A Perfect Mismatch (10 page)

Armaan only had to utter a tender endearment … he had called her ‘sweetheart’ … and then just a touch … a hand wiping her tears … and she had forgotten everything. She had swung like a pendulum from sheer rage to searing passion. And when he had tried to rein in at the peak of their lovemaking, she had urged him on, kissing him wildly, so that he wouldn’t stop even for a moment.

It was
not
in anger that he had taken her. There was no love. But he would have stopped if she had. All those precious dreams that she had harbored in her heart, about love, passion and commitment had been shredded to pieces.

Zara sobbed into her hands, deep wracking sobs she thought only she could hear. Armaan turned in his sleep to find her gone. Startled, he rushed to the door only to see Zara wilted in a corner, crying as if her heart would break.

His instant reaction was to fling the door open, reach out to her, and apologize. He stopped short suddenly. This was a deeply private moment. He had always known her hard-as-nails personality.

Somehow, it seemed a sham all of a sudden. The woman sitting there with her head bent, every line in her body wailing utter defeat, was nowhere near the one Armaan was used to seeing. The spine of steel appeared fractured as she leaned dejectedly on the wall. In the grey light, her profile was fragile and etched with a grief that he could not understand.

Had he hurt her irreparably? He could not bear to see
her like this. He preferred the feisty Zara. It felt strange to admit that he liked her the way she was. Spirited and strong-willed. A lesser woman might have wilted in his company. He remembered his mother’s words. He was no model of virtue. Why had he never bothered to look beyond the hard exterior?

Armaan returned to bed with guilt digging into him. He would have to make amends. Tomorrow he would apologize and make sure that he behaved better. He lay awake in bed for a long while, thinking of ways to make it up to her.

The tiny squeak of the door alerted him to her presence in the room. Zara slid in and lay without moving. Armaan was aching to take her into his arms and soothe her. But he couldn’t break through the walls that divided them. A long while later he turned only to find her sound asleep.

With a gentle hand he touched her damp cheek, noticing the swollen eyes and the vulnerable tilt of her full lips that he had kissed so rashly.

Impulsively he gave in to the urge to gingerly tug her into his embrace. His arms wrapped around her, tucking her into his chest. She gave a shiver and he tightened his hold. “Zara … are you cold?” he whispered into her ear, kissing her nape. There was no reply. She was too exhausted to stir from her sleep. It tugged at his heart … this heart-breaking vulnerability. He wished he had been more sensitive. He would certainly make sure that his temper did not get the better of him. With several such tough resolutions, he dozed off, cuddling her close.

The next morning was clear and bright. Zara had been up with the chirping of the birds. The first thing she noticed was that she was cuddled into a solid muscled back, her arm encircling Armaan’s waist, every inch of her feeling warm and cozy. The memories of the previous night emerged unbidden and she almost winced at the near physical pain. Extricating herself carefully from his warm embrace, she went in to bathe. When she returned, Armaan was at the ironing board with the pile of damp clothes that they had washed the night before.

Attired in the same way as her, he looked too good. She felt a rush of those unwanted thoughts that had driven her to madness last night and most of her young life. It felt hopeless, like crying for the moon. This morning everything seemed hopeless. Tears were beginning to prick her eyelids but she rammed them down. Try as she might, she could not rant and rave against him today. Nor could she throw caustic remarks at him that would effectively deflect his attention away from her.

“The electricity has been restored. I have ironed your clothes. But your jeans are still damp at the waist. Hope they are in wearable condition. I could iron them once more if you want.” Armaan handed her a neatly folded stack of clothes.

“Thank you,” mumbled Zara under her breath, clutching the bundle to her chest, afraid her voice would crack if she said another word. Why was he being so nice suddenly? Did he really regret what happened last night? Her eyes welled up at the thought and she was caught unawares when a hand cupped her cheek gently.

“Your hair’s dripping,” said Armaan softly and stepped closer. Inane thing to say, he thought, but he did not know how to bridge the gap.

Her heart began to hammer at his nearness. Without thinking, she looked up to see the unusual warmth in his dark brown eyes.

His thumb caressed her cheek and Zara felt she would break down if she did not move away. Any other time, she would have slapped his hand away. But she couldn’t think of anything that would camouflage the intense surge of conflicting emotions. She could have borne with his contempt and derision, but not this gentle sweet touch!

“I am truly sorry about last night, Zara,” Armaan spoke, his breath fanning her cheek.

A wounded look came into her eyes and she immediately stepped away from him, lest she fall into his arms to savour more of that rare, melting, welcoming warmth. It was only regret for him and she knew she could not ask for more. “I am sorry too,” she said, inaudibly at first, and then cleared her throat to continue. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I said some terrible things too. I just couldn’t control my temper.”

There was a pause when Armaan thought about what to say next. This was
not
easy at all. There were too many issues that needed to be addressed, but Armaan could only think of how she looked with wet hair framing her face and trailing over sheet-covered breasts. It was rich dark satin he knew. Her silken skin looked flushed and inviting, enough to make him want to take her to bed again.

The disastrous turn of thoughts caused a jam in his
otherwise clear brain. She would probably murder him this time, he thought wryly. He had to go slow. Make Zara feel comfortable with him. He stopped short. He had forgotten that he had no intention of staying married to her for long!

He would have to alter his plans according to the new development in their relationship. He would apologize, be friends with her and they could part on amicable terms if all went well.

“What happened was too undignified. We needn’t be quarrelling all the time.” Armaan offered the olive branch tentatively.

“I guess not,” mumbled Zara. Where was this going? His hand, she noted with a thundering heart, stroked the side of her throat and trailed down the curve of a bare shoulder. She breathed deeply.

“I mean we could be friends, at least for the time we are together. I am sure you would agree that we could not live under the same roof with this kind of animosity between us.”

“Hmm …”

She desperately wanted to step into his arms. The old, schoolgirl crush was making her feel ill-at-ease.

The heated arguments between them had been far more comfortable, effectively hiding her real feelings. But now she did not know how to react to his gentleness.

“Zara …” he whispered softly again and every subtle nuance of her name sounded like a chant. “Let’s spend the day out today. What do you say?”

“Okay,” she managed to croak at last.

“Truce?”

“Yes.”

He bent his head to kiss her on the mouth, a seal of truce, a light feathery dream that settled on her parted lips with hope and promise. Her sigh was captured by his mouth, making her legs quiver.

Armaan wanted more, he decided firmly, and was struck by the ferocity of that need. However, Zara was already pulling back with her eyes averted. Her sudden withdrawal made him feel empty, hungry for more.

“We …” she began with a shredded breath, “must leave before the weather changes again.”

Armaan stepped closer, wanting to pull her into his arms. Before he could hold her, she was carrying her clothes into the bathroom to change, away from his eyes, as though the intimacy between them had never happened.

They returned to the hotel in the taxi sent for them. While they had breakfast, they talked of banal things, both wary of another quarrel.

For the first time they spent a day in each other’s company in peaceful camaraderie. It was a beginning of sorts when they walked down the beach together and waded through the surf in a quiet moment of happiness. Zara smiled as she tried to recover her balance after almost tumbling into the water. He caught her immediately, his arms going around her, searing them with fierce awareness. However, the tension dissolved, when, unable to hold steady in the onslaught of a powerful wave, they both went toppling backwards into the water.

Drenched in the cool salty waters they laughed together for the first time and it was immensely pleasurable. Armaan loved the way she laughed, the clear sparkling sound warming his heart.

They spent the day visiting some of the beautiful places in Goa. The trip to the church of St. Francis Xavier was delightful as Armaan explained its architectural significance and religious meaning to Zara who listened with rapt attention, hungry for the attention that he was showering on her for the first time. They travelled to several places in the ferry. Throughout the journey he held her fast to his side with an arm around her waist. When she tried to dislodge his arm gently, he only looked down at her enigmatically and tightened his hold. He was a good listener, she realized, and had an eye for detail. His laughter was rich when Zara narrated a particularly funny incident in her usual dry humour.

Zara was touched that Armaan offered to take her shopping for anything she wanted. When Zara took out her wallet to pay for a particularly expensive dress that he had chosen for her, he growled into her ear that it was a gift.

Later Armaan bought several more dresses for her, now that he knew what she looked like beneath those dowdy things, he said, with a naughty grin to her chagrin. Not to be left behind in the unexpected generous favours he was heaping on her, she bought him a leather whip and a cowboy hat. “The lone, bachelor cowboy rides off into the sunset!” she pointed out cheekily when he strutted in front of the shop mirror.

Zara grew silent though as the day wore on. A deep, bone-weary melancholy engulfed her. Armaan was only being kind and she, like a fool, was getting carried away. Although they had not discussed it yet, she could feel the impending talk. She shoved it aside unwilling to talk about their lovemaking, as it was still a raw wound to her. At sundown they decided to go for a walk in the surrounding greenery. They climbed the top of a cliff from where the view was fantastic with the sun setting on the deep blue and gold sea. They sat among the rocks for a while in silence. Zara plunged into a black mood of hopelessness as dusk fell.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, genuinely curious about the reason for that wistful expression. “You haven’t spoken for the past one hour. I prefer you talking the way you did earlier.” It was meant as a joke but it fell flat in the view of things.

“You mean you liked me with the ‘waspish tongue?” she asked dully. She turned warily towards him from the edge of the cliff. Those words were still embedded in her like barbs.

“No. The waspish tongue, I am now sure, is more of a defense mechanism.”

She looked back at the horizon again not wanting to get into this discussion. The words chafed against the raw wound inside her.

“Have you forgiven me yet for last night? I said some cruel, terrible things and certainly deserved that slap!”

“There is nothing to forgive. I was equally nasty, so we are even.”

“Yeah, we were both angry and insensitive! And later when we made …” She cut him short hastily.

“I …” She fumbled for the right words. Unwilling to bring up the episode of their violent consummation, she went tearing through with a jumble of words. “When I was a kid, people called me bastard. In the boarding school, it took me a while to understand what that meant. The only way I could protect myself was to pretend that I was just as normal as any other child with a loving family. I still believe that my parents would have loved me had they been present. When you said that even my mother would have regretted seeing me as I am today, it really hurt. I know it was an illusion that I had created for myself. I still don’t know … if my mother took the coward’s way out by committing suicide and abandoning me. However, I would like to believe that she wanted me and that I was special to at least one person in the world.”

She had turned away from him. Something within him responded to the anguish that she had cleverly concealed until now, though now it was revealed in every line of her taut body. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? He regretted not having had the good sense to see the truth.

Little snippets of memories surfaced like bubbles in a deep lake. Images of a little sensitive girl who wanted to play with them. Bani had whispered wicked things into his and Aparna’s gullible ears and he, like a fool, had believed the lies. He cringed at the guilt that ravaged him. He had pulled enough silly pranks to shoo her away much to the other two girls’ delight. It had been fun to see the five year old Zara scream in terror as they shut her in the attic for
the afternoon while the parents were away for a party. The lazy servants would never have heard her wails of terror as afternoon turned to evening. He had not given a thought to being kind to Zara who was the youngest among them. Her parents had never been present and it had made her the easiest target to bully.

It was forbidden to talk about Malu
masi
, Zara’s mother, among the Seths. Little diffident Zara had grown more and more belligerent as years had flown by, only cementing the animosity the kids had ignited in her.

In her teenage years, she refused to come home for the summer vacation, much to her aunt’s embarrassment, preferring to stay at the convent orphanage. He had seen her a few times after that at the Seth house. He remembered her with her oiled hair tightly braided away from her face, wearing a hideous purple tent of a dress. Her eyes flashed defiant fire at everyone present. He had by then dismissed her from his memory, rarely meeting her and was jolted out of his complacence only when he had seen her that morning in the garden a few months back.