Chapter 10
Modus Operandi
Days had flitted by swiftly, and before she could realise it, weeks had gone by too. But the memory of that day was still as fresh in Arzoo's mind. It breezed into her thoughts ever so often, like a fleeting, yet lasting fragrance that was enough to ignite a spark of hope in the greyest of times.
She could still remember the minutest of details of the way Sahir had stood behind her and held her shoulders as she looked at herself in the mirror in his hotel room and of how reassured and secure she had found herself. In that moment, she had felt she did not have to force herself to be the steely, unyielding person she was not. She had felt like that it might not be so demeaning to allow all her anguish to rage out of her eyes before another person, and for once, to drop those fragile facades of resilience and joy. Somehow, she had felt then that he would not mock at her frailty - he would just be there to hold her as she melted away and prevent her from drowning.
In the past few weeks, every time a part of her felt like giving up, she remembered seeing through her overwhelmed eyes, the one person who truly believed in her. She knew how much the lawyer's gown that he made her wear meant to him. It was a symbol of the rewards of his persistence and unwavering focus on his dreams and ambitions. And he had placed that very same gown around her shoulders, willing her to project herself in a future where her dreams would have been fulfilled as well. The gown had felt heavy, similar to the responsibility towards justice and the legal system that accompanied it. But it had also felt warm and comforting, for she knew that at the pinnacle of success, she would no longer be the vulnerable Arzoo who had been taught to lower her eyes and keep her mouth shut and do as she was told. She would be the voice of the voiceless.
She was reminded too that there was also another indescribable giddy emotion, that had passed her by in that moment, as she had inhaled the distinctive scent that the gown carried between its folds. It was perhaps the same emotion that she had felt when Sahir had held her sobbing face between his hands, protectively, soothingly. She found herself, at times, enticed by a strange yearning to feel that sensation again.
Yet, she knew too well that those furtive emotions of hers, and her willingness to pour out her pain to him, were signs of the weakness that she could not allow herself to succumb to. She was deeply appreciative of his presence in her life, of the efforts he constantly made to make her feel better. She was grateful that she had found a friend in him. It was the universe's way of telling her that there was light at the end of the tunnel.
But she constantly rebuked herself and kept herself in check, repeating to herself that nobody could really be trusted. Even though when their eyes would meet, even cursorily, her doubts would somehow magically melt away; in the times when he was not there before her eyes, she found it easier to convince herself that she was right in being so reticent and skeptical, and she drew a great deal of satisfaction in the fact that she was able to stick to her stance. After all, he would only be able to hurt her if she allowed him in, and she was not going to ruin their friendship by doing so. She had decided that she wanted treasure him in the way that she did for many years to come, as a person who had once crossed paths with her and brightened it with his presence. Therefore, quite understandably, she had no wish of finding out whether or not there really was cruelty lurking somewhere within him. Detachment and blissful ignorance were to be her modus operandi.
It was a most gratifyingly sensible decision, in the wake of which, Arzoo found herself to be more serene and relaxed than she had felt in a very long time. So much had changed since her return from Delhi. She was able to focus better on her studies and work and derive contentment from it. The memories she had so desperately wanted to disown were slowly blurring away, as were the physical scars on her body. The clutches of that man on her life, her thoughts, her self-image, her emotions... were beginning to slacken. She began to feel free, and empowered. She finally felt like she had control over her life and the course it would take.
Sahir too had changed somewhat. The grapevine at the office was going berserk with the newly widened scope for gossip. The Grump, as he was "fondly" referred to, was still an incurable workaholic and perfectionist, but he had changed in small, significant ways. He no longer yelled at Linda when she made mistakes. Even when she had spilled coffee all over the papers that had to be filed at the court in an hour's time, and had almost burst into tears, he had only calmly asked her to print the brief and submissions once again. She had come out of his cabin, shell-shocked. He even welcomed discussion on legal issues from interns, and occasionally greeted people with a small smile that people were mostly too surprised to reciprocate. The general consensus was that the man was in love. But there were also a number of alternative theories doing the rounds, each more inane than the rest.
Arzoo found herself highly amused as she quietly eavesdropped on the buzz, wishing she could share some of the most outrageously inventive things she had heard with Sahir, but she kept herself from doing so with much difficulty. It would be a bummer indeed if he suddenly became conscious and relapsed back into Gabbar Chaudhary mode.
Somehow, though, he did catch on to the fact that she was longing to tell him something. She was in his cabin one day, dropping off the plaints that she had prepared, and had allowed herself to momentarily lapse into a recollection of what Linda had said that morning - if only he knew!
And out of the blue, he said "Okay, spill."
"What?" she replied, shaking herself away from her thoughts. She had not realised that he was looking at her. She thought he had been poring over his papers.
"You have that look on your face when you have something to say," he said, matter-of-factly, "Your eyes and lips move as though you are rehearsing it to yourself."
"N-no, there is n-nothing of the sort," she stammered.
"Come on, Arzoo, we both know you won't be able to keep it in much longer," he smiled.
He was right, of course.
"Actually, um..." she said, fighting the urge to laugh, "Lin - the... the office people think that you are not the real Sahir, but an imposter who had plastic surgery carried out on his face so he could look like you."
"What... what on earth?" he said, blinking slowly, clearly taken aback.
"It happens in Indian serials all the time, you know," she affirmed, by way of justification, before finally breaking out in a fit of giggles.
Sahir was still staring at her nonplussed, and she proceeded to ramble on, without thinking, "You've been in a good mood lately, that's why. But it's a good thing, I'd say. The office environment has become so much more pleasant, and you might have noticed that everyone's working well nowadays. They are working wholeheartedly because they feel appreciated, they feel happy."
No sooner had her unnecessary drivel ended than a warm flush of panic came over her, as her words echoed back in her mind. She lowered her eyes quickly and murmured, "I'm sorry, Sahir... Sir. I didn't mean to..."
"Didn't mean to what?" Sahir asked, looking positively baffled, for some reason.
"I - I didn't mean to... like, lecture you on what you should do, and stuff."
"Arzoo," he said gently, his eyes fixed on her intently, as though trying to read what her words would not convey, "you are my friend now. You have the right to tell me what to do, and I value your advice because you are a very sensible person. I am not very good at dealing with, I mean, understanding people myself... and... if you say it's a good thing that I am less stern, it must be. I don't get it, why are you even apologising? Why are you always apologizing anyway?"
She did not know what she could possibly say, and began to feel her eyes brim helplessly with tears, as she remembered why she was so automatically apologetic all the time, but thankfully was saved from having to respond by the ringing of the telephone. Relieved, she turned to leave, but he motioned her to stay as he picked up the receiver.
She was silently working out an innocuous neutral answer that gave nothing away, when she noticed that his face had been drained of all its colour. He was hardly speaking to whoever it was on the other end of the line, but his hands were shaking so much that he could barely hold on to the receiver. A trickle of cold sweat was running along one of his temples. She recognised the signs too well. She could almost feel his heart thumping in feverish frenzy.
When he finally put down the receiver, he seemed to have forgotten that she was there, as he continued to stare at the telephone through moist bloodshot eyes, his breath stalled and ragged. She walked to him and laid her hand on his shoulder, startling him.
"Sahir?" she croaked, feeling her own chest burdened down by that infernal weight of heartache, but he did not raise his pained eyes to meet hers.
She understood that he perhaps needed to be left alone and retracted her hand, but he reached out for her hand and held it, stopping her from leaving. She gave a small nod and gave his hand a slight squeeze in an attempt to convey what she felt, for she found that any words of comfort that she could have offered remained smothered behind an unyielding knot in her throat. Tears began to spill out from her eyes as she stood there wordlessly, by his office chair, watching as he looked away from her, trembling. And when he leaned his head against her, she realised that his cheeks were wet and he was crying too. She placed her arm around his head cradling it as he broke down in silent racking sobs, all his defences sweeping away, washing away, in warm, heavy tears.
Finally, he spoke, in a strangled voice, looking up at her with a heartwrenching sense of helplessness etched on his face, "Will you come with me? Please?"
She did not have to ask where or why. She simply nodded in assent, as she wiped away his tears with her quivering fingers. He took several minutes to compose himself, and when he had done so, she followed him out of the office into his car, her steps heavy with dread. She could not even see him suffer... from where was she even supposed to find the strength to support and console him.
It was once they were in the car that he finally told her that they were going to see his mother, who was in hospital, terminally ill.
"The last time I saw her was thirteen years ago, before she left... me, and disappeared without a trace. The phone call was from her husband," he said, ending the brief tale, leaving her with more questions than answers.
But she did not press him for details. Facts were not important, Sahir was. She tried to focus all her energy on bracing herself and being strong, for him. She saw in his vacant eyes, the shadow of a child, a starved, deprived child. It broke her heart, and overwhelmed her with a fierce sense of protectiveness, that almost seemed to border on possessiveness. She wanted to shield him forever, away from every tear, every fear, every blow that the callous world could possibly throw his way. And she would do it, no matter what it took.
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Chapter 11: Page 39
Edited by _.serendipity._ - 10 years ago
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