The Dowry Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

  He must have sensed her lingering reluctance. “Are you sure?” Again she nodded. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.

  “I know.”

  “And I certainly don’t want you to regret it for the rest of your life.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You can still say no. Just say the word and I’ll go back to the couch.”

  “I-I’m sure.”

  He studied her for a moment, perhaps wondering whether he’d heard correctly. Then he crushed her to him once again. “I love you, Megha. I’ve loved you since the day I met you.”

  She shook her head at him in disbelief, despite Harini’s observations about him. “Love at first sight? But…it can’t be. That was my wedding day.”

  His fingertip traced the line of her jaw. “I know, and I’ve loved you since then. You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, the most charming bride. You still are.”

  His words puzzled her. Expressing love so overtly was not the Indian way. Men and women rarely professed love to each other—it was expressed in actions, in expressions, perhaps even in writing if the occasion presented itself, but never verbally. And yet, here was Kiran, baring his heart and soul to her. Maybe that was the American way he’d learned while he lived in New York. But he loved her! It was thrilling to hear him say it. And that was all that mattered.

  “I wouldn’t want to make love to you if I didn’t care for you deeply, Megha,” he said. “I’m not the sort of man to treat sex as a pastime.”

  “I know.”

  “And I want to marry you when you’re free. I want to give you everything.”

  Marriage! And he sounded perfectly serious about his intentions. He was remarkable, everything any woman could ever ask for in a man—so honorable, so strong, so caring and capable. And yet, she’d ended up with his rotten cousin. Where was the justice in that? But Kiran was miraculously here with her now and he loved her. She’d worry later about the propriety of being intimate like this with him. For some odd reason, familiar lines from Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat drifted through her mind:

  Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears

  Today of past regrets and future fears;

  Tomorrow? Why, tomorrow I may be

  Myself with yesterday’s seven thousand years.

  “May I take your nightgown off, Megha?” Kiran’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “But…but I…” How could she casually bare herself to him? What was she supposed to say?

  “Let me look at you, all of you,” said Kiran.

  Instinctively she agreed, unable to resist the whispered words, her sense of modesty overcome. He slowly unbuttoned her nightgown and slid it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, leaving her naked, covered with goose bumps.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath, saw his eyes turn darker. “You’re more beautiful than I’d imagined,” he said. Letting his gaze rove over her in the blue-green glow of the night light, he took in every inch of her body, making her skin burn with embarrassment. But there was wonder and reverence in Kiran’s expression as he gazed on her. He made her feel beautiful, exciting and desirable.

  Within seconds Kiran undressed himself and it was Megha’s turn to gawk. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a naked man before, but she couldn’t help staring in fascination, couldn’t believe how magnificent his body was. Unconsciously, she couldn’t help comparing him to Suresh. Kiran was a marvelous example of a young, healthy male in every sense of the word.

  Then he scooped her up once again and laid her on the bed. “My God, Megha, you don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” he breathed, proving to her over the next several minutes exactly how eagerly he’d waited and how desperately he wanted her. When Kiran finally joined his body with hers, he made her shatter into a thousand glorious pieces, then fell apart himself.

  When she managed to open her eyes through the blissful haze, Megha realized that without being conscious of it, she, too, had waited a long time for exactly this. It was what her body and mind had craved, to be filled, to be satiated, to be taken completely, to be loved as if there was no one else in the world but the two of them. The pressure of Kiran’s weight on her felt sweet. She was home.

  An incredible mix of laughter and sobbing rose high in her chest. Tears spilled from her eyes. He brushed them away with his fingers. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “Are those tears of joy then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never want to see you shed tears of unhappiness, sweetheart. I want to fill your life with nothing but joy.”

  He’d called her sweetheart! It had the most magical ring to it. She closed her eyes and smiled, silently assuring him that what she felt was pure joy. She had never thought physical love could be like this—beyond the mere joining of two bodies—a sublime experience that touched the soul—a glimpse of heaven.

  She knew then that no man other than Kiran would ever be able to give her this. If only she could tell him that, convey what she felt for him. But she couldn’t say it aloud. It wasn’t right for her to confess to him her innermost feelings as he had done with her. He was a free man, while she, although she’d offered herself to him, was not a free woman.

  As their sated bodies gradually separated, Kiran rolled over, but pulled her close to him and settled her head on his shoulder. They both lay quietly for a while basking in the afterglow of love, letting their bodies and minds settle. Then, having discovered the wonder of passion, they turned to each other instinctively once more. They made love again and again, taking it slower each time, giving themselves an opportunity to savor every moment. Eventually they fell asleep.

  Sometime in the middle of the night she woke up, groggy and slightly disoriented. Feeling Kiran’s hard, warm body beside hers, she came wide awake. She had never slept in the nude before, let alone in the arms of a naked man. Living with her in-laws had made nakedness impossible, even in the privacy of the bedroom.

  Reality slowly began to seep in, and the first stirrings of the moral significance of what they’d done began to claw at Megha’s brain. She had just slept with her husband’s cousin.

  Dear God! What had she done?

  Chapter 20

  Megha lay wide-awake beside a sleeping Kiran for several minutes, his arm still binding her to him—a very male and possessive gesture. Her mind was now racing. She knew exactly what she had to do. On the one hand she was elated to learn that Kiran loved her. The physical experience of making love with him still tingled along her nerves. It was deeply touching. He had made her cry with the sheer joy of it. Why couldn’t she have been married to him in the first place?

  One couldn’t change one’s destiny, however. She wouldn’t let her curse become Kiran’s curse. He deserved better than the spoils left behind by his cousin. He deserved a good, unsullied woman for a bride and not used goods like her. He needed an educated and refined girl from his own upper-class background. As a matter of fact, Megha had gathered from Amma’s boasting that families of many marriageable girls had approached Kiran’s parents regarding an arranged match—families able to provide large dowries. But Kiran had shown no interest in any of those girls.

  Megha could never aspire to measure up to the lofty Raos’ standards of culture and sophistication. They would want a girl with the proper connections for their precious son. Besides, this kind of scandal, Kiran marrying a once-married-and-separated woman, would ruin him and his family. The sacrifice he was willing to make for her was too high a price to pay. She couldn’t let him destroy his near-perfect life for her.

  With great reluctance she removed Kiran’s arm from her. It felt muscular and heavy. He stirred and rolled onto his back but fell once again into deep sleep. Relieved, Megha gingerly sat up in bed to judge if the bed would squeak. It didn’t. The ceiling fan was on and it spun around with a humming noise, muffling other sounds.

  Kiran continued to sleep soundly. His bare chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Wit
h minimal movement she slid out of bed and glanced at the heap of clothes on the floor. They’d been in such a rush to rid themselves of them that they hadn’t cared where they fell. It was embarrassing to look at them now; they reminded her vividly of the wild and passionate love she and Kiran had shared only a short while ago. It was a love that had no place in either of their lives—an illicit love that was as tainted as it was magnificent, like the flowers of the foxglove plant, beautiful yet deadly.

  She changed into a sari, folded Kiran’s pajamas and laid them on the bed. Then she knotted her loose hair into a tight coil.

  For a long minute she stood by the bed to study Kiran’s face in the semi-darkness—so strong, so unselfish and so very dear. He slept like a young boy, his mouth soft without its wide-awake stubborn firmness. The arm that had rested on her belly was now flung above his head. His chest was broad but lean, with a dusting of hair. Was it only an hour ago that she had touched it and laid her head on it? What a contrast to Suresh’s puny, hairless, concave chest. The desire to run her hands over him and feel the texture of his skin and muscle and hair just one more time bubbled up inside her. Quelling her errant thoughts, she tiptoed away.

  Opening the door with infinite care, she stepped outside the bedroom. With the door open, she stood still for a second, watching for movement from Kiran. He didn’t stir. With the blood pounding in her brain, she gently shut the door.

  She took several deep breaths to keep the threatening tears at bay. Enough tears had been shed. She wanted to carry this image of a peacefully sleeping Kiran in her mind forever. He’d be furious when he woke up and found she was gone. But this was her only chance to do something for him. Some day he would thank her for it.

  As she let herself out the front door the hinge creaked as usual. She froze for an instant then pulled the door shut and went down the staircase. The street was deserted this time of night. Strangely she was not afraid anymore. The familiar hunted feeling of the past few weeks was curiously absent.

  She didn’t run but walked briskly in the direction she felt inclined to go. Shivering a little in the cool night air, she drew her sari tightly around herself. As if pulled by a magnet her legs carried her directly toward her private refuge. When in trouble, the invisible compass in her mind magically steered her to the river. On the way there she stood for a minute at the end of the street where her parents lived, wondering if they slept in peace despite knowing their daughter was missing for several weeks. Again the deep sense of detestation kicked in. They had willingly sent her to hell, with no thought for her safety or her welfare. Poverty and bad health were no excuse for tossing one’s child into a snake pit.

  As expected, it was hauntingly quiet by her favorite spot near the river. The beggar, who was a permanent fixture there, was probably fast asleep in the sanctuary of the temple. Dense fog always surrounded the area, so she could see next to nothing. The damp, solitary darkness of the riverbank would have frightened her ordinarily, but tonight she felt at peace. The sound of flowing water was clearly audible in the calm of night. A dog started to howl in the distance. Did it sense her presence?

  She walked toward the sound of the gurgling waters, sank to her knees and said a quick prayer, asking God to bless the people she loved and forgive her for taking the coward’s way out. She had tried to be brave, tried to do what was right, but in the end nothing had worked. It all came around to death. Her death. By living she continued to be both a burden and a threat to everyone around her. It was best for her to leave. Yama, the god of death, would succeed in his quest after all.

  Suicide went against her Hindu beliefs, but she was convinced that in her case it was the only right thing to do. Didn’t the holy book, the Bhagvad Gita, preach that doing one’s duty towards family and society without giving thought to one’s own needs was the ultimate test of a true Hindu? In that case, she was doing what she felt was her duty—looking out for others, especially Kiran.

  Drawing upon an inner strength she never knew she possessed, she took a step into the river. Her face contorted when the cold rushing water lapped at her feet and sent an icy shiver up her body. Her sari whipped around her legs as the breeze lifted its folds. With a cleansing breath she took another step forward.

  “Megha!” A distant voice reached her through the fog. She ignored it. It was only her conscience telling her something she didn’t want to hear. She continued ahead.

  “Don’t do it, Megha! Stop!” The voice was faint above the bubbling ripple of the water and her own heartbeat. She blocked it out again. A hazy band of light seemed to come through the fog from behind her and flashed for an instant. The water churned around her ankles and leapt at her calves. She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. Suicide was so damn hard.

  Abruptly the wind went out of her sails. She screamed when she felt herself being grabbed from behind and hauled backwards. With all her might she tried to fight the force that pulled her, but it was stronger than she. Her arms were pinned to her sides and her feet dragged through the silt. She was towed with ease although she squirmed and kicked. She felt herself being lifted and deposited roughly on a hard surface, making her wince. Then she heard the same voice she’d heard seconds earlier, calling out her name, but this time it sounded angry.

  “Megha…Megha…can…you…hear me?”

  “Wh…who…Kiran?”

  “Are…you out…of your…bloody…mind?” the voice gasped, desperately trying to catch a breath.

  It was indeed Kiran’s voice. And it sounded furious. In the dark she could barely make out his silhouette against the river. “Kiran? H-how did you find me?”

  He threw himself down beside her. She could feel the warmth of his arm, his hip and thigh next to her own. He was here in the flesh. He wasn’t something her disoriented mind had conjured up in a fevered state. His breath came in hard gulps. No wonder—he had literally carried her all that distance from the river to the rock and that too while she had fought him hard.

  “It…didn’t take…a freaking genius…to figure…it out,” he wheezed.

  “How did you get here so quickly?” Her own voice wasn’t steady either.

  “I have a car, remember?” He was still enraged, but now, since his breath had begun to stabilize, his voice was laced with bitter sarcasm.

  She flinched at the acidity of his tone. Cynicism and hostility were so unlike him. His deep voice almost always conveyed patience. Earlier that night, she had heard that same voice turn warm and gruff with desire and tenderness. Except on that one occasion when he’d blown up at hearing about Amma’s attempts to burn her, Megha had never seen him intensely angry—testy yes, but never livid. Now he was enraged at her. He had every right to be upset, of course.

  “Damn it, Megha! What are you doing to yourself? What are you doing to me? You tried to kill yourself, for God’s sake! What Amma and Suresh couldn’t accomplish, you wanted to carry out on your own? Is that it?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Kiran picked up her cold, damp hand and held it in his own. “Why, Megha? Was making love with me so hateful?”

  “No.” Oh God, he sounded so hurt.

  “If it was so disgusting, then why didn’t you say so before I went all the way? I would have left you alone. I asked your permission before I took you.”

  “That’s not it at all, Kiran.”

  “If it isn’t that then what the hell made you want to end your life?”

  Megha pressed his hand against her face. “Making love with you was the most beautiful experience of my life, Kiran. I’m grateful to you for giving it to me.”

  “And this is the way you show it? You know I couldn’t bear to lose you—especially not after what we just had.”

  “But you don’t seem to understand something, Kiran. I would bring you misery—utter shame. Marrying me would be disastrous for you.”

  “Where did you get that stupid idea?”

  “Listen to me. Your parents would disown you, Kiran. You’re their only child
. They have all their hopes and dreams pinned on you. The entire Rao family looks at you as their son and heir. You would always be known as the man who slept with his cousin’s discarded wife, a dowryless, runaway wife, a whore who shamelessly seduced you, and the woman who almost became a mother but miscarried.”

  “Shut up! Just shut up, will you? Why don’t you let me decide what I want? I’m a grown man and I don’t give a damn what other people think.”

  She clucked impatiently. “But what they think matters in a society like ours! What your parents think matters even more.”

  “My parents are not as rotten as you’ve made them out to be either.”

  “But your mother conspired with Amma for months. She wanted me dead as much as Amma did.”

  “You’re wrong. I told you my mother thought Amma was planning a divorce. I realize that right now my parents are part of your in-laws and so, in your mind, enemies. But trust me, Megha. They’ll come around when they get to know you, when they realize my happiness depends on having you in my life.”

  The cool air blowing from the river made Megha’s sodden sari cling to her legs, sending a shiver through her. She stared into the foggy darkness, listening to his passionate argument. Slowly she began to understand the magnitude and depth of his feelings for her. If he was willing to make such sacrifices for her, he loved her more than he loved himself, more than he loved anyone else. She had done him a grave injustice by trying to commit suicide. Although she’d convinced herself that she was doing it for him, she had also been cowardly in her reasons for wanting to disappear—she was too scared to face an uncertain future.

  Kiran had saved her life. Again. That was twice in a span of a few weeks.

  But now what? After all, nothing had really changed. She turned to him with a tired sigh. “I’m still married to your cousin. That fact still remains, you know.”