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hand-picked-star · 2 months ago

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The 13th Anniversary Arshi feista

Moodboard : Historical AU

Whispers of the Heart | Chapter 21

DISCLAIMER: The story is set in the early 20th century. While I have made efforts to capture the essence of the era, there may be inaccuracies as this is a work of fantasy. I do not own the characters Arnav and Khushi, and this story is purely fictional with no relation to any real individuals, living or dead. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

WARNING: 18+, MATURE CONTENT

Chapter 21

The next few months brought a hectic change to Khushi's life. As their return to India was delayed, she finally enrolled for her last semester at the University of London. Living in a foreign country was one thing, but attending university with people from different cultures was a completely different experience altogether. Though the experience was terrifying at times, it was also profoundly wholesome.

She also met two of her best friends, whom she would cherish for the rest of her life. They would become her partners in establishing the charitable foundation "Little Happiness" which she would build later in her life from scratch. They would also be the first people, besides Arnav, to read the first draft of her debut book, actually almost every book, she would write in future.

One of them, Nithin Kingsley, "Hamari dost hume pyaar se NK bulate hain"-that's his words, not Khushi's, was someone she met in the neighbourhood actually. NK was Devyani Ji's grandson, the son of her daughter who lived in Spain. NK wanted to visit India, so he came to see his grandmother to refine his Hindi. During his stay, Nani Ji, Khushi, and NK embarked on a hilarious journey to sharpen NK's Hindi skills. Through their amusing and sometimes chaotic attempts, NK and Khushi formed an unlikely friendship that lasted a lifetime.

And the other best friend she met, was in university through the extracurricular society she had reluctantly signed up for to earn extra credits. She chose the literary society, driven by her lifelong aspiration to become a writer. The members were divided into groups of ten, each tasked with staging a play in collaboration with the theatrical society. Her group was assigned the play "Romeo and Juliet" by William Shakespeare.

It was during the preparation for the play that she met Lalita Kensington. Lalita was the leader of the team, barking orders at everyone. She appointed Khushi with the duty of setting up the fairy lights on the stage to set up the right mood for the actors. Somehow, unbeknownst to anyone, Khushi got entangled in the fairy lights, which were accidentally switched on. From that moment, the team started calling her "Chamkili" to tease her. One day, when Lalita called her by that name, Khushi stood up to her and said she didn't like being called 'Chamkili'.

That day, after wrapping up their dialogue writing class for the literary society, Lalita offered Khushi a bar of chocolate and a dazzling smile.

"Hello, my name is Lalita Kensington. My friends affectionately call me 'La.' You can call me that too," Lalita said, extending a hand to Khushi. "I am sorry I called you 'Chamkili' earlier."

"It's okay," Khushi chuckled, offering her a friendly smile. "Hi, my name is Khushi Kumari Gupta Singh Raizada. People affectionately call me Khushi."

"Wow, you have such a long name. But why did you laugh? Are you making fun of my name?" Lalita asked scrunching her eyebrows.

"No, no. Your name reminded me of my neighbour. He talks like you, actually. His name is Nithin Kingsley, but people affectionately called him NK." They both shared a gleeful laugh.

"Is he cute?"

And that's how their banter began, becoming seemingly unstoppable whenever these two friends got together. They bonded over their shared love for literature and food. And Khushi found a precious friendship she had never expected. So it was very surreal for Khushi when the two best friends of hers met and formed an instant connection.

It was her 20th birthday. Nani Ji and NK had planned a surprise for her. Nani Ji baked a cake and came to visit her in the afternoon. Khushi was so happy. She made jalebis and rabri for her birthday and offered them to Nani Ji and NK. As she was making tea for them, the doorbell rang.

"Khushi ji, chinta mat kijiye. Main dekhta hoon," NK's voice filtered through the kitchen.

As NK opened the door, it felt as though time had slowed down. He came face to face with a girl who made his heart almost stop beating as he stared at her without blinking even once.

"Hello," Lalita said, waving a hand in front of him.

"Hi," he murmured breathlessly.

"Who are you? Where's Khushi?"

"Main Khushi ji ka beiman hu."

"Aap Khushi ka kya hain?" she said, doing a double take.

"Beiman, you know, guest."

"Beiman nahi, mehman hota hain."

"Aap Indian ho?"

"Half-Indian. Meri ma Indian hain, dad British."

"Mera bhi. Actually my mom is half-Indian and dad British."

As Khushi approached the front door, she found NK staring foolishly at her best friend with heart-eyes.

Lalita asked Khushi lowly, "Who's this cartoon?"

"La, this is my neighbour I told you about, remember? La, meet Nithin Kingsley, aka NK."

"Hi, I am NK. Aur aapki takleef?"

"What?" Lalita rolled her eyes and added, "Takleef nahi, tareef hota hai. I am La, I mean Lalita Kensington."

"Aap meri dil ki baat kitni achi tarah se jaanti hain, Lalita ji."

Khushi saw Lalita roll her eyes at him again, but a small smile ghosted her lips as he gazed at her with stars in his eyes. Over the next few weeks, NK talked her head off by alternately talking about Lalita and how much he would miss Khushi when she leaves London next month.

"Lalita ji kitni nice hai na, I mean unka face, unki aankhein, unki baal, unki naazuk haath, sab kuch..sab kuch...kitna... kitna nice hai na.....Aur lalita ji jab bathein karti hain....oh..oh..hoo..wow, ese lagta hain ke jese ki saari duniya geyi jhaar mein."

"Hmm."

"Khushi ji, aap agle mahine chale jayenge, hum aapko bohot miss karenge."

"NK, I'll give you my address. Come visit me when you come to India."

The remaining time before going back to India was spent preparing and saying goodbyes. It was a bittersweet moment for Khushi. As for Arnav, he didn't form any emotional attachment to the city, but Khushi had a feeling that she would miss it somehow. She would always hold dear the moments, good or bad, that she spent in this city. She would miss Devyani Ji, NK, and La. She would always miss the cottage that had seen so many of their moments and had been with them through thick and thin. She would also remember the bitter moments, as those had taught her to be better in life.

"Do you need any help wearing that saree? " Arnav asked from the doorway of their room, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"NO, absolutely not. don't come near me," Khushi said rapidly shaking her head. "I don't want to be late for this party."

"Come on, let me help. You're obviously struggling over there," Arnav said, moving closer. "See, this part is sticking out." He tugged at a loose part of her saree from her waist, causing the fabric to unravel completely.

"Arnav!!!!!" Khushi whined, stomping her feet.

Arnav raised his hands in a sign of surrender and flopped down on the bed, hugging a pillow.

"Since when did you make so many best friends? Now you want to go to a girl's birthday party you met six months ago instead of spending this Sunday evening with your husband. I thought I was your best friend," he said, sulking a little.

Khushi let go of the saree and carefully draped it over the back of a chair in the corner of their room, and went to him.

"You are my ultimate best friend," she said, kissing his cheek. "And you will come with me too. When I can attend La's birthday again, only God knows."

"No, I don't want to be at a girly party. I'll drop you off and then pick you up," he said broodily. "Don't you have NK to accompany you, by the way?"

"Come on, Arnav, kya aap hamare liye itna bhi nahi kar sakte?" she said, messily kissing him all over his face.

"Gimme some more, then I'll think about it," Arnav mumbled with a faint smile at the corner of his lips.

Khushi started kissing his face with renewed enthusiasm. "Please, Arnav... please... please...please," she punctuated each word with a kiss.

Laughing out loud, Arnav rolled them over, bringing her body beneath his as he captured her lips.

"Don't make me late," Khushi whispered against his lips.

"It's not late Khushi. It's called fashionablely late," he said deepening the kiss.

It was her graduation day. As Khushi stood at the crossroads, where one chapter ended and another began, she looked back at her life and couldn't help but feel a deep swell of pride for the journey that had brought her to this moment. She wasn't supposed to be here-by all accounts, the path that led to this grand hall in London, dressed in her cap and gown, was one she was never meant to walk. Yet here she was, standing among her peers, experiencing the culmination of her dreams in this prestigious graduation ceremony.

As Khushi approached the stage to collect her degree, her eyes instinctively sought out Arnav in the crowd. He was beaming at her, pride shining unmistakably in his eyes, a look that warmed her heart and steadied her nerves. Beside him, NK and La were clapping and cheering loudly, their excitement echoing through the grand hall. Their support wrapped around her like a comforting embrace, filling her with a sense of belonging and accomplishment as she prepared to take the final step in this remarkable journey.

Lavanya paced the length of her dimly lit study, the soft light of the antique lamp casting long shadows on the walls. Her gaze fell upon the framed photographs of her youth scattered on the desk. The faces of her friends, her late mother, and a younger, more carefree Lavanya stared back at her. She sighed, her reflection in the polished wood of the desk a reminder of the person she used to be.

She thought about her mother, who had passed away when she was just twelve. A profound sadness washed over her as she wondered if her mother would be proud of the person she had become-resentful, vindictive, and delusional. The answer, she realized, was no. Her mother would not be proud.

For the past ten years, Lavanya had navigated life largely on her own. Her father's absenteeism had been compensated with expensive gifts and empty promises. He would often say, "Lavanya, you can have anything you want, dear." She grew up believing that she could indeed have everything she desired, and she did. She gained a myriad of material possessions and excelled in academic proficiency, yet there was one thing she couldn't have-HIM.

Her childhood friends, Pam and Sim, often told her, "Lavanya, you are so beautiful. You can have anyone worshipping the ground you walk on." Yet, despite their reassurances and the suitors who pursued her, Lavanya had eyes only for Arnav. He possessed an elusive quality that enchanted her, a quality so captivating that she failed to see she was building a castle in the clouds.

Arnav's words rang true. "It's but a shadow and a thought that you love." He was right. She had convinced herself that she loved him and envisioned a future together, yet she knew so little about him. She did not know about his dreams, his fears, what made him tick and all the things that mattered to him at all, nothing. In her obsession with Arnav, she had turned her own life into a distorted reflection of what she thought love should be. Her fixation had not only clouded her judgment but had also caused pain to someone who had been entirely innocent in this process.

Lavanya gave the driver meticulous directions to her destination. With a deep breath, she stepped out of the car. Her heart pounded with anxiety, as she had no idea how she would react.

As she approached the house, Lavanya saw her through the window, curled up with a book. She drew a deep breath, steadying her shaking hands before knocking, a small bouquet of white tulips clutched nervously in her hand.

Khushi answered after a moment, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Lavanya standing on the doorstep. The tension in the air was palpable, but Lavanya offered a tentative smile. "Hi," she began, her voice softer, "I hope I'm not intruding."

Khushi hesitated, then stepped back to allow her inside. "What brings you here?"

"I came to talk," Lavanya said, holding out the tulips with a nervous smile. "I brought these for you. I know it's not much, but I wanted to bring something."

Khushi accepted the flowers with a hesitant hand, unsure of Lavanya's intent. "Thank you."

They settled in the cozy living room, the warm glow of the fireplace contrasting sharply with the chill Lavanya felt. Lavanya kept wriggling her fingers.

"Would you like some tea?" Khushi asked politely. She had no intention to be in her presence longer than absolutely necessary.

"Sure."

As they sipped their tea wordlessly, an awkward silence fell over them.

"I don't know where to begin," Lavanya started, her voice trembling. "I've come to apologize to you....for how I behaved, for the things I said...... I know I've hurt you immensely with my actions." She paused, licking her dry lips, "...and I am truly sorry for that."

Khushi looked at her, dumbfounded, not expecting the apology at all. "I don't know, Mrs. Kashyap," she said slowly. "What do you expect me to say?"

"You don't have to say anything. I'm being selfish here once again actually. I just need to say 'sorry' to you before you go back to India," Lavanya added. "I know you don't need my apology, but I am truly sorry."

"I'll take my leave now," Lavanya said, standing up. "If possible, please forgive me."

Khushi looked at her retreating form with a wistful expression on her face. it felt like drawing an end to a specific chapter of her life.

@featheredclover @arshifiesta @phuljari @chutkiandchotte @msbhagirathi @jalebi-weds-bluetooth

#ipkknd #arnav singh raizada #khushi kumari gupta #arshi #ipk 13th anniversary fiesta #13 years of ipkknd #whispers of the heart

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scotianostra · 1 year ago

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Robert Garioch was born 9th May 1909 in Edinburgh he was a Scottish poet who placed huge importance on the use of the Scots language as a medium for poetry

Born the son of a decorator and a music teacher, Robert attended the Royal High School before going to the University of Edinburgh. He was conscripted into the Royal Corps of Signals in 1941, he married early the following year.

Whilst serving in Operation Torch in North Africa, Garioch was captured by German troops in November 1942 and spent the following three years as a Prisoner of War.

Garioch is known for furthering the importance of local voice through his use of lowland Scots in his work. His well-known poem The Wire was gleaned from his experience as a prisoner of war, looking at the suffering of soldiers, as was his book, Two Men and a Blanket: Memoirs of Captivity, however unlike many of his contemporaries, Garioch wrote very little poetry concerning his war experiences. Instead he focussed primarily on social causes and the plight of the ‘wee man’, a fact that may account for his enduring popularity (particularly on the readings circuit). This is what I like about him though, he was more of a poet for the people and the many photos I have found of him online show this with him in a room of people all enjoying his prose. He also features in one of my favourite Scottish paintings, Poets’ Pub, an imaginary vision of the major Scottish poets and writers of the second half of the twentieth century gathered around the central figure of Hugh MacDiarmid, Garioch is on the far right. Although it is not an actual depiction of any one scene I used to drink in Milnes on Hanover Street before it was spoiled by “improvements” and you used to get a feel for the place and the history of these great writers sitting sharing their thoughts and enjoying a pint. They will be turning in their graves seeing what it has become.

Robert Garioch is commemorated in Makars’ Court his words ‘in simmer, whan aa sorts foregether / in Embro to the ploy’.

Robert Garioch Sutherland, writer and poet died on 26th April 1981.

Here's a poem by Robery Garioch that many of us Scots can relate to, although having grown up in a wee toon ootside Edinburgh we were never hassled by the Polis, unlike those who lived in the city in places like Gayfield Square at the top of Leith.

Fi’baw in the Street.

Shote! here’s the poliss, the Gayfield poliss, an thull pi’iz in the nick fir pleyan fi’baw in the street! Yin o thum’s a faw’y like a muckle foazie taw’y bi’ the ither’s lang an skinnylike, wi umburrelly feet. Ach, awaw, says Tammy Curtis, fir thir baith owre blate ti hurt iz, thir a glaikit pair o Teuchters an as Hielant as a peat. Shote! thayr thir comin wi the hurdygurdy wummin tha’ we coupit wi her puggy pleyan fi’baw in the street.

Sae wir aff by Cockie-Dudgeons an the Sandies and the Coup, and wir owre a dizzen, fences tha’ the coppers canny loup, and wir in an ou’ o backgreens an wir dreepan muckle dikes, an we tear ir claes on railins full o nesty irin spikes. An aw the time the skinnylinky copper’s a’ ir heels, though the faw’y’s deid ir deean, this yin seems ti rin on wheels: noo he’s stickit on a railin wi his helmet on a spike, noo he’s up an owre an rinnan, did ye iver see the like?

Bi’ we stour awa ti Puddocky (tha’s doon by Logie Green) and wir roon by Beaverhaw whayr deil a beaver’s iver seen; noo wir aff wi buitts an stockins and wir wadin roon a fence (i’ sticks oot inly the wa’er, bi’ tha’s nithin if ye’ve serue) syne we cooshy doon thegither jist like choockies wi a hen in a bonny wee-bit bunky-hole tha’ bobbies diriny ken. Bi’ ma knees is skint an bluddan, an ma breeks they want the seat, jings! ye git mair nir ye’re eftir, pleyan fi’baw in the street

#scotland #scottish #edinburgh #poet #makar #writer #history #literary figure

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