Meherbaan (Hinglish) [Book 1]

14 I | Bhaage Re Mann

To those moments which reimburse your belief in love and life.

I never knew how much you'd want

To live again with innocence

Like the good old days, our glory years

When you still were here

You would promise me we wouldn't change

Though we were young we'd stay the same

That I'd always be in your life

But we soon move on

And we can make promises

Forget the way we live

- Promises, The Boxer Rebellion

Raman Kumar Bhalla was in awe. He was in awe of his wife. Her innocence. Her naivete. Her beauty. Her kindness. Her warmth. Her love. Her relationships. Her care. Her faith. Her motherhood. The way she carried her out duties. Her charisma. Her. If heavens were to open up and ask him on his guardian angel, who would have undoubtedly called out to her. His wife.

She flicked away a stray lock of hair as she giggled along with her cousins. And then she pouted. So, that was how their daughter learn to pout. The pout had turned into a smile which then turned into fits of giggles of pure mirth. She moved in circles along with the other girls. The shirt she now wore hitching up with every twirl and jump, unknowingly gaining unwanted attention towards her.

He didn't like their gazes. He didn't like their talks. He didn't like the way they stared at her. He didn't like them.

She had looked angelic. Her smile radiating eons of happiness. She looked like a grown up version of their daughter - who danced away at a tiny gesture made by her parents towards each other, like the holi celebration. She looked towards him. Her head moving into a questioning nod, a smile gracing her face, her hair all over face. He had just shaken his head in response, hinting to her shirt to which she paid no heed to. Rolling his eyes he turned to walk towards her direction. She now held a questioning glance.

Standing right in front her, he had held her by her or rather, his shirt and pulled her towards him. Shielding her from any unwanted viewers, he had taken the two ends of the shirt she wore and knotted them together, securing the short at her navel. She lifted her arms on either side - as if meaning to say that she had nothing to do with whatever that he was upto - an enchanting grin was something her face has chosen to flaunt now. He had taken a step back, grinning at the chance to be so close to her. His fingers motioned her to turn around, which she obediently did. She had let out a chuckle in pure mirth. He had collected the strands of hair that escaped her messy hair do, untied her locks and had then proceeded to tie them up all over again - all whilst shaking his head at her ignorance.

With his job done, he turned to leave only to be stopped by her soft hands.

"We have to practice, Raman," she had said

"I don't do practices," he had stoutly.

"Mere liye? Izzat ka savaal hai yaar."

He couldn't refuse her and her izzat. Thinking of all the lectures that would follow his denial, gave him mental shudders.

"Kya kya karwati ho yaar, Madrasan." He had muttered feigning annoyance. Truth be told, he would love to be close to his wife. The thoughts of all the proximity to come gave him a sense of, oh, he didn't know. It had just felt real good.