Birds of a Feather

Epilogue

Of course, all of this meant only one thing: he had no time for her.

The irony was not lost on her. Khushi had always assumed between the two of them, she would be the busy one, the one with grueling time commitments and inflexible schedules. It was disorienting to see the reverse being true.

And these last two weeks were, perhaps, the worst of all. Arnav had been so caught up with an 'important' project that he had even stopped coming home in time of dinner. Each day he would text her with an apology, requesting her not to wait for him. And given how her own shifts at the hospital were, the only glimpse of him she got was early in the mornings when he was fast asleep, just before she departed for the day.

It was torturous.

"Khushi," Satya called.

She blinked out of her thoughts and turned towards her mother-in-law.

"I forgot to ask; did Arnav eat dinner?"

Arnav had –finally– arrived an hour ago, looking happy, but exhausted. He gave Khushi a quick kiss on her forehead in greeting, before disappearing to his father's study muttering he had something urgent to discuss. She hadn't seen him since.

It was Anjali who answered, however. "I sent all of their dinners upstairs Maa."

Like Khushi, even Satya didn't understand.

"Chote, Papa and Shyam are all in the study," Anjali explained. "They are closing some important deal from what I understand."

Satya sighed. It was common knowledge that karva chauth was a big deal for her. She always threw a party for the occasion, not letting go of any excuse to have the entire family together.

"First it used to be Shankar," she muttered so lowly that only Khushi heard. "Who used to miss everything... now it's Chote and Damadji too."

Khushi was overcome with newfound empathy for her mother-in-law. She was just beginning to understand what having a busy husband felt like. How Satya managed it for decades was incomprehensible.

Before Khushi could find comforting words to console, however, her phone vibrated with an incoming call.

"Damn," she muttered, looking around the busy hall for someone with free hands; her own two were still wet with mehendi.

The artist –a very young eighteen-year-old– seemed to understand her predicament. Smiling reassuringly, she answered the call, holding up the phone to Khushi's ear.

"Thank you," Khushi whispered.

It was Ved, asking her about a complicated case they solved together last month, which they were now presenting to the whole department in a few days time on Dr. Awasti's orders. In her hurry to arrive at Shantivaan on time, Khushi had forgotten to send him her portion of the PowerPoint slides.

"Sorry Ved," she said. "I'll send it now. It's on my laptop."

When he hung up, brushing off her apology with a joke, a bigger problem awaited her. Most of the Raizada ladies were busy chatting, their hands occupied. Who was she supposed to ask for help?

Khushi turned back to the mehendi artist in front of her. "Err... can you call my husband for me?"

Arnav answered on the first ring. "Yes, Khushi?"

"Are you busy?" she asked, hesitantly. "I need you to send an email for me... I have mehendi on my hands."

"Yes, of course, give me ten minutes... I'll meet you upstairs."