The Accidental Fiancée (3 page)

Akbar wasn’t just the charming boy she
remembered but a strong man, who could admit to his own faults and
take ownership of his mistakes. That night he’d apologized for
something that she had probably deserved.

But she had already pleaded with him once to
get engaged. She wasn’t about to do it again.

He ventured slowly, ‘There is another
option…if you think it could work, maybe?’

He looked at her casually as he said it, as
if it didn’t mean anything either way.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘We could stay engaged…for real.’

‘Okay.’

She was afraid she may have said it too
eagerly. He stared at her. He looked stunned…and then
irritated.

‘That’s it.
Okay
.’

So she was still good, she thought with some
wicked relief. She tried not to smile and looked at him innocently,
‘What else would you like me to say?’

He looked uncomfortable and hesitant.

‘I don’t know…’

‘Let me explain the obvious to you, Akbar.
Even though you’re not the last man on earth, I’m willing to wear
this atrocious ring…voluntarily. Now that’s got to account for
something, right?’

He stared at her for just a second too long
and then slowly, his eyes lit up and he smiled. His cocky grin
replacing the hesitation and doubts on his handsome face, as he
said, ‘You always were good at volunteering for noble causes.’

***

Excerpt from She Loves Me, He Loves
Me Not

With bated breath, she waited for
the miraculous moment when angels would trumpet their silver
bugles, flowers would bloom in deserts and Fardeen
Malik
’
s eyes would finally meet hers. The
realization that the love of his life, Zoella Khan, though
unsophisticated and from a modest background, had been right under
his nose all this time would hit him like a bolt of lightning.
Overcome with passion, he
’
d fall to his knees and declare,
enraptured
…

“
Bo Kaata
!
”

Salaar
’
s yell invaded
her ear-drums and Zoella
’
s imagination crash-landed back to
reality, and back to the rooftop of Swaba
’
s family friend’s house in the old
city. Half of Lahore had gathered there to celebrate the advent of
spring with Basant: kite-flying, food, fun and
flirting.

“
Take that, you pretty
boy,
”
laughed Salaar as he gave
Fardeen
’
s
kite-string one final tug with his own.

“
Tsk-tsk, such gross insults. On
losing your own kite too!
”
Fardeen replied. In response to
Salaar’s questioning lift of the brow, he clarified,
“
That
’
s not mine little brother,
it
’
s
yours.
”

Zoella looked upwards. Indeed,
Salaar
’
s flamboyant red kite was now
floating down the busy skyline mournfully. Around them, boys hooted
and girls tittered. Ignoring Salaar
’
s groan, Zoella’s eyes were back on
Fardeen, who stood a full two feet away from her, skillfully
steering his own kite towards another prey. A big green
one.

That was Omer
’
s
wasn
’
t
it
?

“
Swaba!
”
called out
Fardeen.
“
Want to
see me humiliate Omer, or Salaar again?
”

Zoella
’
s best friend,
who was sitting on an old stone bench sulking. At her brother’s
question, she glared in response.

“
I hate Basant!
”
said
Swaba.
“
It
’
s a
stupid festival, where we have to dress in this stupid yellow,
which is highly unflattering to our skin tones, and watch stupid
boys fly stupid kites
…”

“
We get the
picture,
”
said Fardeen drily. Turning towards Salaar’s
friend, he said cheerfully,
“
Watch it Omer, fair
warning.
”

“
Tighter, Omer!
”

“
Not that much, you
fool!
”

“
This way, this
way!
”
yelled Salaar.
“
Left, you idiot!
That
’
s
my
left! Leave me alone!
Fardeen Bhai
…
.
”

Omer stopped short as the big
green kite began drifting away towards the boys on the
neighbor
’
s rooftop, who were yelling,
dancing, hooting and throwing loud insults at them cheerfully,
having poached Omer
’
s kite.

“
Pitiful,
”
mocked Fardeen,
looking at him.

“
I don
’
t know why they
think they
’
ve
been castrated every time their kites go down,
”
Swaba whispered to
Zoella.

“
Interesting choice of
words,
”
Zoella whispered back.

That made both of them laugh.
Zoella
’
s eyes gravitated back towards
Fardeen again.

But no matter how many times she
looked over towards Fardeen, his handsome, sculpted face never ever
turned her way. Ever. Angels had better things to do than blow
trumpets for her. The earth continued to rotate on its boring old
axis, following the same well-worn orbit. God was
not
in His heaven, all
was
not
right
with the world. Fardeen was still not hers, nor ever likely to
be.

Zoella
’
s defeated sigh
originated all the way from her coral-tipped
toes.

“
Nice job, you!
”

At the sound of the lilting,
sing-song voice, Zoella grudgingly looked at Neha,
Fardeen
’
s soon-to-be affianced, long-time
girlfriend. Neha was sophisticated and exuded
oomph
. It wasn
’
t difficult to see why Fardeen
never spared anyone else a glance. Zoella knew she did
not
have
oomph. Oomph
eluded her.
And
oomph
was
important. Especially in Lahore.

“
Thanks! Just let me cut my
brother down to size one more time before we go on to the
Gardezi
’
s,
”
Fardeen said smiling, eyes firmly fixed on the
sky that seemed to be throwing up kites.

“
I
’
m not the only
one with a kite here, am I?
”
Salaar snarled.

“
True,
”
grinned
Fardeen.

“
Well then? Go alpha on someone
else, will you?
”
Salaar almost whined. Almost.

“
Aw
…
is that a tremor
I hear in your voice?
”

Zoella was holding the big
pinna,
the spool of
string of his kite for him. Salaar had already cut his fingers
twice on the string, which was laced with ground glass, apparently
all the better to cut other people
’
s kite strings
with. Most boys sported Band-Aids on their fingers and each had a
girl standing a few feet away from him, holding his
pinna,
trying to keep up
with his frantic requests
—‘
loosen it
’
or
‘
back, back
’
or
‘
roll it
’—
and standing by for a
defeated,
‘
yaar
!
’
or a victorious
‘
bo
kaata
’
. Usually
it was the girlfriends, or fianc
é
es or wannabe girlfriends who liked
to do that sort of thing. Zoella, however, had offered to hold
Salaar
’
s
string-ball and be his spool-girl so she could watch Fardeen
without interruption.

“
Aaaaaaannnd,
done,
”
announced Fardeen, as Salaar
’
s second kite, a beautiful black
and red one with a big fancy tail, came gliding
down.

“
Bloody hell,
Bhai!
”
Salaar glowered at his brother.

Zoella let her arms fall, now that
the string was kite-less. The
pinna
consisted of a heavy wooden rolling pin, with two
big discs on either side fitted with handles. Her arms were aching.
They
’
d been at it for hours.

“
Just
…
you
’
ll see.
I will crush you
…
and
—”

“
Yeah, yeah,
”
Fardeen said.
Looking at Neha, he shook his head in disgust at his
brother
’
s
performance. She handed him a glass of
lassi
. Fardeen took it with a
salacious wink at her and then as he sipped his drink, he turned
and said,
“
Salaar, kite-flying is an art. It
’
s a legitimate sport. You
can
’
t just hold a
string and say you
’
re flying a kite. This is Lahore, not Karachi. The three
years in IBA there took their toll on you. I
’
m afraid you
’
ll never be the same again.
You
’
re damaged
goods.
”

Salaar was busy stringing his new
kite, muttering curses and Zoella caught a few words like
‘
bloody show-off
’
,
‘
I
’
ll show
him
’
and
then,
“
thinks
he
’
s
…
some
…
some
…”

“
Prince?
”
supplied Zoella.
Salaar scowled at her.

She felt rather than saw
Neha
’
s cool gaze on her.
Had Neha
heard?
Ooops! The once-over Neha subjected
her to made Zoella want to straighten her clothes. She felt fat.
And short. Neha was a sylvan nymph at five foot seven and a hundred
and ten pounds. Zoella was only five three, and she was
curvy.
Ugh!

“
I don
’
t believe
we
’
ve
met
…”
said Neha
to Fardeen, still surveying Zoella.

Looking confused for just a moment
as he chugged his glass of
lassi
down, Fardeen paused, empty glass resting in his
hand, and said hesitantly,
“
Oh, this is
Swaba
’
s
friend
…
Zohra.
”