Shorts: An IPKKND Collection

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai

"Salman-ji is back!" Khushi squealed, bouncing on the sofa next to him as Salman Khan appeared on screen.

Smiling, Arnav pulled his wife back into his embrace as she grinned at the TV. They were taking advantage of a rare weekend of freedom at the farmhouse. Popcorn and jalebi sat on the low table in front of them, and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai was nearing its end. Aarav, bored with the movie some fifteen minutes in, had retreated to his bedroom.

"I thought we were finally watching a movie without your beloved Salman-ji when you picked this," he confessed as he fed Khushi some popcorn, "I'd forgotten he was in it."

They watched in silence for a while, his arm about her shoulders and his fingers idly tracing over her collarbone. She smacked his hand when his fingers ventured too far south, so he settled back and counted the minutes until the movie ended. It was all pointless dramatics at this point; Rahul and Anjali's future had been decided long before their sensual dance in the rain.

Arnav's mind wandered to another too-sensual dance, his fingers tangled in Khushi's hair and his hand running under the pallu of her sari. Desire ran through him like wildfire.

"Salman-ji is so nice," his wife, unaware of his plight, gushed, "he loves her so much that he lets her go. Do you love me that much?"

"What the f–!" his lust vanished in an instant, replaced by bewildered anger.

"Do you love me that much?" she repeated, grinning up at him.

For a moment, there was white blinding rage that she'd questioned his love, his dedication, eighteen months after he'd married her for a second time. He released her, breathing hard, his tongue already forming words to throw at her.

Then another memory hit him, bitter and sharp and cold, and he was suddenly breathless with anguish.

Khushi noted the change in him and stiffened in response, perhaps feeling the sudden tension in his body or seeing the coldness in his eyes. Excitement and happiness leached out of her expression.

"Arnav-ji ..."

"There was a time," he began, forcing the words out despite the constriction in his chest that made it hard to breathe, "there was a week where you were not mine to want, a week where you'd chosen another future for yourself despite the truth that shone in your eyes."

She closed her eyes, inhaling sharply. "Arnav-ji ..."

"I died a hundred times in that week, only to be reborn and die once again," Arnav closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, "Don't ever, ever, ask me that again. Understand?"

The pain of those days had torn him to shreds, leaving behind a husk of a man who'd needed to torment her ... to watch her bleed and satisfy himself that she felt a fraction of the agony he did.

"I was just–"

"–You were just asking a silly question. I know. Understand this, Khushi, it would destroy me to see you walk away with someone else."

She kissed him, gentle and soft, as her hands came up to cradle his face. His fingers splayed across her back as he returned her kiss, on the edge of desperation. The movie forgotten, Khushi led him to their bedroom, locking the door before rushing to him.

"I'm sorry," she pressed kisses to his face, his neck, his lips, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Arnav kissed her, hard, hot, demanding. She matched his fire with her own. Slowly, as their clothes rustled to the floor and her murmurs turned into sighs, his anguish was replaced by her love. Their kisses gentled. She soothed away the roughened edges of his distress, turning it bit by bit into another ache, one that only she could ease.

Later, as she lay boneless and satiated next to him, skin sweat sheened and hair in wild disarray, he found that he was able to joke.

"Next time, I pick the movie."