PaRud OS: Habit | Rang Rasiya

Habit.

This was fast becoming an annoying habit.

He sighed as he laid his head back on the chair in his room, overlooking the aangan area of the haveli.

She was bustling about, teaching Sunehri something about what kind of color came on best on which kind of cloth.

He sighed again. A truly bad habit.

Why had he let her live here in the first place? Or maybe, the better question would be why he had even brought her here, into his home, in the first place.

He never would have done such a thing, had he known how she would make a place for herself in his home.

It had been 17 days now, 17 torturous days of her taking everything he said literally, and not showing him her face.

At first, when he had uttered those words to her, about how she should just lie in a corner in the haveli somewhere, hiding her face from him cause it was just too suffocating, he had thought she would finally leave.  

But no. She didn't.

She instead stuck around the house, moving idly as if this was her home, and just covered her face whenever he came in front of her with that wretched odhni.

He let out a cold gust of air again from his lungs, cursing everything he could curse. His eyes unceremoniously started searching again, and landed on what was the most annoying thing in the world to him.

Paro.

Her perseverance wasn't what bothered him as much right now. What was bothering him was this potent habit of his. And her connection with this habit.

It had all started on the same wretched day when he had told her to never show him her face.

He had come home from the medical store, bringing Bapu-Sa's medicines. And she was the only one in the haveli. He hadn't really been aware of what kind of problems his mind could conjure until he had seen her in the kitchen.

He'd be dead before he admitted that he had been interested in what he had seen.

But that scene had made him catch this habit.

And he didn't like this habit one bit.

She was twisting one of the wet odhanis in her hand, getting rid of the excess water. A ghost of a smile graced his lips as he watched in pleasure knowing what would come next.

As predicted by him, she gave the odhani a quick jerk, making the water in it spatter out, and then turned a little to her side, to put it on the clothesline for drying.

He sighed, smiling and recounted.

There it was, on her side waist, only visible when she put both her hands in air to do something. Otherwise, it would remain hidden by her own odhani being tugged into her lehenga.

It was day number 11 when he had discovered this til on her. By then, he had been drowned in this madness, this need to count.

And the thoughts that'd cloud his head with each discovery.

The thoughts came rushing back, seeing as to she had more than one odhani to put out to dry, and each time, he'd watch that til of hers on her side waist as hungrily as he could.

His mind justified, that it didn't mean that she was special, or that he felt anything for her. He was just counting.

As simple as that. Just counting.

As she finished the task at hand, she pulled her open hair up, and made a messy bun out of it.

He stood up from the chair he was sitting on, and moved a little closer to the window pane from where she was visible.

The til on the centre of her back seemed to tease him, laugh at him for being so unattainable in all its glory.

He almost growled back, remembering that this was the first one that had caught his attention that very first day.

It was physically painful, to hold back and not go touch it. It was as such a soft sweet spot, visible only when she braided her hair.

For which he was thankful that she didn't seem to braid much nowadays. He didn't know what he'd do if the likes of leaches like Sumer caught on to this habit he had right now.

He felt the hair on his back stand up in fury, thinking about any other man conjuring these thoughts for her.

What was wrong with him?

He turned around, feeling guilty all of a sudden, and slumped down on his wooden chair again.

This was madness.

For the most part of his life, he had been convinced that one day he'd go crazy with the entire world weighing down on him. What with a cranky alcoholic father, treacherous relatives, dark criminals, and the cynic inside growing larger with every passing moment.

 But never in his wildest dreams and nightmares would he have thought that he'd be consumed by a madness of this kind.

He closed his eyes, and leaned back to make another attempt at getting her out of his system.

What would happen if it's just a caress?

A very vivid picture of her naked exposed back came into view with that thought, and all of her three tils seemed to tease him with immense delight.

What if he just went, and touched them, lightly, caressed them with his fingers, tracing them back to each other.

Would she mind?

The one on the extreme right of her back was hardly visible through her blouses, and he didn't realize how much he'd miss it. It was at the most delectable of areas, ready to be bitten, to be kissed lavishly.

And then there were the ones on that swan like neck of hers.

He had stopped to wonder how a woman could have that many beauty spots. It was as if every god above was taunting him by making her walk day and night in front of her, just so they could enjoy the torture she bestowed on him.

The one on her nape had made him sleepless for three consecutive nights. It was strange that he hadn't noticed it before, considering the right side of her nape was a perfect position to nip and bite and swirl your tongue around until you found her shivering in your arms.

His thoughts reigned with inexplicable fantasies of how tender and soft she would be, and what taste she'd have. His tongue would draw on that nape of hers, licking its way to the bottom of her neck, where just in the hollow, right above her collar bone, was one tantalizing til. That one was his favorite by far.

He'd bestow endless kisses on that one, while his hands trailed on her back, tracing a familiar satisfying pattern on to the beauty spots there, until she was gasping for breath underneath him.

And then he'd turn her ever so leisurely, to devour that sculpted iridescent back of hers. He'd leave marks, oh so prominent marks, just so that all of the world would know who she belonged to.

A beautiful image of her lying naked on her back emerged into his mind, and he sighed with pleasure.

His hands, his fingers itched to graze that silken soft skin of hers. Every inch of her body just called out to him to touch her, feel her.

The next moment, his eyes had flung open in disgust. What the hell was he thinking again? He bit his tongue, and swore loudly, clenching his fists in agony.

She was beautiful.

Exactly. She was beautiful.

She was the perfect example of what an elusive mirage was. She'd lure you in with her beauty, with that innocent face of hers, and then make you kneel and hurt you beyond repair.

Yes, that's what the likes of her did.

She had hurt the person who had trusted her from day one, his Bapu-Sa, hadn't she?

All these pleas of love from her side right now, all of them, were just to find a shield in him. So that, she'd get her way and be protected from the Thakur.

She didn't really actually feel anything for him.

He left his chair vacant again to see what she was doing now. He saw her in the aangan again, trying to wipe some mud from her face.

He sat on the small cupboard near the window pane, and a ghost of a smile involuntarily appeared. There it was. The number 4. The one til on her right cheek. It was the most innocent looking one he had discovered till now, and all he wanted to do in the moment was gently caress it.

Something inside his chest ached to go touch her, if only just once.

Madness. Complete sheer madness.

He turned around, pacing his room now.

What would happen if he kissed that one?

Something inside him asked, and he gulped, frustrated. Was it no use fighting it? Was he bound to be haunted by these thoughts now? Why did he want her in the first place? It wasn't as if he had never been with a woman.

But what was it about her that made him have day dreams like a crazy poet on rum?

He flopped down into the chair again, surrendering. It wasn't in his control now, and as long as it remained hidden, only known to him, he could bear it.

That naive til on her cheek appeared again, and he found himself kissing it with reverence. He saw himself moving his lips next to hers, placing slight kisses onto her cheek. Her dewy rose lips were next, as his fingers trailed over them to feel the warmth.

He'd bring his lips to her next, and would revel in the softness of it all. She was just soft. Everything of hers, so soft, fragile, and pure.

It was tormenting to want her so much. The want, to make her his, was slowly seeping into every pore of his body.

He'd feel her shiver under his touch, and that'd just make him more impatient to take her.

His hands trailed down her neck, stopping on the til at the base. He'd lick her lips, and marvel at how perfectly they molded into his own.

As he would feel her getting warm, the blush creeping onto her pale porcelain skin, he'd nip her lower jaw, her neck, leaving a trail of peppery kisses which would show their remnants for weeks in the form of marks.

His hands would finally trail the til on her waist, his fingers playing with her waist chain at first and unhooking it. He'd make sure her flesh was covered in goosebumps, as he continued with his ministrations.

He'd feel her knees buckling under him, her form collapsing with the heat, and his hold on hers to just keep on the torture alive to both the sides.

He'd hear her whispering his name. His name, with all the want in the world.

"Rudra..."

Yes...

"Rudra.."

Yes. Yes.

 "Rudra?" He heard her chiming voice, all too real, "Major Saab??"

He opened his eyes that instant, too see her bent down, with her face peering into his face. She looked worried.

His face seemed to reflect the puzzled reaction, and he spat out.

"Tu yahaan kya kar rahi hai?" He shot at her.

She was just silent, seeming suspicious of him. She moved near him, her face uncovered, and put a hand on his forehead.

"Aap thik ho?" She asked worriedly.

His gaze fixed on the absence of the odhani, he gulped.

He tried to find his voice, which had been rendered speechless by a new discovery.

Number 8.

"Muuh mat dikha mujhe apna! Jaa yahaan se!" He said, his throat a little dry.

"Chai laayi thi..." She barely whispered, and made her way out of his door, not wanting to rile him up.

He wiped the sweat off of his brows, and cursed all the gods he knew existed.

Number 8 was going to be the death of him.

He had found a til on her cleavage.