“But Suresh is not a bad boy. He may bring you something nice when he comes home from work. He may be planning a surprise, no?”
“He won’t! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. And his mother is even more selfish than he. I hate her, that fat, waddling bitch.”
Her mother’s shocked gasp was unmistakable. “Megha! You should not talk about your mother-in-law like that!”
“She deserves that and more. She treats me worse than a servant.”
“Ayyo, you poor child!” Somehow Avva’s clumsy efforts at comforting her made the situation worse instead of better. Megha burst into bitter sobs.
Her mother continued stroking her back. “Shhh…shhh…everything will be all right, putti. You wait and see.”
Megha looked up to note her father’s reaction to her tears. He eyed the scene briefly and then looked away. Uncertainty seemed to flicker in his eyes. He slowly rose from his chair and went to stand by the window, with his back to her. His thinning gray hair badly needed a cut. At the back it lay in limp wisps over the frayed collar of his once-white shirt. His appearance seemed to fit in with the shabbiness of his house by the river, with its peeling paint, its dusty, framed photographs, and its meager furnishings. There was never enough money to live comfortably.
Realizing it was hopeless to expect her old-fashioned parents to understand, Megha blew her nose in her handkerchief and jumped out of the chair to face her parents. “You two don’t understand! For your generation an anniversary is like any other day. I’m twenty-one years old. Things are different nowadays. Young people celebrate anniversaries and birthdays with parties and cakes and candles, and they have real honeymoons after their weddings.”
“But, Megha—”
“Nobody bothered to acknowledge my birthday two months ago. Now nobody cares about my first wedding anniversary. The family made a big deal about Mala’s thirteenth birthday and her puberty, but I might as well be the untouchable slave in the house. They don’t care, Avva—they just don’t give a damn. Those selfish bastards!”
Mangala sighed in helpless frustration and repeated, “I’m sorry.”
Megha wearily picked up her bag and headed for the room that she and her sisters had shared when they were growing up. “I’m going to rest for a while and then go out for a walk by the river.” She turned around to face her parents for a moment. “Is it okay if I stay here tonight?”
Her mother nodded. “Of course. You look tired, dear. Have you eaten any lunch?”
Megha said yes even though it wasn’t true. She hadn’t eaten anything, but the very thought of food was making her sick. All she wanted to do was curl up and sleep. She glanced once again at her father for his response to her request to spend the night.
Her father stood rooted to the spot like a statue. He was even more conservative than his wife. Megha knew precisely what he was thinking: he was wondering why she was here when her place was with her husband, especially on the day of her anniversary. At that moment, she felt nothing but apathy for her father. He didn’t seem at all concerned about her. He was only a notch above the Ramnaths where emotions were concerned. He hadn’t said one word to her since her arrival a few minutes ago. He had displayed mild pleasure at seeing her at first, even smiled a bit, but had turned cold and silent when she had explained why she was there. In his mind this was not a social call—she was running away from her husband—and for ridiculous and childish reasons, too.
Did her father have no feelings for her at all? Was she so much of a liability to him, that much of a dark cloud hanging over his head?
She turned on her heel and strode into the bedroom, entirely disgusted with her father. Then she shut the door and sat on the extra-large bed she had shared with her two sisters. The mattress smelled musty from lack of use. From the chest of drawers she pulled out clean sheets and pillowcases. Stubborn grease stains still marked the pillowcases—stains made from years of coconut-oil-glossed heads resting on them. Avva had always massaged coconut oil into the girls’ scalps and woven their long hair into tight plaits secured with ribbons on the end.
Then Megha heard her parents talking about her. She wondered what they were saying. The need to know why they behaved the way they did, rather than idle curiosity, made Megha crack open the door and observe her parents in secret.
Mangala glanced at her husband, a crease in her forehead. “What did we do, Ree? Did we make a mistake by marrying her off in a hurry to the first man who was willing to accept a small dowry?”
Yes, it was a mistake, Avva, Megha silently pleaded. Don’t you two realize I’m miserable there?
Lakshman finally turned from the window. “I’m not sure, Mangala. We did the best we could. We had just finished paying off the last part of the loan we took out for Hema’s dowry. We should consider ourselves lucky that Suresh accepted our Megha for only fifty thousand rupees. Most others were asking for lakhs.”
Lucky! Was her father blind, or entirely insane?
Sinking into the chair Megha had just vacated, Mangala cupped her face in her hands and stared at the floor. “Still, maybe we should have let her study some more and look for a job.”
“No! Definitely not a job!”
Why not, for heaven’s sake? I’d have been happier working for a living.
“She wanted a master’s degree and a job, but we forced her to get married. If not a degree then perhaps we should have looked for a boy elsewhere. She is a beautiful and bright child. We might have found someone good for her with no dowry.”
Lakshman glowered at his wife. “Are you dreaming, Mangala? Who would marry a girl without a dowry in our caste? Even if she got another degree, she would have to get married sometime. How could a young woman stay single?”
“Girls work and remain single much longer these days,” Mangala gently argued.
“Not our girls. It is unthinkable in our family. We would still have to pay the dowry—if not last year, then two years from now. No matter how educated and forward-thinking our caste is, when it comes to money and dowry matters it will never change.”
“Still, we could have waited for another year at least, no?”
Lakshman Shastry closed his eyes wearily. “I’m already sixty-five years old. I have been retired for five years now. We had to make sure she was settled before I die.”
“Ree, please don’t talk about death,” Mangala pleaded.
“Face it, Mangala. I could die tomorrow, and then what would you do? You would be a burden on Leela and Hema yourself. How would you support Megha and marry her off, too?”
A shadow crossed over Mangala’s face. “But the Ramnaths have not turned out to be what we thought. Every time I see Megha she looks more unhappy. Leela and Hema are happy girls. They have good husbands and children, and big homes with servants and cooks. But our Megha has ended up in a small home where she works like a domestic servant day and night. Did you see that burn on her wrist just now? She never smiles anymore. She used to be such a cheerful child.”
Cheerful? What is that?
Mangala shook her head. “Ree, I am convinced the astrologer lied to us. Why else would our Megha end up in such a house?”
“I know he lied to us, Mangala,” said Lakshman. “I believe he may have been bribed by that Ramnath woman to find an attractive and intelligent girl for their ugly and dull son. He must have told us that Suresh is a good match for Megha just to make more money.”
“It is too late to do anything now, no? I think poor Megha is going to suffer all her life because of somebody’s greed.”
Suffer all her life! Megha shuddered. Good Lord! It was entirely possible that the fat old witch had paid the astrologer to lie about Suresh’s horoscope. Why hadn’t Megha thought of that? Devious as Amma was, she’d do anything to have her way. And what about that bloody astrologer? Could he be that unscrupulous? Would he willingly ruin a girl’s life for money?
Lakshman stared at the street scene outside the window once again. His hunched stance see
med glum. “Why has God been so unkind to our family, Mangala? I have tried my best. I am only a simple man with very large debts and failing health. I could die of heart failure any time. As a responsible father, what else could I do but marry our youngest daughter off as quickly as I could?”
I know you’re poor, Appa, but you could have at least asked me what I wanted, couldn’t you? I would have gladly worked and given you my entire salary to pay off your debts.
With a resigned shrug Megha’s father started to lumber towards the master bedroom. His arthritis made his gait slow and cumbersome. “Girls these days read all those silly magazines and see too many Hindi films. Then they think their life is dull because their husbands don’t sing to them like movie heroes and don’t buy costly presents. Once Megha gets over this childish phase, she will be okay.”
No, Appa. I’ll never be okay. I’ll wither and die in that miserable house in Cantonment Galli.
His wife fixed him with a skeptical frown. “I’m not so sure, Ree. Her mother-in-law is a mean and cruel woman. Everyone is afraid of her.”
Not just afraid but terrified.
Lakshman made a familiar gesture of dismissal with his withered hand. “I think that Ramnath woman is abusive to Megha because I have not been able to pay her dowry. Next year, if the mango harvest is a little better, maybe I can pay the first installment. After that, everything will be okay. Just wait and see. It is all about the money, I tell you.”
“If the mango harvest is better? When is it ever better?”
Shaking his head as if in obvious defeat, he pressed his gnarled fingers to his eyes. “I wish I had money to give now. Those people…so very greedy…” He disappeared inside the bedroom for his afternoon nap. His wife watched him for a moment then followed him.
Megha shut her door quietly and settled down on the bed. The room was dark and cool and silent, like a deep cavern. She closed her eyes and slipped into glorious sleep within seconds, sleeping for nearly three hours.
A cup of steaming hot tea and some biscuits that her mother gave her after her long nap left Megha feeling somewhat refreshed. She hadn’t slept so long in the middle of the day in years. She began to accept the fact that her anniversary was going to be like any other day—gray and cheerless. As they sipped their tea, her mother kept up a steady chatter about Megha’s sisters and their respective children, the neighbors, and the fast-approaching Diwali festival. But her father’s brows were drawn in deep thought. Or was it disapproval? He barely glanced at Megha, making her feel further unwelcome.
She went back to her room to get changed and comb her hair. As she applied the symbolic red dot on her forehead she paused for a second. Wasn’t that ironic? Here she was, religiously putting on the traditional marriage symbol of a bindi while her husband was out there somewhere, entirely oblivious to the fact that he had a wife.
Once or twice she had wondered if Suresh had a girlfriend or a keep somewhere, but then she’d dismissed the idea immediately. He was too cheap and too stupid to carry on an affair. And what woman would want an unattractive and stingy squirrel like Suresh, unless she was blind, or uglier than him, or just plain desperate. And he was an appalling lover, too. No sane woman would want that cold, inconsiderate pile of skin and bones in her bed.
Megha briefly stuck her head in the kitchen to tell her parents she was going for a walk and headed out the door.
“Be careful, and come home before it gets dark,” her mother reminded her.
Megha took a deep, cleansing breath outside the door. The afternoon heat had ebbed and a slight breeze from the river was blowing her way. It was pleasant, the perfect time of day for a stroll. She waved at their neighbor across the street. Mrs. Shanmugam, wearing a maroon sari, her dark hair oiled and combed back in a bun, was sitting on her stoop as always and waved back. Noticing the curious look on the woman’s face and how she adjusted her glasses, Megha kept walking at a brisk pace. If she stopped to say hello, she’d be subjected to the older woman’s stories.
She was in no mood to answer inquisitive questions and feed the local gossip mill. She certainly didn’t want to hear about how Mrs. Shanmugam’s daughter’s rich husband had bought a new car or that he had given his wife a new gold necklace. Megha wasn’t an envious sort, but today was a bad day to hear about someone’s blissful marriage and what their money could buy.
In a little while the river came into view, immediately lifting her spirits. It made an awesome sight as it cut a wicked path through the town, like a cool, flowing ribbon of water, making a gurgling sound while it slithered over rocks and driftwood. Megha loved the river. Since she was born and raised in her parents’ house nearby, the riverbank had served as a childhood playground. It was also a very short distance from her father’s modest mango grove.
She studied the orchard now as she walked past it. The mango season was long over. The grove looked pathetic sitting next to the lush rubber plantations belonging to the maharaja of Palgaum. The royal plantations were abundantly healthy, neat and professionally maintained, while her father’s mango trees, without proper fertilizing and pruning, looked droopy and produced very little fruit. Despite the maharaja’s offer to buy the land, her father stubbornly hung on to it for sentimental reasons—his family had owned it for generations. Besides, it was his insurance policy—in the event of his death, his wife could sell the plot of land to the royal family and have a little money to live on. With each passing year the land became that much more valuable, but it didn’t do the Shastry family any good in the meantime.
Megha’s father had worked as a horticulturist in the district horticulture department. The family’s mango orchard had provided a small additional income over the years. Like all government employees, he had been forced to retire at the age of sixty and now all her parents were left with was a small pension and an unreliable crop of mangoes that depended solely on the erratic weather. Whatever fruit the vagrants didn’t steal, and the birds and insects didn’t destroy, were sold for a pittance in the open market. It was hardly enough to get by on.
Things hadn’t been so bad when Megha’s older sisters were growing up. Her father’s government salary had provided the family with a decent enough living. But educating the girls and getting the first two married had been expensive. The dowries alone had cast her parents into heavy debt. Megha had always abhorred the idea of dowry—now she hated it even more. It was a curse—it had brought her nothing but grief. If she ever gave birth to a daughter someday, she’d never pay dowry; she’d find her a kind man who cared more about integrity and family values than money, a man who would love and cherish his wife.
She walked steadily for a while until she came to the giant banyan tree with its extra wide branches that looked like tentacles. She was tired from the brisk exercise. Her feet and back still hurt, despite the long nap.
Finding her favorite boulder under the tree unoccupied, she sank onto it to catch her breath. It felt good to rest. From centuries of use as a seat the surface of the rock was smooth as butter. At the moment it was warm from having absorbed the afternoon heat.
As a young girl she had often come to this spot to contemplate or regain her composure after a quarrel with friends or sisters. Except for Harini, she had lost touch with most of her friends in the past year. Lucky girls, they were still single and carefree souls. Some of them had jobs while others were pursuing advanced degrees. She missed them. She missed her sisters, too, although they had married and moved out years ago. Hema and Leela couldn’t make frequent trips to Palgaum because of their children’s school schedules.
Noting the time on her wristwatch she figured Suresh would be home by now. Had he wondered why she wasn’t home or didn’t he even notice that she wasn’t there to greet him with the customary cup of tea and snack?
Amma was probably sulking about having to serve tea to the family. Well, Amma would have to manage. It would do her good to move that mammoth body once in a while. Today was satsang day, singing spiritual songs and hym
ns and chanting with a religious group, so she would probably head out with her sisters-in-law and her lady friends to chant for an hour or two and then the women would let their tongues wag. Amma was likely to come home in a foul mood because there would be no fresh meal waiting for her. She would have to warm up the leftovers from lunch for the family’s dinner and then clear the table and clean up the kitchen—in other words, do what Megha did every evening.
The old battleaxe would no doubt work herself into a ferocious mood.
As Megha’s breath became even and the perspiration on her face evaporated, she lifted her gaze to the horizon. The sun was getting ready to set. It was a blazing orange ball, gently hovering over the river’s edge, appearing hesitant about retiring for the day. The waves on the river shimmered—long slivers of undulating russet and gold.
This part of town was much quieter than the one she lived in, but there were still a few people moving about. Several women, having finished washing their clothes in the river, passed her by with their wash-baskets. She marveled at how they balanced the baskets over their heads with old saris rolled into tight round coils to cup them, so their two hands could be free to lug other articles. They were probably heading home to fire up their hearths to cook supper. Megha watched their sunburned children moan and protest about having to return home.
The old beggar sat on the ground under a nearby tree some distance away and hungrily consumed a meal off a tin plate—someone had likely given him their leftovers from lunch. It was probably the only food he’d had all day. Although he looked wild with his long, unwashed hair and tattered clothes, he didn’t frighten Megha. He had been living under the protective shade of that tree for years. She’d seen him there since she was a child. He looked older and scrawnier now. In the monsoon season and at nights he moved to the shelter of the nearby temple. She continued to sit there because she knew the beggar was harmless.
“Megha.” A deep male voice jolted her from her reverie, making her turn her head.
The Dowry Bride Page 25
