfort.

“I do not dance,” he said.

Her eyes dropped, fatally, to his mouth as he spoke. His lips barely moved. The words came quiet, controlled, and dismissive enough to close the subject without granting it the dignity of rudeness.

“How unfortunate,” she replied, recovering enough to smile without warmth. “Dandiya is very forgiving. Even serious people are allowed to survive it.”

Something very small altered in his expression, neither amusement nor offence, but not indifference either. Khushi looked away, told herself this was a victory, and found, irritatingly, that it did not feel like one.

Arnav said nothing. Still, she felt the occasional shift of his gaze. It brushed the side of her face, her hands, the dandiya sticks, then moved away before she could accuse him of staring. Khushi, on her part, refused to be unsettled by a saddu gentleman who had introduced himself with all the warmth of a locked door.

The introductions lingered longer with the Guptas than they had with other families. Akash asked Payal about the business, about Lucknow embroidery, about whether she designed the patterns herself. Payal answered modestly, then with a little more ease when she realised he was listening for the answer rather than for an opportunity to praise himself. Deviyani asked Garima about Kashvi and Roshni, admired Payal’s work again, and told Buaji that girls who contributed to their family were a blessing.

Buaji nearly glowed.

Only when the groom’s mother reminded them of other introductions did the Raizadas move on. Akash obeyed at once, but not before giving Payal one last look of regretful courtesy. Payal lowered her eyes. Khushi saw the smile she tried to hide and felt an unreasonable affection for Akash Singh Raizada.

Arnav did not look at Khushi again as they left.

Naturally, she did not care.

The moment they were out of earshot, Buaji leaned towards Garima and Shashi, her eyes shining as though she had just received a divine revelation.

“Baat hamari pakki!” she whispered with the force of a proclamation. “Did you see? Deviyaniji spoke to Payal with so much warmth. And Akash-bitwa, hai re Nandkishore, he could not take his eyes off our bitiya-rani.”

Babuji gave a mild shrug, which meant he had seen everything and would not be contributing to public madness. Garima, however, looked pleased in spite of herself.

“We should be ready,” Buaji continued. “The Raizadas may come calling any day.”

“Any minute, perhaps,” Khushi murmured.

Buaji shot her a look, but she was too delighted to sustain it.

Payal stood quietly beside them, demure as ever, though her gaze travelled once across the gathering in Akash’s direction.

Khushi leaned close and nudged Payal with her elbow. “I think Buaji has a point,” she whispered. “The poor man looked as though he had forgotten every sensible thought the moment he saw you.”

“Khushi,” Payal scolded, but her smile betrayed her. Then her expression gentled into concern. “His brother was rather quiet, wasn’t he? I heard you try.”

Of course she had. Payal noticed Khushi with the same fidelity with which Khushi noticed her.

“Quiet is a generous word,” replied Khushi. “Besides, he looked as though someone had dragged him here against his wishes.”

Payal looked towards the Raizadas, now speaking to another family. “Perhaps he is shy.”

Khushi gave her sister a look of profound disbelief. “Jiji, if that man is shy, I am the Viceroy of India.”

Payal laughed softly in agreement, though Khushi did not entirely believe her own explanation. Arnav Singh Raizada did not strike her as a man who could be dragged anywhere. He had come because he wished to come, or because Akash mattered enough for him to endure marigolds, music and matrimonial inspection. That, at least, she could understand.

The music changed soon after, rising into a faster rhythm that called the younger guests towards the cleared space at the centre of the courtyard. Khushi’s attention returned with gratitude to the matter of dance.

“Come,” she said, catching Payal’s hand.

“Khushi, wait,” Payal protested, though she was already being led.

“I have waited all evening. Any longer and these dandiya sticks will fossilise in my hands.”

The dandiya began in bright, ordered circles. Sticks struck together in brisk exchanges. Lehengas turned, bangles flashed, anklets chimed in tune with the music. Khushi gave herself to the rhythm with immediate delight. There were few pleasures as clean as movement when one did not have to explain oneself. Step, turn, strike, smile. The world narrowed to colour, sound and the small discipline of meeting another pair of sticks at precisely the right moment.

Akash joined after the first song, looking both uncertain and eager.

“May I?” he asked Payal, his voice raised over the music, his expression so hopeful that refusal would have required unusual cruelty.

Payal looked startled, then glanced towards Khushi.

Khushi widened her eyes in exaggerated innocence. “Why are you looking at me, jiji? I am merely a poor schoolteacher. I possess no authority over festive proceedings.”

“Khushi,” Payal said, half laughing.

“Please,” Akash added, with a sincerity that made him impossible to dislike. “I have never done this before. If I make a fool of myself, at least there will be witnesses enough to make the story accurate.”

Payal smiled then. “It is not difficult. You only have to follow the rhythm.”

“Then I shall follow,” replied Akash, and Khushi, watching the way he looked at her sister, thought he was not speaking only of dance.

They moved together awkwardly at first, then with growing ease. Akash missed two beats, apologised each time as though he had committed a legal offence, and smiled when Payal corrected him. 

Khushi danced with Preeto, with a cousin of the groom, with one elderly auntie who had more enthusiasm than coordination, and with three little girls who struck the sticks so fiercely that they nearly caused injury.

Every circle eventually returned her to the edge of the floor where Deviyani stood clapping to the rhythm, her face lit with indulgent pleasure. Beside her, Arnav Singh Raizada remained untouched by festivity.

He watched Akash, then the gathering, then, once, Khushi.

The glance was brief enough to be denied and intense enough to make denial inconvenient. Khushi met it by accident during a turn. The dancers carried her past, but the sensation remained, like the afterimage of flame seen too closely.

She told herself he was probably assessing whether the entire gathering met his standards of tolerable humanity.

On the fourth song, thirst conquered enthusiasm. Khushi excused herself, laughing and breathless, and made her way towards the refreshment counter. The arrangement of flowers beside it rose high enough to shield her from most of the gathering. She accepted a glass of lemon sherbet from a server, drank half of it in one grateful swallow, and fanned her face with her hand.

“Payalji is delightful,” Akash’s voice said from the other side of the floral screen.

Khushi stilled.

One did not eavesdrop. Not if one had been raised with even a modest respect for manners. But one also did not abandon a glass of excellent sherbet when one’s sister’s name had just been spoken by a man who looked at her as though she had quietly rearranged his future.

Khushi remained where she was, with every intention of leaving after the next sentence.

“Hmm,” Arnav replied. The answer was short, but not dismissive.

Akash sounded encouraged. “There is something so natural about her. So unforced. I have met so many people in Delhi who speak as though they are reading from a visiting card. With her, conversation feels... easy.”

“Ease is not evidence of judgement,” Arnav said.

Khushi’s brows drew together.

Akash laughed softly, as though accustomed to such replies. “Bhai, must every pleasant thing submit documents before being trusted?”

“Most pleasant things should.”

“You are impossible,” said Akash, though affection warmed the complaint. “And her sister is lively in equal measure. Khushiji would make an excellent dance partner for you. You should join us for the next song. She can lead, and you can pretend you are not enjoying yourself.”

Khushi’s grip tightened around the glass.

There was a pause. When Arnav spoke again, his voice had cooled into the polished indifference she had already begun to resent.

“I have no wish to participate in the evening’s entertainments,” he said. “The gathering is provincial in its ambitions and transparent in its calculations. Every smile directed at you has an account book behind it. As for Miss Gupta, I have found nothing in her demeanor remarkable enough to overcome the inconvenience of dancing.”

For a moment, Khushi felt nothing at all.

Then heat rose through her, swift and clean.

Miss Gupta. Unremarkable. Provincial. Account books behind every smile.

The words did not hurt precisely. Hurt would have required respect for the source. What she felt was anger sharpened by disbelief. The audacity of the man, to attend a wedding as though dragged through punishment, to stand among people who had offered him hospitality, to look upon joy and sherbet and mothers adjusting dupattas, then reduce them all to calculation because their walls were not made of money.

Akash said something in protest, too low for her to catch fully. His tone, at least, carried discomfort.

“Enjoy the evening while it lasts,” said Arnav. “Only do not mistake novelty for permanence.”

Khushi placed her glass on the counter with careful quietness.

So that was the elder Raizada. A man wrapped in fine cloth and finer contempt. She turned away before either brother could discover her. If they saw her leave, neither called after her.

When she returned to her family, Buaji was in full conversation with Choudhary aunty, both women wearing the charged expressions of generals exchanging intelligence.

“I am telling you,” Choudhary aunty said, leaning in, “Arnav Singh Raizada is the real catch. They say he is worth ten times more than Akash. These business papers write about him. Forbes, Forps, something like that."

"Elder brother, after all," Garima attested softly.

"Cousin brother," Choudhary aunty corrected with relish. "But raised together. Some family history there. I will find out. AR Industries, hotels, exports, fashion, real estate, who knows what else. And Sheesh Mahal belongs to him. Old royal property. People say he restored parts of it but never stays there. Delhi is his base.”

“Such wealth,” breathed Buaji, caught between awe and complaint. “And yet he barely smiled.”

“For all his money,” replied Choudhary aunty, lowering her voice, “he could have purchased some manners.”

Khushi, who had arrived in time to hear the last sentence, felt unusually charitable towards Choudhary aunty.

“Manners are not always available in the market,” she said, taking her place beside Payal. “Even for people with massive bank accounts.”

Payal looked at her. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Khushi replied.

Payal’s expression made it clear that she believed this as much as she believed Khusgi could pass a plate of hot jalebis without stealing one.

Before she could press further, Buaji and Chaudhari aunty fell abruptly still. Their eyes moved past Khushi’s shoulder, conversation dying on their tongues. Curious to discover what had managed to silence two women otherwise immune to interruption, Khushi turned to find the Raizada brothers approaching them. 

Akash’s eyes were for Payal alone. “Payalji,” he said, folding his hands slightly, “if you are not too tired, would you care to continue? I believe I improved by half a step before the music got away with me.”

Payal lowered her gaze, smiling despite herself.

Buaji’s elbow nudged Payal’s side with the subtlety of a temple bell.

Khushi saw Arnav notice the gesture.

His face hardened. Not much. Only a tightening around the mouth, a coldness settling into the line of his jaw. But Khushi saw it and despised him for it at once. Of course. He had already decided what they were. He would see encouragement as greed, affection as strategy, a girl’s shy smile as a family’s conspiracy.

Payal, unaware of the silent trial being conducted around her, nodded. Akash smiled with such delight that even Arnav’s presence could not entirely spoil the moment. He led Payal away.

Buaji, emboldened by hope and perhaps by divine recklessness, turned to the elder grandson. “Arnav-bitwa, will you not join them? Youngsters should enjoy such occasions. Hai na Khushi?”

Arnav looked at her. Buaji’s smile weakened beneath the directness of his gaze, though she valiantly held position.

Khushi felt her temper rise before discretion could stop it.

“I am sure Mr Raizada would rather not,” she said, her fingers closing gently around Buaji’s wrist as she looked at him. “After all, he has already found nothing remarkable enough here to overcome the inconvenience of dancing. It would be cruel to ask him to suffer further entertainment.”

His eyes came to hers.

Now that she knew their colour, she found them more aggravating.

Something passed across his face. Not guilt or surprise, exactly. A recognition that she had heard him. Good, Khushi thought.

She did not wait for a reply. Rude, inconceivable people had no claim upon her time. She turned away and walked towards the dance floor, her spine pleasantly straight. If his insult had hurt her, she would never have admitted it. Therefore, it had not hurt her.

The next song began, faster than the last. Khushi joined the circle opposite Preeto and struck her sticks with enough force to make Preeto laugh.

“Arre, what did those poor sticks do?” Preeto asked, ducking dramatically.

“They know,” replied Khushi.

She danced with more precision than before, every turn sharp, every smile bright enough to be a weapon. Akash and Payal moved a little ahead of her, absorbed in the small, careful rhythm of two people learning each other under the protection of a public dance. Payal’s laughter, rare and lovely, reached Khushi through the music. It steadied her.

No wealthy man’s contempt could diminish that.

Yet once, during a turn, her gaze found the edge of the floor again.

Arnav stood where she had left him, Deviyani beside him, the crowd flowing around them in waves of colour. He was looking at her now without concealment, his attention fixed with a concentration that felt almost improper in its intensity. Around him, the gathering blurred into lamps, music and movement, but he remained still.

Khushi should have looked away at once.

She did, but not before something in her pulse faltered.

Eyes, people said, were windows to the soul. Khushi had always considered this an exaggeration invented by poets and encouraged by uncles with opinions. Yet for one suspended instant she felt as though she had looked through the guarded aperture of a home that did not welcome visitors and found, not emptiness, but a space kept fiercely under lock.

Then the dancers turned, the music rose, and Arnav Singh Raizada disappeared behind a sweep of saffron, blue and green.

Khushi struck her sticks together, lifted her chin and smiled at Preeto.

By the time the song ended, she had decided several things with admirable certainty.

Akash Singh Raizada was a gentleman.

Deviyani Raizada was gracious.

Payal, whether she admitted it or not, had been noticed by someone worthy of noticing her.

And Arnav Singh Raizada, despite his fine suit, his severe mouth, his inconvenient eyes and his fortune large enough to require public commentary, was the most disagreeable man Khushi had ever had the misfortune to meet.