Chapter 1: Khushi

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Khushi peeked between the jars and canisters, trying to steal a glimpse of him as the water boiled. Luckily, he'd placed his dining chair so she had a clear view of him as he waited.

He brought his entire family to see me, Khushi fretted, nervously toying with the end of her dupatta.

There was an elderly matron, a middle-aged man, a middle-aged lady wearing makeup as if it was going out of fashion (his wife?), a grinning young woman who looked sweet, and a shy, bespectacled man who looked out of his depth.

And of course, him.

Khushi turned away, biting her lip, and fished the last of the samosas from a pan of oil. She strained them before adding them to the pile already arranged on a thaali. Then a quick glance at the pot, but the water wasn't even close to boiling. It took a lot of water to make tea for such a crowd.

She returned to her covert surveillance, cataloguing the differences between the photo she'd been looking at for three days and the living, breathing man sitting with her family. His hair was longer, she noted, in danger of falling into his eyes without the gel he'd applied to beat it into submission.

He wears suit-boot even when he's not at the office.

He was dressed in black – black suit, black shoes, black tie – with a dark blue shirt to break up the starkness. It made him look grim, and Khushi thought that he'd looked better in the white shirt and grey suit he'd worn in the photo.

But the stern and forbidding countenance she'd seen in the photo was present in reality, as were the blankness in his eyes and the scowl in his features

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But the stern and forbidding countenance she'd seen in the photo was present in reality, as were the blankness in his eyes and the scowl in his features.

Khushi shivered.

He looked handsome, and his family seemed nice, but Khushi wanted a husband who was kind and loving, someone who would smile and laugh with her.

She returned to the tea, already planning polite refusals in her mind.

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