Kaise yeh Rishtey 5

Chapter 5

The question still echoed in her mind as she got into bed that night. What were they going to do?

She loved Aman, loved him desperately, and he had fallen in love with her. Something she had only dreamed of happening, had actually happened. Aman loved her!

But does he really? A little voice whispered to her. Or does he think he loves you only because you were there for him at a time he was alone and needed someone? He loves his wife. If you were to fade out of sight, he would forget you.

Why should I fade out of sight, she argued with herself. I'm not asking for anything. I know he is tied. He loves his wife. Even if he didn't, there is no way he could leave her now. It would not only be cruel, it would be murder. She would not survive the shock. And he would not do it. He would not be the man I fell in love with, if he did that. And I would not be able to live with myself if he did that.

Then you should stay away from them, the voice warned. If he cannot and will not leave his wife, and you don't even want him to, then there is nothing in the relationship for you.

But I'm not asking for anything, she argued again. Just his love. I don't want to put a name to the relationship. The way we are, is fine. I'm not asking for more. Just to see him a few times in hospital – it’s enough for me.

The voice was inexorable, unrelenting. And when Anjali and the baby go home?

Khushi squeezed her eyes shut, and refused to answer that question. The thought of not seeing Aman everyday, not talking to him, was so unbearable that she could not face it. 

I'll think about that when it happens, she decided weakly. When it ends, it will end. Let me not think about that now.

                                    *******      ************     *******

The next few weeks for Khushi were some of the happiest she had known. It was as though acknowledging his feelings for her, had broken some sort of a barrier in Aman's mind. He sought her out actively, took her to the hospital café for lunch, and spent more and more time with her. As Anjali improved, as their tiny baby became stronger, Aman's and Khushi's meetings became more frequent, the tension and the urgency in the air more apparent.

One evening, she came back to Anjali's ward for her usual evening visit, to find Anjali in a chirpy mood, and Aman quiet.

"I'm being discharged tomorrow," Anjali told Khushi happily. "Now I have to go for my fittings and physio from home. And, oh, Khushi, the baby's coming home in a week or so. The doctor said she's been gaining weight well the last week, and maybe, by next week, we can take her home. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed. She will be all right now, won't she, Khushi?"

"Yes," replied Khushi with an effort. She looked at the other girl, and smiled. "You've done it, you brave girl. Congratulations! You're finally going home, with your baby."

"Three months in hospital," sighed Anjali. "I can't believe it. Well, I hope I don't have to come to this place again in a hurry."

Khushi smiled again, and hugged the other girl, not looking at Aman.

"You're late today, aren't you?" asked Anjali. "You're usually off home by now."

Khushi nodded. "I had some last minute cases, so I got late. I'll be off now, Anjali, and I may not see you tomorrow. All the best, and come and see me sometime when you get your new leg."

Anjali smiled. "I will." She smiled suddenly. "Do you know why I love talking to you, Khushi? You've seen it all, you take it so matter of factly ... you don't shower me with sympathy or pity. You make me feel this is all in a day's work, something I can do easily. And talking to you, I feel that it is ... that it will be easy ... that I can do it."

Khushi smiled warmly at Anjali, genuine affection in her eyes.

"Yes, you can," she said softly but firmly. "You can, and you will ... because you're one of the bravest girls I know. It's not easy, Anjali. It never was, and it may not be. But you can do it, and you will. I don't show you pity because I don't feel it. I feel admiration. I admire and respect you for how you've dealt with all that happened, and I know you'll deal with everything else the same way."

Anjali smiled back, and sent a loving glance towards the silent Aman.

"I didn't do it alone," she said softly. "I had Aman with me every step of the way. I couldn't have done it without him. And without you," she added, turning to Khushi again.

Khushi smiled back, but it was with an effort. Her heart was thumping hard inside her chest, and she was surprised neither of the two she was talking to, could hear it. A darkness hovered around her head, at the thought of not seeing Aman again.

She had known this day would come ... she had always known. She had thought she was prepared, but when it was almost on her, she wasn't sure that she was. At all. 

She smiled back at Anjali again. 

"Yes," she said. "Aman was with you every step of the way. You're a very lucky girl. And now you have your baby girl with you too. They both will keep you going."

Anjali smiled eagerly, her face glowing at the mention of her beloved daughter. 

"I know I am," she said. "Very lucky. Aman is the best husband in the world. I couldn't have done it without him."

She smiled and Aman, and he smiled back uncertainly. For a moment they were lost in each other, and Khushi felt hollow inside. She wanted to look away, but she forced herself to continue looking at the couple. This was reality, she reminded herself savagely, this was real. They were a couple. She was an outsider, and she always had been. Her dreams were just that - dreams. The sooner she woke up, the better it would be for her.

Anjali broke their bubble first, ash she looked away from Aman, smiling still. "Aman, it's getting dark. Can you drop Khushi home? She can’t go alone at this time."

Aman nodded. "I'll do that, love. You sleep now. You'll have a long day tomorrow."

They left the ward, leaving the excited girl in bed. Neither Aman nor Khushi said a word, as he escorted her to the car, closed the doors, and drove off.

He turned off onto a small, deserted lane, and parked a little way along it. He stopped the car, and turned to her.

She looked at him, and then she was in his arms. He held her fiercely, his hands going feverishly over her body, her face, his lips moving over her neck, her cheeks, her forehead. She clung to him, her hands curled in his hair. Then they both drew back, and looked at each other.

Aman spoke first.

"I have to see you," he said, fiercely. "Khushi, please. I have to keep seeing you. Anjali will never know. I promise. Nothing more. Just meet me sometimes. I need you, Khushi."

Khushi looked at him desperately. "Aman, no! You can't do that to Anjali. She needs you now, more than ever. And now your aunt has come to stay with you, too. Aman, it's not possible."

"You mean you don't want to see me any more," he said, bleakly and looked away from her. She turned his head to face her.

"And what if that's true?" she asked evenly. "Aman, what good will it be, us meeting like this? You can never leave Anjali, even if you want to. Which you don't. You love her, Aman. You know you do. It's not fair to her, if you and I meet secretly."

"I love her," he said heavily. "But that love of a man for a woman… it's not that any more. It's like the love of a parent for a child. I love her, and I want to take care of her. It's you I need to share my life, my joys and sorrows, my ups and downs. It's you I want in my arms, to hold and to love…."

"Please!" Khushi was pale. "Aman, don't do this to me. I'm trying to be sensible about this. There is no future for us, there never was. This was a dream, and it had to break. What's the point in prolonging this? It will only make it worse. We cannot see each other any more, Aman. We have to stop, Aman, you know we have to stop."

"Can you, for once, just once, not be sensible?" he asked, savagely. "Just once, do what your heart tells you to do. Forget your damned self-reliance for once, and allow yourself to feel, to follow your feelings. If it's worse later, we'll face it later. Let's have a few moments of happiness while we can. Just meet me when I come to the hospital with her. She has to come for her physio, for the baby. Just meet me then, that's all I'm asking. Please, Khushi!"

And helplessly, Khushi agreed. The thought of never seeing Aman again, of going back to that lonely, loveless existence was almost impossible to contemplate. Just for a few more weeks, she told herself weakly, as he took her into his arms again. Once Anjali is back to normal, he won’t need me any more. He won't want me then, he'll stop loving me, and I’ll stop seeing him, I really will. Just a little longer. And she ignored the little voice at the back of her mind telling her to back away, stay away from him.

Vaguely she wondered how she was so sure Aman's feelings would not last. Why was she so sure about the end of this relationship, whatever it was?

Maybe she herself was the problem, she thought sadly. She had lost faith in love, deep, everlasting love. Maybe she never had faith in love. She had never really seen true love in her life ... neither love between parents, nor between parents and child ... she had never seen tenderness, warmth, affection from close quarters, never experienced it for as long as she could remember. Her father told her that her mother had loved her deeply, but Khushi did not even remember her mother. Neither could she remember any close moments between her parents - her mother had died when she was too young for her to have any memories of her. And neither her father nor her brother were affectionate or gentle, either towards her or even towards each other. This relationship – whatever it was – was the first time she had experienced any tenderness in her life, and she wasn’t willing to give it up so soon. But how was it, she thought wonderingly, that even while in his arms, with his lips on hers, she could think dispassionately about the end of their relationship?

Khushi remembered what she had told Aman once. That she seemed to have lost the ability to experience any feelings deeply.

"Maybe that's what my problem is," she thought, as they silently drove home. "Maybe I need to experience heartbreak, to break out of this cocoon I've built around myself. And heartbreak will come, as sure as night follows day. For Aman will never leave Anjali. Even if he wants to, I won't let him. I can't let him. I can't build my own dreams on the ruins of somebody else's home. I can't do that.”

Anyway, the relationship was seemingly headed nowhere, so Khushi decided to take the few crumbs of happiness in her fate, and not fight them off. Despite all her misgivings, she agreed to continue meeting Aman.

Kaise yeh Rishtey - 4

Chapter - 4

They stayed in her mind, this little family of three, as she went back home. So absorbed was she in their sorrow, that she didn't notice her father's taunts, nor the lateness of the hour when her brother finally returned. Mechanically, she heated his food, served him, and cleaned up. Vaguely, she noticed that her brother seemed worried, and after dinner, he banged at her father's door, and spoke to him in a loud voice. Khushi gave up, and went to bed.

The next few weeks passed as though in a dream. Anjali recovered slowly, and Khushi spent a lot of time with her, counselling her, comforting her, amusing her and telling her about her tiny daughter's progress. Anjali always felt better after Khushi's visit, so Aman requested Khushi to come more frequently to see her. Khushi was happy to oblige, and it was not because of the healthy increase in her bank balance by the extra visits. She genuinely liked the older girl, and admired the way she was dealing with problems that could have broken a weaker person.

At first, Anjali was almost hysterical when she saw her leg gone, but the sight of her daughter helped her tremendously, just as Aman had said it would. And when Khushi told her that it had been a choice between her daughter and her leg, Anjali had smiled and said simply, "I'm glad they made the right choice."

The baby made slow progress, and Khushi and Aman were both worried about her. Khushi checked on her frequently, and reported to Aman regularly, careful not to hint to Anjali that the baby was not yet out of danger. They met out of sight of Anjali, so that she would not worry about the baby. And they talked - about Anjali, about the baby, about Khushi, everything.

Khushi often wondered what she felt for Aman. She had never had a friend like him before, in fact, she had never met anyone like him in her life before. Obviously rich, strikingly handsome, he had none of the airs or arrogance one might assume come naturally to a man like him. He was down to earth, straight forward in his words, and never gave her the feeling that she was his inferior in any way, social, monetary or anything else. But what attracted her to him was something else.

It was an admiration and perhaps, an unspoken envy of the deep love he bore for his wife and new baby. Lonely for most of her life, Khushi felt a craving to be a part of what he gave her a glimpse of – a real family, bound by ties of love, of need, of belonging. And she wondered sometimes ... was it just that? Or was it attraction … an almost instantaneous attraction, which had sprung up between them both almost from the moment they had met? Something she had felt from the first, spontaneous touch of her hand on his ... something she knew he had felt too. 

Or was it … something deeper … was it love? She wondered unwillingly. Could she have been so blind, so foolish as to have actually fallen in love with him? 

She was very much afraid she had.

It would have been a wonder if she hadn’t, she though ironically. His gentleness, his innate goodness, the quiet strength in him, the love evident in his eyes for his wife and daughter - everything was so different from the two men in her life. Even when sorely tried, or upset, he never raised his voice with Anjali. His patience and gentleness with her was seemingly inexhaustible. When Anjali was upset or frustrated, and took it out on him, he remained calm and encouraging. Very often, she was angered, reduced to tears with her frustration at the slow pace of healing, and setbacks in her recovery always made her tearful and unreasonable. But Aman, never. He spoke to her patiently, teasing her with loving nonsense, till she started laughing unwillingly, and got over her tears. He was a wonderful husband and he seemed to be the embodiment of every dream Khushi had ever had, a living example of the love she had always been starved of.

And they had become close, so very, very close. They met every day, often for hours at a stretch. While Anjali was with her doctor, her physiotherapist, her surgeons, Aman sought out Khushi. With Khushi, Aman let his guard down and talked … showed his fears, his innermost thoughts and feelings, his sorrow at his shattered dreams. And his anger at their families - Anjali's and his own.

No one came to see them in hospital. Not when they were needed the most - needed by Aman. He was supporting his wife, but he was badly in need of support himself. Support both physical and mental, which was completely lacking.

"They are there like parasites, when they need anything," he told Khushi, bitterly. "Then I become the favorite brother, the best uncle, and the most wonderful nephew. Anjali's parents don't talk to her, or to me. Well, I can understand that. She ran away to marry me, two days before her wedding to the boy they had chosen for her. They've never forgiven her for that, nor me. But what about my family? My uncle, my aunt, my cousins? When I need some help, some relief, where are they? Because I don't have my own parents, they don't bother about us. And it's because I don't have my own parents, that I do so much for them all. I can afford to, and they know that. But I do it with affection, and in the belief that they will be there for me when I need them. Well, now I know better."

"They are just your cousins and aunt and uncle," she said, evenly. "My own father and brother are the same, maybe worse ... what can I say to you about them. People all over the world are selfish, Aman. You should rely only on yourself, nobody else."

He looked at her. She had already told him about herself. Indeed, in the few weeks she had known him, they had told each other their inner-most feelings. They had grown so close, that Khushi felt he must know what she felt for him. She had not made any attempt to hide what she felt, had shown her obvious pleasure in his company, her willingness to drop everything and be with him whenever he needed her.

Which was very often. Perhaps it was the lack of family support, perhaps he genuinely found pleasure in her company too. Khushi didn't know. But he sought her out more and more, shared his fears and hopes with her and every day's highs and lows. It was Khushi whom Aman told when his baby's breathing tube was removed, Anjali didn't know she ever had one. It was Khushi whom Aman rejoiced with, when his baby was taken off her drip and started taking milk, and Khushi who shared his tears when Anjali took her first step on one artificial leg.

Now he looked at her.

"You're very self-reliant, aren't you, Khushi?" he commented. "Your own people have given you so much grief, yet I don't see any bitterness in you."

Khushi smiled, a hint of wistfulness in her eyes. "Maybe because I don't remember any different times," she said. "I've learned to be like this, because I've had to. I don't know any better, Aman. I don't know any different. I don't know what love is, what a normal family can be. I've seen it from the outside, but I've never had it myself, so I don't know it, I don't miss it. I live in this little cocoon of my own, as though I'm in a bubble, unaffected by what's around me. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, and I suppose it’s kind of sad. But I don’t know if I can ever be any different. Even now," she added.

"Even now, what?" he asked, his gaze holding hers. They were sitting in a secluded corner of the garden, sharing tea and a snack. Anjali had a physiotherapy session, and so Aman had a break.

Khushi looked at him directly. "Even now that I've seen what love is, what a family can be like," she said.

Aman sighed and took her hand. He played idly with her fingers. Khushi was startled. This was the first time he had touched her so deliberately, and she felt a niggling disquiet in the back of her mind. This wasn't right, a voice said in her head.

But she found, to her dismay, that she liked the feel of his hand holding hers. And she kept quiet.

"Don't you want to fall in love and get married some day?" Aman asked. "Have you thought about that at all? Don't you want to have a family of your own? Someone who really loves you, and cares about you? A husband, children? Don't you want that, Khushi?"

Khushi looked at her hand, small and pale in his. "Yes, I want that," she said, her voice low. "But I don't think I can have that, Aman. Maybe not now, maybe never. You see, I've done something very stupid. I've think I've gone and fallen in love with a married man."

His fingers stilled their movement, then he crushed her hand in his. Then he released it suddenly, and stood up.

“And what if he’s in love with you too?” he asked in a low, fierce voice. Khushi looked up at him, her face frozen.. For the life of her, she couldn’t utter a word. The words that had been on her mind for so many days had slipped out of her mouth almost unthinkingly, and now she seemed to be struck dumb.

Aman looked at her.

“If he loves you, can't he leave his wife, and marry you?" he asked, his voice muffled and not quite steady. Khushi drew in a sharp breath and stood up too. For a moment, they looked at each other, their faces showing all that they felt. Then she turned away.

"No!" she said, then more strongly, "No, he can't! Aman…, " she turned and looked at him, her face firm, although she felt she was tearing up inside. "Aman, you can't even think about that. I…"

"I know I can't," he said, savagely. "Her very life depends on me, I can't do that to her. And, oh, Khushi, I still love her. I love her very much. But…" he turned her around to face him, and his face showed his dilemma, "…but, Khushi, I love you, too! What are we going to do?"

Kaisey yeh Rishtey - 3

Chapter 3

So what was that? Khushi wondered as she half-walked, half-ran to the OT. Did I imagine it?

If I did, he obviously did, too, she thought, remembering the way he had jerked back from the touch. Strange. He's an attractive man, though. Very attractive, she amended silently, as she looked for the doctor in charge of Anjali Bansal.

But there was no further news, and Khushi came back only a few hours later, to find Anjali still in the OT. The baby was out, and struggling to survive in the incubator in the neonatal intensive care unit. She was a tiny little thing, pale and frail, and Khushi found herself praying that she would make it. By the looks of it, three lives depended on her. And also by the looks of it, those lives were hanging by a very slender thread. The baby was not only premature, but had lost blood along with the mother, and was breathing too fast. The neonatologist was worried, and told Khushi so.

It was with a sinking feeling she went back to Aman Bansal, and when she told him the news, he sank down on the bed with a groan, his handsome face haggard and torn.

"Save the baby," he pleaded, and grasped her hand again. This time he was too upset to feel the shock, which coursed through her at his touch. "Please, Khushi, save my daughter, or I'll lose my wife as well. I'll lose everything!"

Khushi couldn't stop herself. The strange pull she felt toward this attractive man, together with her genuine desire to comfort him, made her sit down next to him, and take both his hands in hers.

"Pull yourself together, Aman," she said softly, not realising she had used his name. "You have to pull yourself together. If you lose your calm, who will help Anjali? Who will take care of her, comfort her, if you go to pieces? She will need you, your shoulders to cry on, your support, your encouragement. If you give way, how will she manage? If she thinks the baby is in danger, she won’t be able to take the shock. You have to hold strong, convince her that everything is all right, the baby is all right."

"I know,” he said desperately. “I know I have to hold it together … but my wife … my child …!  Khushi, I have no one else to live for! The two reasons I have for living - they are both in danger.  How can I keep it from her? She’s my support as much as I am hers!"

“Not at the moment,” said Khushi firmly. “Not in the state she is in. You can’t tell her about the baby yet, Aman, or she’ll lose her will to live, to pull through. She can’t take that stress yet. You have to hide it from her till she’s better. She needs your support now … she needs all her strength - and all of yours as well.”

“And me?” he asked desperately. “I’m alone, Khushi. Do I bear this all alone? Tell me? How do I do this?”

"I’m here, Aman,” Khushi said softly. “That’s what I’m here for. You come to me when you want to cry, when you have questions, when you need support, someone to talk to. Till she can take it, you don't cry in front of her. She will think the baby is far worse than she actually is, and that will hamper her own recovery. Show me your tears, your fears, your worry. But for her, you stand firm. You have to do this."

He looked at her, and wordlessly, he put his hand over hers and held it. Khushi looked at him, startled. How much he loved his wife, she thought wistfully. How much he loved his daughter, only a few hours old. Had her father ever felt like that about her, even when she had been so young. He certainly never showed any trace of any love now, of that she was certain.

Slowly, hesitantly, her other hand came to cover his. Gently, hesitantly, she pressed it in an unspoken understanding of his fear, his dread. And wondered anew, when he wordlessly put his other hand over both of hers, and let silent tears course down his cheeks unchecked, at the strange bond she felt with this man. She held his hands gently, soothingly, as he leaned against her shoulder and cried softly, silently, head bowed, and she murmured words of comfort. She felt as though she had known him for ages, not that they had just met this morning.

He looked up after some time, his tears slowing. And sat up, and moved away from her. He looked away from her, a little shame-faced.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I think I needed…"

"You needed a good cry, and to get it out of your system," she replied firmly, and he grinned at her a little crookedly.

"Yes, I did, but I didn't need to let you bear the brunt of it."

"So what would you have done?" she asked, bluntly. "Saved your tears, like a good hero macho man, till you could cry into your own pillow at night, alone, with no one to see you, hear you or comfort you, for a very natural feeling that you felt? Why you men always have to hide your feelings, I'll never understand. You’ll feel better now, believe me."

He smiled again, a little awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable with the discussion.

"Can you find out how she is?" he asked, awkwardly. She got up, smiling inwardly at his transparent attempt to change the topic. No, she didn't think any the worse of him for breaking down, in fact, she admired him more. His love for his wife and daughter shone through so clearly. But as usual with all men, he obviously didn't feel the same way. Tears were a sign of weakness, to be hidden.

"Yes, I will ... I'll check with the doctor again, and after that, I have to go home," she said. "Your wife should be out of surgery now. I don't know what's taking so long."

"Somehow, I don't think it's good news," he muttered, as he followed her to the OT.

He was right. His wife was out of the OT - just. The surgeon who followed her stretcher, did not have very good news for Aman.

"I'm sorry," he said, gently, when he saw Aman. Dr. Khurana was a family man, with children of his own, and he understood Aman's face. "We tried our best, but there was too much damage."

"What… ?" Aman began, his face pale. Dr. Khurana put a hand on his shoulder, his face sympathetic, his tone soft as he tried to break the news as gently as possible.

"One foot was very badly crushed. We did a below-knee amputation in that leg. The right one. The other leg…" Dr. Khurana smiled slightly. "Well, I'm glad I can give you some good news. We have managed to save the left leg. It’s badly crushed and the bone has multiple fractures, but she will be able to walk again, though it will take a long time. It’s going to be a very long recovery period, Mr. Bansal. But she will need one artificial leg. However, since we have managed to save the knee joint, her walk will be almost normal, once she gets used to the artificial leg."

Aman sat down on the bench, stunned. "You mean, she's lost her leg after all? How could that happen? We brought her in so quickly. Couldn't you save any thing at all?"

"Our first job was to save the baby," said Dr. Khurana, softly. He hesitated again and looked at Khushi.

"I already told him," she said, softly. "I told him that the uterus was torn and had to be removed."

"She's lost one leg, and if this baby doesn't make it, she can't have any more children," Aman spoke dully. his face was haggard, and he suddenly looked far older than he had in the morning. He looked up at Khushi and Dr. Khurana desperately. "What will she live for? What will my Anjali live for?!" She'll die!!!"

"No, she won't," Khushi spoke firmly. She sat down on the bench next to him, and took his hand in hers. "She has you to live for, Aman ... and she has her baby. Aman, that tiny little baby is inside an incubator, fighting for life. That baby has so much spunk, so much courage, she's fighting against all odds ... can you as parents show less courage than her? You are her father, and Anjali is her mother. That little baby needs you both. Aman, you have to give Anjali hope. You both have a reason to live, a reason to fight, the biggest reason in the world. Pull yourself together, Aman. You have to do it for her."

He nodded, but she could see that he was broken, and her heart ached for him.

Kaise yeh Rishtey - 2

Chapter 2 

He was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. His eyes, dark with grief and anger, bored into hers. His face was ravaged with pain, and there were traces of tears on his cheeks, but he was still easily the best looking man she had seen. 

He wore an expensive suit, which now bore blood stains. Blood stains, too, on the crumpled blue shirt he wore, its expensive luster hidden, but not completely masked by the stains. His tie was askew, and his hair was rumpled. His gaze held desperation in it.

"The baby? Will she make it? Will the baby be all right? Please, tell me!"

Khushi dragged her gaze back to the girl firing the frantic questions at her. She gathered her frozen thoughts together, to what the doctor had told her on the way to the ward, and with an effort, spoke gently.

"Anjali, we need to take you in for surgery. Immediately. We don't have much time. You've lost a lot of blood, and your blood pressure is sinking. We have set up blood for you, but till the doctor repairs the blood vessels in your legs, which are torn, you're going to continue losing blood. But you must calm down. We have to give you injections before we take you in. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The man spoke, and his voice shocked her. After the first look, she had been trying not to look at him.

"Do what you have to, but save her life. I'm her husband. I'll sign whatever forms are needed."

Khushi looked at him directly.

"I know you can sign the forms, but it's her body. She has a right to know what is happening to her."

He looked at her, a trace of arrogance in his look.

"I told you, I'm her husband. I give you permission to do what is necessary. Don't waste time, for heaven's sake."

So he was concerned about his wife, thought Khushi, not just the baby. Her voice slightly softer, she replied coolly.

"In this hospital, if the patient is conscious, we like to tell them what is happening to them. It helps them, and it helps us to care for them. Can I talk to you later, please? I appreciate your concern for your wife, but I have a job to do, as well. Please let me do it to the best of my ability."

He looked at her swiftly, not pleased by the way she had answered. She met his gaze calmly, steadily, he held it for a moment, then seemed to relax slightly. He moved away from the bed, and Khushi turned back to her patient, and started talking, clearly and simply, with the ease of long practice putting the technical explanation she had been given, into simple, direct, less threatening language.

"Anjali, your legs have been very badly crushed, and we have to try and save them. But that is second priority. First, the surgeon is going to take out your baby. Even a seven month baby can survive, but you are too badly hurt for it to survive inside you. We have to take it out quickly. You are losing blood in your legs and that is impacting your baby. We have to get it out, to have any chance to save it. Do you understand? We are trying to save it. We are also going to try and save your legs. But that we cannot promise. The baby comes first. Ok?"

The girl nodded, and some of the frenzy went out of her eyes. The waiting nurse bustled forward, and got busy in giving her the pre-anaesthetic injections. Khushi turned back to the girl's husband, who also looked slightly calmer after listening to her explanation. She addressed him in a softer tone, trying to hide the strange emotions he aroused in her.

"They are taking her into the operation theater. You can go with her till the door, then if you could, please come back and talk to me. I'll wait here for you."

He was looking at her, and there was a glimmer of …what? Was it respect she saw in his eyes? He nodded, and followed his wife's stretcher out of the ward.

Khushi heaved a sigh, and sat down suddenly on the bed. That poor girl was going to lose a good part of her leg, and it was by no means certain that her baby would survive. What would her family's reaction be? What would her husband's reaction be? He didn't look the type to tolerate imperfections gladly. Would he tolerate a handicapped wife? One who might not be able to bear any more children, if this one did not survive?

This is why my own problems seem insignificant, thought Khushi, wryly, as she waited for the husband to come back. A bullying father and brother are not so bad after all. At least I have my own legs to get me out of the house!

He came back after almost twenty minutes. Khushi was just about to leave when she saw him returning.

"I waited till they told me she was under anaesthesia," he explained, briefly, and held out a hand. "I'm Aman Bansal, by the way. Thank you for talking to her. She was more calm."

That was all she was going to get for an apology? Khushi thought, then she smiled. From an obviously rich and successful man like him, even that was something. She looked at him frankly.

"I'm a psychologist in the social and rehabilitation department here, Mr. Bansal, and I think I should warn you from the beginning that you are going to see a lot of me. Your wife is very badly hurt. I met her surgeon and her gynaecologist on my way up. They may be able to save this baby - we have a very good nursery here. Unfortunately, there will be no more babies. Her uterus is torn, and will have to be taken out."

He blanched.

"They didn't tell me that! They just told me about her legs!"

She nodded, her face calm and emotionless. Breaking bad news was part of her job, the part she liked the least. Unfortunately for her, it was the part most doctors had no time for, so they preferred to leave it to her. She had become used to it, used to hiding her own feelings in the process of dealing with the reactions her words often evoked. Some patients were stoic, some were tearful, some simply disbelieving ... and some even got angry and violent. She dealt with them all with a calm facade, hiding her own pain and sympathy as best she could. 

"That's my job. To tell you the bits they left out. Her legs… well, we'll  try to save what we can. One foot is badly crushed. However, we have a microvascular surgeon here, who is in the theater with the team at the moment. He's trying to save that foot. The other one…" she tailed off, and he looked at her bleakly.

"So you're telling me that my Anjali may be left with one or both legs useless, a baby who may not survive and no chance for having any more. Can't you give me any good news, Ms…?"

"Gupta ... Khushi Gupta," she supplied. "At the moment, Mr. Bansal, the only good news is that they do hope to save the baby. Which, considering her injuries, is quite remarkable."

"No," he corrected her, standing straight, his face firm and suddenly calm. "The biggest good news is that her life is not in danger. She will live, and so will the baby. As for legs, well, there are all sorts of artificial legs now, aren't there? We'll face it together, whatever happens. Just…" he turned to her again, and there was a desperation in his voice, "just save the baby, Khushi. Without the baby, she will not be able to go on."

He put his hand on hers in pleading, and she felt it. It was like an electric shock. His touch sent off ripples in her body just like she had read in the books, and never believed actually happened in real life. Yet it was happening to her.

What was more, he felt it too. He looked at her, startled, and withdrew his hand quickly. Both of them withdrew in confusion, not understanding what was happening. He looked away, cleared his throat, and spoke again, without looking at her.

"When will I know what's happening?"

"I'll pop into the OT on my way out, and check. If there's any news, I'll let you know, otherwise I'll be back later, after my rounds." Khushi spoke hurriedly, stumbling over her words, and he nodded, his tone more abrupt.

"Fine. Thanks."

Kaise yeh Rishtey - 1

Khushi smiled.

She was in a beautiful green meadow, the grass lush and soft around her. The sweet smell filled her senses as she trod on the soft green carpet. The sky was blue, without a cloud, and there was a soft breeze playing gently with her, teasing her, lifting tendrils of her long silky hair and tossing them about. It was perfect.

She smiled delightedly again, and walked barefoot, loving the feel of the damp grass under her feet, and between her bare toes. She twirled around, and laughed aloud in sheer joy - the joy of being alone and at peace with herself and the world. Then she walked on, and came upon a herd of grazing cows. Soft, gentle-eyed, contented, they gazed at her incuriously, the bells around their neck clanging melodiously. But the clanging grew to a jangling, and she tried to stop the noise, by reaching out to them. As she reached, they moved away from her, and the voice of the bells grew shriller and harsher….until they changed to the shrill tones of her alarm clock.

Khushi muttered something in her sleep, then with one eye half-open reached out to hit the snooze button almost automatically. She peered at the clock, registered the time hazily, then jumped up with a startled gasp and almost leaped out of bed.

"Is that the time?! How did it get this late? Oh, God!"

She flung on some clothes, and almost ran out of her room, into the kitchen. There she caught her breath with relief. It was empty.

Quickly, she got to work, her movements almost automatic with the ease of long practice. Cutting, chopping, cooking, stirring, rolling, then packing two lunch boxes neatly and efficiently. Then, with a worried look at the time, she set places for two at the small table.

She was just in time. Barely had she got the glasses of milk ready, and the parathas simmering on the gas, than her father and brother strolled into the tiny kitchen, completely uncaring of the fact that they were both late.

As usual, she thought inwardly, but knew better than to say anything. Sometimes she wondered how they both kept their jobs, late as they always were to leave, and early to return. At least, her father was early to return. Her brother never came back before late night, but not for a moment did she imagine that he was working that late. He invariably came back with the smell of bad whiskey emanating from him like a cloud, and more often than not, in a foul mood, with language to match. Perforce, she stayed awake for his return, dutifully serving him a hot dinner if he wanted it. Sometimes, thankfully, he would have eaten with friends before coming home, and she was free to quickly lock the door behind him, and retire to bed herself.

Yesterday had been one such night, and she had not spoken with him when he returned. It was evident that he was in a bad mood, and she had scurried off to bed as quickly as she could. Now in the morning, his black mood persisted, as he threw his paratha on the floor.

"It's tasteless," he shouted, and she picked it up quietly, and put it on her own plate. "Can't I have a decent meal in this house? Just one meal – that’s all I eat at home, and that too, isn't fit for a human being! You'd better learn to cook, or else you sit at home and cook all day long. No more fancy jobs for you!"

"It's not a fancy job," Khushi replied, her voice as expressionless and flat as she could manage it. Her eyes, a molten color somewhere between green and hazel, held cool distaste towards the man obviously nursing a bad hangover. "My job is what gives you the food you eat, and you'd better remember that. If I stop work, will you give me money to run the house? You've never given it till date. You waste it all in gambling and your drink."

"Don't talk to your brother like that," said her father, sharply. "If you want money, ask for it. You're supposed to run the house, not work outside. You're allowed to work because you wanted to, and I gave you permission. I can withdraw permission if I feel you're getting above yourself, young woman."

Khushi subsided. There was no point in arguing, and she didn't want to stop work. Her work was her lifeline, giving her a chance to get out of this house for a greater part of the day. This miserable stifling house, where she felt imprisoned and chained, a house where she never quite felt that she belonged. If she had to sit inside the whole day, she would die.

The two men clattered out, and she quickly cleared up the kitchen, and then got ready herself. Within half an hour, she was off, changing two buses to get to the bustling city hospital where she worked as a social psychologist.

Khushi loved her work. She loved the bustle of the hospital, the ever-changing pattern of daily life. She loved the people she met, from the harried doctors and smiling nurses, to the ward boys and fat, waddling amahs who cleared up after deliveries in the busy labour rooms. And, of course, she loved the patients. The frightened ones, the nervous ones, waiting for surgery, the soft-spoken women, who came for their deliveries, sweating in pain, the children, who bore their illnesses stoically, with the optimism of childhood, always believing they 'would be better soon'. When she moved among them, talking to them, comforting them, counseling them, giving them books and magazines, she forgot her own dreary life, and became a part of theirs. She rejoiced when their babies were born, she celebrated when they recovered and were sent home, she grieved when they died, or lost some body part, which would never recover. Best, of all, the part she loved best of her work, she delighted in new parents when they adopted a new baby, gave an orphan or a destitute baby a home and a whole new life.

Today, however, was not going to start on a happy note. Mrs. Gill, her supervisor, normally the kindliest and cheeriest of women, was waiting for her with a decidedly grim look on her face.

"You need to go to the 6th floor stat," she told Khushi, flatly, and gave her details in her usual brusque, to the point manner. Khushi always wondered whether Mrs. Gill had mastered the art of hiding her emotions, or whether she never felt any, had become immune to them after the overwhelming volume that overflowed around her everyday, for the last so many years. She suspected the former. Mrs. Gill was a warmhearted, generous woman, who had given Khushi affection as well as direction, from the day she had joined the hospital. 

Now she looked at her notes, then back at Khushi, and spoke evenly, in the short staccato sentences that were characteristic while briefing Khushi or her other juniors. "A lady has just come in, she's 7 months pregnant, been in a bad accident. Probably will lose the baby. They need to take her for surgery. She's refusing. Go talk to her, Khushi, there's a good girl. You may need to do some counselling to the husband as well. He's in a state of shock. Driver of the car died. She was coming here for her regular check up. Go, Khushi!" The last was spoken in a more urgent tone, as Khushi stared at her speechlessly, her face showing her horror as she tried to take in the magnitude of the tragedy. 

Khushi went, her heart already sorrowing for the poor woman.

It was worse than she had imagined.

The girl ... for she was hardly more than Khushi's own age, was fair and petite, and very, very pretty. That, Khushi saw at a glance, as she had no injuries above her waist. Below … Khushi drew in a deep breath. Even though she was used to ghastly sights, this one made her feel sick and faint.

The girl's stomach protruded far more than a seven month pregnancy, and Khushi recognized, with a sinking feeling, that she had haemorrhaged inside the abdomen. A large haemorrhage, by the look of the huge bulge. The cloth covering her abdomen was blood soaked, as was the one covering her legs. A small foot peeped out from the sheet, and from experience, Khushi recognized the look. Severe crush injury. Amputation? One or both feet, Khushi wondered, as she approached the bed, forcing a small smile to her lips.

"Anjali?"

The girl looked at her wildly, tears running down her cheeks.

"Are you a doctor? Please, please, save my baby. I don't care about my legs! Please save my baby! Please ... I beg of you ..."

"Shshsh," Khushi comforted, as she sat down on a small stool next to the bed. "Anjali, you have to calm down. This is not good for you or for the baby. Please calm down."

She took hold of the other girl's hand, and pressed it gently. The man sitting on the other side of the bed looked up at her, and she noticed him for the first time. He had been sitting there, holding the injured girl's hand, his head down. He looked at her directly and she met his gaze with a sense of shock.

Kaise Yeh Rishtey - Introduction

This is an original story written by me, the names have been taken from Iss Pyaar Ko Kya Naam Doon, but the characters are mine. No part of this story can be reproduced anywhere without my permission.

Characters: 

Khushi Gupta









Arnav Singh Raizada

Baba - Khushi's father

Shyam Gupta - Khushi's brother

Anjali Bansal

Aman Bansal - Anjali's husband

Akash Singh Raizada - younger brother of Arnav Singh Raizada

Lavanya Kashyap

Shivanya Kashyap

Radhika Singh Raizada - ASR's niece

Mr Arvind Singh Raizada - Arnav and Akash's father

Ajay and Poonam Raizada - Radhika's late parents, Arnav's younger brother and his wife - only present in name, they died before the story started.