For the lovelies who are celebrating IPK to its finest @arshifiesta
Character. Gentility. Obedience.
These were the jewels of being an honourable woman and Khushi Dasgupta had none of those.
Her character, a question ever since she was born out of a wedlock between a British soldier who never returned and a Bengali singer who never sang again. The only thing she had left was her extended family who reluctantly gave their name to her and her father’s hazel eyes.
Her gentility was nowhere to be found for she was to be often found at pro independence speeches or singing revolutionary songs. Her mother’s talent was the last thing she inherited. It is said she had driven off at least seven suitors with impeccable terrible grace, off key singing and barely controlled tongue.
Obedience was what her family tried beating into her. But perhaps it was her aunt’s gentility and selfless, guiding hand that Khushi obeyed her family as a debt owed to to the kind woman.
She took the effort to recount the love story the city never saw.
Shashikala never approved her sister’s decision of singing. Yet when Ganga Devi Burman took the stage by storm, she had no option but to smile. Especially when she fell right off the stage and landed into the arms of a British soldier - Lt. Kennedy Watson.
If it hadn’t been for the summer tan, Ganga would have never found him appealing. Definitely not for his hazel eyes nor for his flawless understanding of Bangla and its literature.
After all, he was born in the same city as her.
At first Kennedy fought with the feelings he felt for Ganga for she pushed him to unlearn the imperial love for his country if he wished to love her. Then he fought for the land he was raised in as opposed to land he was taught to worship.
The first day Kennedy returned bloody, with a rebellion in his eyes that Ganga saw in her revolutionary brothers eyes - she gave her heart, soul and a kiss-
This is the part of the story of the story where Khushi always giggled, making Shashikala shush her before continuing, continuing to stroke Khushi’s head on her lap.
And then, Kennedy did propose to Ganga. They had planned a long wedding. One Christian to honour his God. One Hindu to honour hers.
This is where Shashikala would end the story for the wedding never happened.
It was tale as old as time. Just when everything good was about to happen, the opposite occurred. The imperialists were not happy to find one of their own defect. He disappeared without a trace, leaving Ganga, their child and love without a name.
Khushi hugged her Mashi (aunt) even closer. Despite the tragic tale being her favorite lullaby, even as an adult, she could only hope for a love as strong as her parents.
And hoped to be a human as kind as her Mashi.
— — —
Things changed dramatically as Shashikala Mashi passed away due to an early sudden heart attack.
The house grew colder, the perceptions of her more apparent, and her burden on the financially strife family heavier.
Khushi had to be sent off. There were three other sons to marry and two daughters to be married off.
The man who arrived with gifts at her doorstep to relieve the Dasguptas of their burden neither promised a love story like her parents, nor kindness like her aunt.
Sharp eyed, broad framed, wealthy and the heir of the Mullick family - Shyam Mullick was here to find a second wife in Khushi.
Dread settled in her stomach as her relatives seemed pleased with the money in front, even though the man seemed at least twenty years older than Khushi.
Or that he was already married to the Anjali Rani Tagore. The finest lineage, and a pool of infinite wealth, wisdom and beauty.
Khushi ran up the stairs. She had to run. Run as far as her two legs could take her. Where did she make a mistake? When did that man see her and fancy her? Was her relatives so eager to dust her off their hands?
“Oh Maa, bachao amake,” Khushi prayed to her Goddess and ran through multiple roofs.
Except one gave away and she fell straight into someone’s arms.
She opened her eyes and stared into the strangers face. Brown eyes, clenched jaws, perfectly shaped lips and a gaze that set her heart fluttering.
Was he a prince?
But since when did princes dress up like an English babu?
The sound of hurried footsteps broke them apart. Khushi turned red, her skin flaming up at where his fingers touched her skin.
Gently, as if she weighed a feather, he set her down. Worry returned to his face and he seemed to have aged in an instant.
“Arnob-da…” a man panted.
“Ei boka, kotobar bolbo Arnav-da doesn’t like to be called Arnob” another said.
Arnav glared at the two men - probably his househelp?
“I know where he went.”
Rage filled Arnav’s eyes. And without another word he stormed out.
— — —
The monsoon storm died out overnight, leaving Khushi to enjoy one of the last things she could - a small ride on a ferry across Hooghly.
Her protests against the marriage fell on deaf ears. If anything, her ears still rang from the slap Pishimoni gave her.
Shyam Babu offered to assist in Payal’s marriage. Why was he so intent on marrying Khushi? What did Khushi even do? How did he even get to meet her?
“O Maa,” this time Khushi touched the holy Hooghly river, “please help me,”
The ferry bumped into the shore and Khushi collected herself to step out when,
“Tumi?”
“Aapni?”
Khushi blinked at Arnav. Standing tall, this time in not his entirety of a tailored piece suit, just in his full length shirt, suspenders and pant - he took a keen look at her.
Khushi touched her cheek. Did the slap leave a mark? She fixed the edge of her saree. After a moment alone, she spoke.
“Sorry, you must want this boat alone,”
“Are you going to the other side?” Arnav asked. Khushi couldn’t help but feel that she was being studied. She nodded.
“OI, TARATARI-” the ferryman swallowed his hollering as Arnav shot a glare at him.
Khushi didn’t know what happened when he boarded the ferry. Except that the ferryman must have taken his anger out on by moving it away before Arnav could fully stand.
Leading him to fall right on Khushi.
Khushi prayed her eyes didn’t reveal her secrets and desires. And prayed that he would be unable to read anything at all.
She scrambled to sit up and sat horrified at the red on Arnav’s chest.
Did she kill him?
“Oh this bloody pen!” Khushi sighed in relief at his curse and his discomfort over a broken red pen. The ferry rocked out of nowhere, splashing him with water.
Khushi could spy a devious smile on the ferryman’s paan stained lips.
Arnav let out a colourful string of words as he attempted to wipe himself, leading to the ink to spread more viciously on him.
Khushi burst into laughter as he got completely worked up.
Oh it had been years since she laughed this hard.
— — —
“Laughing suits you,”
Khushi laid awake all night. The depression of her impending wedding not settling in for the three words he said.
And the thousand he didn’t.
He saw the slap. And she saw the tick in his jaw. The questions he refrained himself from asking. The stories she refrained herself from telling.
Khushi tried sleeping, these days of Durga Pujo were peace. She could try running away for real.
But with whom?
Khushi’s heart twisted into knots as a face became clear.
Without a full name and more than twenty words exchanged, Khushi saw more hope in a stranger than a suitor.
Oh dear, none had a more foolish mind than of Khushi Dasgupta.
— — —
A/N: omg thank you for all the love before! Let me know how you liked this chapter 💕 (also sorry not proofread!)
Tagging some lovelies here @chutkiandchotte @barshifan @laadgovernorandsankadevi @laad-governess @shiyaravi @msbhagirathi @phuljari @hand-picked-star @aye-masakalii @featheredclover
don’t you ever take your life out of mine, i’ll fucking kill you, take you out to the bayou in the cabin with the mildew, and i'll leave you there for someone to find, my little angel ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Just finished editing the whole of MJHT (to the unversed, I like editing my comfort tv shows - which includes tweaking plots, characters, tracks, etc) and now I'm a big pile of emotions cause I edited an ending recap which is the whole show in 17 minutes...
