Shorts: An IPKKND Collection

When They Were: Part 2

Part Two: When He Was ...

When he was three, she was a tiny bundle in his arms, a happy gurgle, a hand that reached up to grasp his nose, a whispered question to his mother – "Mamma, I was never this small, was I?"

When he was five, she was an obligatory visit every week, an annoyance to be suffered, a collection of boring, girly games he detested – "No, your dolly does not want more tea."

When he was eight, she was a blur of brightness on the streets, a shriek of terror on Diwali, a stream of never-ending questions – "Do you want some jalebi? I made it myself. Babu-ji only helped a little bit. Why can't you eat sweets?"

When he was eleven, she was a wild gap-toothed giggle, a rush of tears when he teased, but everyone agreed that boys were never friends with girls.

When he was fifteen, she was childish but cute, a bright smile, a swinging plait and a boost to his ego – "Arnav, you're just like Salman-ji!"

When he was eighteen, she was a flower in bloom, electricity on his skin and heat in his veins, and he wasn't the only one who noticed – "ASR, your neighbour is turning into a babe!"

When he was nineteen, she was a forbidden possibility, a dream that danced out of his reach with a peal of laughter, a face that haunted him in the moments of silence between class, a nameless yearning every time he returned home.

When he was twenty, she was temptation, a blush when her beautiful eyes met his, a small hand that trembled in his, a soft gasp as their lips met, a brash promise of forever that he couldn't quite regret.

When he was twenty-one, she was ruin, or maybe he was – "You've ruined her future!" – and he was a coward – "It meant nothing, Khushi. Nothing." – but he couldn't banish the thought she was everything.

When he was twenty-three, she was a magnetic pull, the comfort of home and the sweetness of forgiveness, and he was brave, finally the man she needed.

When he was twenty-four, she was sand slipping through his fingers, a prize to be won by the dozens of suitors at her door, a princess in a tower where her father kept guard.

When he was twenty-six, she was a long-wished-for salvation, a tremble dressed in red, a soft whisper at the mandap – "Arnav, I love you." – a dream he woke to every morning thereafter.

When he was twenty-eight, she was the mother of his child, a happy giggle, a hand that reached up to hold him closer, and he was a question – "Khushi, I was never this small, was I?"