Kaisey Yeh Rishtey - 22

Chapter 22

He didn't mention Lavanya again, and Khushi completely forgot about the incident with the old man. So did Arnav.

Until it was brought to his attention in a strange way.

A few days later, Arnav was sitting in his office, talking to his manager and friend, Vijay Dhawan, when a business card was brought in by his secretary. Arnav looked at the name, puzzled, and cocked an inquiring glance at his secretary, who shrugged her shoulders. He nodded, not pausing in his conversation with Vijay, and she showed in an elderly gentleman.

At the sight of him, Arnav stopped in mid-sentence, and stared. It was the same man, he realised, who had been quizzing Khushi a few nights ago at the club.

The other man smiled at Arnav's expression.

"I see that you have recognized me," he said. His voice was low, cultured, and held a tinge of amusement. Arnav smiled in return and rose to shake the hand the other man offered.

"I haven't really," replied Arnav. "My apologies. But I do remember you. And I also remember my wife telling me about your conversation with her the other night. Please ... have a seat. How can I help you?"

"That's what I've come about," replied the other. "Your wife. I'm Mahendra Shah, by the way. I'm a member of the club we were in two nights ago. And no, you don't know me apart from that. But my name is not important. What is important is your wife."

Arnav looked as he felt - baffled. The other man ignored his offer of a seat, and remained standing, his eyes fixed on Arnav.

"Where is she from?" asked Mahendra Shah. "Your wife? Who are her parents, her family? I want to find out about her."

Arnav exchanged glances with Vijay Dhawan.

"Excuse me, sir, but I need to know why you are so interested in her," said Arnav, firmly. "If you can explain your interest in her, I will decide whether I can answer you."

Mahendra Shah nodded, obviously not surprised by the answer. From his pocket, he produced a photograph, and handed it to Arnav.

Arnav looked at it and his eyebrows went up.

It was a photograph of a bride and groom. The photograph was old, in black and white, but there was no mistaking the features of the bride. The bride was Khushi.

Arnav looked at Mahendra Shah sharply.

"Who are you?" he asked fiercely. "Where did you get this photograph? This isn't … this can't be my wife. If you're trying to tell me that, I won't believe you. There's some mistake. I know my Khushi. She would never deceive me."

Mahendra Shah smiled. "So you've seen the resemblance too, have you? Good. At least I know I'm not imagining things. And, no, in answer to your question, your wife is not deceiving you."

Arnav stared. "Resemblance?" He looked at the photograph again, and back at Mr. Shah. "You mean, this isn't Khushi?"

Mahendra Shah shook his head, a half-smile on his face. "Not unless she's about 60 years old now! This photograph is of my very dear friend, Mayur, and his wife, Prayukta, taken on their wedding day about 45, maybe 50  years ago. But now do you see why I was shocked to see your wife?"

Arnav shook his head. His face showed his complete confusion. "I … I don't understand."

"Neither do I," said the older man. "Especially as I was told ... about twenty five years ago ... that their only daughter, who resembled her mother very closely, by the way, had died. After which, my friend and his wife cut off all ties with, as far as we know, almost all their old friends. You can imagine why I was shocked to see your wife."

Arnav was speechless.

"I have another photograph," said the other man, producing it. "This is not so clear, but I think the resemblance is still very strong."

Arnav looked at the second photograph. This showed a young laughing girl with a group of other girls. They were all teenagers, and all obviously having fun together. Her head was thrown back, and she was laughing.

The resemblance to Khushi was, if anything, even stronger.

Arnav sat down. His head was spinning.

"This is Prayukta's daughter. The resemblance between mother and daughter is strong, isn't it? Do you see why I'm so keen to find out who your wife is?" asked Mahendra Shah. "She told me her father's name the other night at the club. It meant nothing to me. I'm not surprised about that ... I didn't expect that it would.  Mayur Singh's daughter was unmarried when she died. If she did die, that is."

"What are you getting at?" asked Arnav. The other man looked at him impatiently.

"Don't you see? No, you obviously don't. I have to tell you something about my friend for you to understand what I'm saying."

He turned away to the window and gazed out unseeingly. 

"Mayur Digvijay Singh," he said heavily. "One of my oldest friends. From a royal Rajput family. Very, very conscious of his status, of his family. Not too much money, but enough. More than enough for some people. And enough and more of pride. Stiff-necked, I used to call him. Not just pride, arrogance."

He turned back to Arnav. "They had one daughter. The apple of their eye. Garima, they called her. Pride. And she was their pride and joy, the light in their life. Very bright, very beautiful, very intelligent. An Honours student at school and college. She won scholarships, trophies, prizes. They were so proud of her. Mayur dreamed big for her, much bigger than his clan was wont to do. They were Rajputs, and girls in their family were only meant to be wives and mothers. But Mayur wanted Garima to be so much more. A leader, a politician, keeper of their jaagir ... in their little corner of Rajasthan, the royal families are still revered as leaders, and Mayur wanted her to take over his mantle."

The old man looked away and Arnav could see him swallow, struggle to retain control. He looked back at Arnav and continued.

"Then one day, we heard that she had died. In an accident. We got a terse message from Mayur's secretary. There was no cremation date, no prayer meeting, nothing. And the next we heard, Mayur and his wife left Bombay. They just packed and left, just like that. And they have kept no contact with any of their old friends. None at all. We tried to trace them, to contact them, but with no success. That was the last I had heard from him for the last twenty five years. Till I saw your wife two nights ago. And I began to wonder if the rumours were true after all."

"What rumours?" asked Arnav, sharply.

The old man looked at him straight.

"That Garima hadn't died. That she had run away with a man. That Mayur had been so furious that he had cut her off, just like that."

Arnav sat down, in a state of shock. His brain was reeling. He shook his head.

"Wouldn't your friend have made his peace with his daughter by now?" he asked slowly, wonderingly. "Twenty-five years … how can somebody cut off their own child …?" he shook his head, unable to take it in, the enormity of what the other man was telling him.

He looked at Mahendra Shah. "It can't be," he said, more firmly, trying to think rationally, though his brain was still whirling. "It must be a coincidence. This resemblance … it’s just a coincidence. She can’t be … this  … this Garima’s daughter. It’s not possible. Her family … they’re just too different. I've met Khushi's father. How could a girl like Garima have fallen in love with a man like … that Kumar …” he stopped, remembering the dissolute features of Khushi’s father, and shook his head. He looked at Mahendra Shah.

"No," he said more surely. "No. It can't be. This is too much of a coincidence. This just can't be."

Mahendra Shah looked at him seriously. "I know it’s difficult to believe,” he said heavily. “Even I can’t quite believe it. But I had to try. I need to know for sure. Her face has been in my mind ever since I saw her two nights ago. Just tell me her mother’s family – their name, anything.  Can you tell me? What is her family? What is her mother's name? Please, if you can, let me get rid of this suspense."

Arnav shook his head slowly. "I don't know. No, honestly…", as the other man shook his head disbelievingly. "I really don't know. I have met her father and brother. I can tell you their names, but I have never asked her mother's name. Strange, but it never seemed important."

Mahendra Shah looked disappointed. "You have no clue at all?" he asked hopefully.

Arnav shook his head, slowly. "I don't think she ever mentioned it, and we really never talked about her mother very much," he said. "She died when Khushi was just about two years old. Khushi doesn't remember her at all, and has no photographs, nothing that I know of. Nothing that she has shown me. She didn't …" he admitted slowly, "have a very happy family life, and she's never shown any desire to go back, or to talk about her parents. Except," he added,  "what she told me about her parents, just those few details I told you ... when we were discussing our marriage.”

Mahendra Shah looked extremely disappointed.

"You have no clue?" he asked, heavily.  "Anything you can remember? Any name she might have dropped?"

Arnav shook his head. "She really doesn't know anything about her mother, or her mother's family," he said. "Except what her father has told her, which apparently, is very little. I don't think she even knows her grandparents' name."

Mahendra Shah looked down, and sighed heavily. "I'm sorry," he said, sadly. "I had hoped …so much … anyway, thank you for your …"

“She did say,” interrupted Arnav slowly, as he suddenly remembered his first conversation with Khushi in his office, “that her mother was from a rich family, and had run away with her father,”

Mahendra Shah stopped and both men looked at each other, arrested. Arnav continued slowly, trying to remember that long ago conversation.

“But … her mother tried to go back to her parents when Khushi was a baby, … and … her grandfather kicked her out.”

He looked at the older man disbelievingly.

“Would he … your friend … have done that? Thrown out his own granddaughter? A small baby? His daughter - if she realised she'd made a mistake - if she wanted to go back? Would he still have ...”

Mahendra Shah sighed heavily.

“It sounds like him,” he admitted very unwillingly. "He threw her out once, he  might have done it again."
He looked at Arnav urgently. “Please … what is her mother’s name? Just tell me that. This suspense is killing me.”

“I … don’t know,” said Arnav slowly, trying his best to remember. Had Khushi ever mentioned her mother’s name? After that one conversation, she had never even mentioned her mother again. It had all been about her brother and father, and getting away from them. Had she ever taken her mother’s name?

"Wait!" exclaimed Arnav. "Of course, why didn't I think of this before?"