“Didi ke jaise tum bhi padho, tab hi shaadi hogi tumahari.”
One of my aunt said to the girl, sitting among the group of neighbours across the dholak.
The girl’s eyes shifted to me with utmost innocence and awe.
I tried to smile. But the smile slowly faded as the window in front of me mirrored my reflection.
Dressed in an old yellow kurti. The colour had nearly faded away slowly, gradually.
I didn't want the girl to be like me.
But she wasn't at fault.
My other cousins moved from here to there finding, arranging things in the chaos.
Inside, the room almost resembled a store room.
But outside the air smelled like celebration.
Filled with guests, snacks and a bowl of turmeric.
The pain shot up in my head. Maybe it was the effect of the last sleepless night.
My hands tightened around the fabric of the sleeveless kurti. The fabric was rough with the lint.
A quiet reminder of how old it was.
I blinked back as the voice rang in my ears.
“Bhabhi aaj kal toh bina padhi likhi ladkiyo se koi shaadi bhi nahi karta.”
I shut my eyes trying to block the sight of people trapped in the system, declaring a verdict about it.
Like it was a daily dinner talk.
“Par kuch bhi kaho jeeji, jab tak do roti nahi banaani aati, tab tak kaun shaadi karega? Chahe jitna padh likh le.”
I opened my eyes. I tried to focus anywhere on the floor, my brother's voice as he arranged chairs outside.
Anything.
But no matter what. The voices spiralled again and again until it almost felt like my throat was choked.
So this was it. My worth was decided by a roti.
“Khair jeeji, hume kya naya zamaana hai.”
The voices faded into the sounds of dholak as they sang sohars.
Everything was normal again.
My eyes landed on my mother. Her face glistened with the sweat as she repeatedly adjusted the veil on her head greeting the elders with the polite smiles.
But her pale face told a different story.
Zamaana naya hai par shayad khayaal wahi puraane hai.
“Aree bhabhi muhurat nikala ja raha hai aaiye bachi ki haldi kaariye.”
One of the aunty said to my mother.
My mother walked almost in a hurry. Instructing something to my brother as she carried the bowl of akshat and something else.
She smiled.
The air hummed with the traditional songs.
Bile churned in my stomach as the faint scent of turmeric reached me.
The scent was so strong that it almost felt suffocating.
Hardi chumawan hota ho…
janakpur mein gunje geet gawa banta hardi chumawan hota ho are ho janakpur mein gunje geet gawan hardi chumawan hota ho.
The cold paste hit my skin. I couldn't help but flinch as his scent reached me before anything else.
I exhaled shakily. The voice blurred into my blurry vision. I blinked back.
How I ended up here?
My mother walked away as someone called her.
The grass brushed my skin. Each stroke felt like a slap to my years of work, studies.
All reduced to marriage and roti.
🌷
The house carried the remnants of laughter and the smell of fresh flowers mingled with the scent of sandalwood as the haldi ceremony was in full swing.
The paste had dried up on Shriya’s face. The pale kurti carried the sweetness of haldi. Yet it didn't reached her eyes.
She scanned the room. For something, or maybe someone and before she could question. Someone asked.
“Shreyash ko bulaao? Kaha hai?”
He walked inside the room, the phone tucked against his ear. He ended the call as his gaze softened as he looked at her.
Shriya’s hands twisted at the edges of the wooden plank.
He kept the phone aside. She dragged the bowl infront of her. He blinked as he looked up.
He chuckled as he picked up the paste.
“Shaadi kabhi nahi karungi bol kar ab khud hi haath peele karne ko bol rahi ho.”
His hands gently applied the paste as he tried to laugh it off. The warmth the room carried a moment ago was now replaced with coldness.
“Kamaal karti ho didi?”
She smiled.
His hands paused at her feet. The paste felt cold in his palm.
He didn't look up.
Shriya tried to lighten it, though her own eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Ro rahe ho tum?”
It wasn't even a question.
He shook his head as the tears fell on to her feet.
It felt warm against the cold paste.
“Idhar dekho….”
She tried to speak but her voice faltered.
“Ekdam chapri lag rahe ho rote hue."
He chuckled as he wiped his tears.
“Haan toh khud ki shakal dekhi hai.”
“Tumse toh achi hi hai." She shot back. Her chest eased with the normalcy of the conversation.
People witnessed the interaction. But they cared less at that moment atleast this moment was hers.
She finally asked.
“Papa kaha hai?”
“Pata nahi, abhi toh yahi the.” He replied as he stood up and turned to leave.
Shriya followed his moving figure until he was out of her sight. She wiped of a tear that had escaped from her eye.
This was it. Finally she was not a liability to her parents.
🌷
The chants of the priest filled the air. The atmosphere was enveloped in the smell of camphor and marigolds as I performed the rituals meticulously.
Yet everything faded away.
One month.
It had been almost a month since I last saw her. Yet today I sat here performing rituals to get married to her.
The fabric of my sherwaani felt stiff. My hands felt restricted as my hands worked on automation along with the chants of priests.
The cool air kissed my face as the sky slowly surrendered to the dawn. I had barely slept from the last two days.
I was used to it.
I was trained to be aware of my surroundings even in half sleep.
Yet my head felt dizzy as I remembered our last meeting. Adorned in the red anaarkali.
She looked exhausted. I was able to feel her irritation. The way she walked away, as I intended to talk to her.
But the question remained unanswered.
Was she happy with this?
Maybe she was right. It was too late.
For the answer now.
Whatever this was. We had to make it work together.
I looked at my mother's face. She had a certain kind of glow on her face, and I remembered when she had said this.
Saath mein nibhaana hai ab.
To be continued...
Unedited.
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