Shorts: An IPKKND Collection

When They Were: Part 1

Part One: When She Was ...

When she was born, he was an experimental pinch in the chaos, a pair of unsteady hands that cradled her, a voice that shook – "Hi Khushi, I'm Arnav. I'm three years old and I'm your neighbour. You're tiny."

When she was two, he was a proud figure in a school uniform, a gift of her favourite dolly, a guest for afternoon tea with her toys – "Does Geeta want more tea?"

When she was five, he was a shout on the neighbourhood streets, a confusion of fireworks that terrified her on Diwali, a challenge on the sun-drenched days – "Khushi you can't play cricket with the boys" – and a grin that faded away as she proved she could.

When she was nine, he was a bully; a river of tears on her pillow, a string of hurtful names – "Chashmish", "Four-Eyes", "Snaggletooth" – and a vow to never forgive or forget.

When she was twelve, he was a tug on her pigtails, an inexplicable quickening of her heartbeat, a girlish wish in her diary – "Khushi Kumari Gupta Singh Raizada"

When she was fourteen, he was a tingle in her fingertips, electricity along her skin, a secret smile as she lay down to sleep, the first blush of her womanhood.

When she was fifteen, he was absence – an ache in her chest and a catch in her breath, a rush of joy when he returned for weekends and holidays, a smile on Diwali, a scowl on Holi.

When she was seventeen, he was a series of glances from across the room, a gentle but persistent flirtation, a stolen kiss, an embrace in the darkness, a soft-spoken promise of forever.

When she was eighteen, he was heartbreak, a stern warning from her father, a shadow that disappeared into the night, a note of apology on her windowsill, a collection of broken promises and painful memories.

When she was twenty, he was a mistake – she knew better, she did, she did – but he was a forbidden temptation and she was weakness – "You are my one regret, Khushi. I love you and I hate what I did to you."

When she was twenty-two, he was a suitor in her lounge-room, a pair of trembling hands that clutched a cup of her tea, a smooth, confident voice as he asked for her father's permission.

When she was twenty-three, he was a dream made reality, her future waiting for her at themandap, a mangalsutra around her neck and sindoor in her hair, a long awaited night of passion.

When she was twenty-five, he was the father of her child, a pair of unsteady hands, a voice that shook – "Hi Geeta, I'm your Daddy. You're tiny and perfect and Mummy and I love you so much."