Take One Arranged Marriage…

by Shoma Narayanan

  The wedding itself was to be a quiet family affair—Vikram wanted it that way, and Tara’s father had reluctantly agreed. Tara felt a bit of a fraud as her mother carefully arranged the folds of her green and gold brocade sari.

  The whole thing didn’t seem real yet, she thought, moving her head irritably. In addition to the weight of her already heavy hair, she had enough flowers pinned in it to stock a moderate-sized florist’s shop for a week. She was extremely sleep-deprived—she hadn’t slept much the night before, and the ceremony was starting at an unearthly hour in the morning because that was the ‘auspicious time’ the Krishnans’ priest had come up with. And she was very, very jittery.

  The enormity of what she was doing had just begun to dawn on her, and the result was as fine an attack of nerves as one could have hoped for.

  ‘This’ll be your first night—’ her mother started to say.

  Tara cut across her rudely. ‘If you’re going to tell me the facts of life, Mum, you’re some ten years too late.’ Her mother flushed painfully, sending Tara into one of her instant guilt trips. ‘Sorry, Amma,’ she muttered.

  Her mother recovered with dignity. ‘It’ll still be your first time. If you need to know something, ask me.’

  ‘Yeah, right …’ Tara muttered to herself.

  Her mother hadn’t even bothered to tell her about contraception—if she thought her daughter was all that innocent, wouldn’t that be the least she’d do? Or maybe she wanted her to get pregnant, Tara thought darkly, so that she’d give up all hopes of having a career, or even a life of her own. Anyway, she’d sorted things out for herself, going to the gynaecologist mother of a friend of hers and getting three months’ supply of the Pill.

  She was still brooding when her closest friend, Ritu, entered the room.

  ‘I’ll take over, Aunty,’ she said cheerfully to Tara’s mum. ‘Only the make-up to be done, right?’

  Tara’s mother escaped thankfully, and Ritu pulled up a chair.

  ‘Nervy?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  Tara nodded.

  ‘I take back everything I said about this being a bad idea.’ Ritu said. ‘I saw your fiancé for about five minutes outside, and he’s gorgeous. Most women would kill for a night with a man like that.’

  Tara gulped. Other than a kissing session with a college classmate, which she’d entered into on a purely experimental basis, she was terribly inexperienced when it came to men. And Vikram looked anything but inexperienced. He’d probably slept with dozens of women. The thought of the wedding night had her tied up in knots. She was so unsure about what to do and how to behave. The thought of actually getting into bed with Vikram was scary and exciting at the same time, and a little shiver went through her.

  ‘Feeling cold?’ Ritu asked, oblivious to the turmoil in her best friend’s mind. ‘It’ll be warmer in the main hall—it’s actually getting a bit stuffy. There are dozens of people around. You sure you don’t have some gatecrashers in there?’

  Tara grinned unwillingly. At some point, the ‘quiet family affair’ had got completely out of control, probably because the ‘family’ on either side numbered over a hundred people. The noise filtered in even through the closed doors of the changing room. Everyone was talking and laughing at once, the priest was chanting Sanskrit mantras at the top of his voice, and to add to the pandemonium there were live musicians playing traditional music to accompany the mantras. The plaintive strains of the nadaswaram in the background intensified the fluttery feeling in Tara’s stomach, and for an instant she had a childish impulse to cover her ears with her hands.

  After about ten more minutes her mother turned up again, to lead her out to the wedding pavilion.

  ‘I can’t see—stop shoving me!’ she hissed, her eyes discreetly lowered as her mother had instructed.

  She was seething as she was finally pushed into her seat in front of the sacred fire by various over-helpful female relatives. The noise was much louder, and the heavy beat of the drum seemed to make her heart pound harder. Her eyes began to water—the priest had just poured a pot of butter into the fire, and it was smoking dreadfully.

  ‘Such a coincidence, meeting you here,’ an extremely sexy voice drawled into her ear.

  She spun towards the sound and found herself looking right into Vikram’s eyes.

  ‘Calm down,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Not changed your mind, have you? You look more like you’re at a funeral than a wedding.’

  ‘I feel ridiculously over-dressed,’ Tara muttered, taking in the sight of Vikram in a white T-shirt over a veshti, the single white cotton kilt-like lower garment that was traditional male garb for any South Indian religious occasion—weddings and funerals included.

  His hair was still damp from the shower, and the white collar of his T-shirt set off his tanned skin to perfection. Ritu was right—he looked gorgeous. Tara unconsciously clenched her hands. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to be attracted to him so strongly. He was just looking at her now, for God’s sake, and it was driving her crazy with longing. The suppressed heat in his eyes was making her imagine all kinds of delicious things.

  ‘You look absolutely stunning,’ he said finally, his voice low. ‘Don’t look at him now, but even the pundit’s checking you out.’

  Tara smiled. She couldn’t help it. Vikram was perhaps a little too calm and collected, but he definitely was a help in getting things into perspective.

  ‘That’s better,’ Vikram said. ‘I feel a little less like an undertaker’s assistant now.’

  She laughed at that, and both her parents gave her disapproving looks.

  ‘Vikram, kannan, you can’t get married wearing a T-shirt,’ one of the hovering aunts clicked in exasperation.

  In addition to the veshti, tradition also dictated a bare-chested dress code for men.

  ‘It’s cold,’ someone else said chidingly. ‘He can take the T-shirt off once the actual ceremonies begin.’

  ‘They’re about to begin!’ the first voice chimed in. ‘Vikram …’

  ‘Yes—OK!’ he said in exasperation, and stood up, pulling the T-shirt over his head in one fluid movement.

  Ohhhh. He had the best body Tara had ever seen off-screen, and she almost cried out in protest when he slung an angavastram carelessly across one shoulder, the white cloth covering up a large part of his near-perfect chest.

  ‘Drool alert,’ Ritu whispered warningly into her ear.

  Tara looked away in a hurry, hoping none of the aunts had noticed her casting lustful looks at her almost-husband. She couldn’t turn off the images in her mind, though—her anticipation for their first night together had just been turned up a notch.

  Most of the ceremony passed by in blur—except for her having to perch on Vikram’s knee for the duration of one particularly complex ritual. In her efforts to a) not put her full weight on him, and b) not seem too flustered at having to climb onto his lap in front of a hundred interested onlookers, she almost overbalanced.

  He put his hands around her waist, his warm palms touching her bare skin just above the waistband of the sari. ‘Relax, you won’t crush me,’ he said, and pulled her back against him.

  Tara sat quietly, doing her best not to breathe. For the few minutes she stayed on his lap she felt as if they were isolated from the rest of the world. The priest’s chants and the excited conversation among their relatives seemed to be coming from a long, long distance away. All that was real was the feeling of his hands on her waist, and his breath on the nape of her neck. She had a sudden mad urge to turn around and press her lips to his, and she almost shuddered with the effort of keeping still.

  Finally the priest beamed around at everyone, pronouncing all the ceremonies done, and the magistrate’s assistant came forward with the marriage register. Tara felt her heart thumping in her chest as she signed it. This was it. She was tied to Vikram for the rest of her life now. She caught her father wiping his eyes furtively and was almost unbearably touched. Her mother, in contrast,
for once looked completely in control.

  ‘So far, so good,’ Vikram murmured out of the corner of his mouth as they posed for photographs with the nth set of beaming relatives. ‘Are you feeling better now? For a minute I thought you’d bolt—you looked petrified.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ Tara said indignantly. Talk about a mood-killer. ‘It was all that smoke and noise.’

  ‘Smoke and noise?’ he repeatedly thoughtfully. ‘Hmm …’

  His arm slipped round her waist, and he bent and lightly brushed his lips against hers. It was a teasingly casual embrace, but her already heightened senses went haywire at his touch. She instinctively leaned into the kiss, blushing when he drew away and surveyed her with amused eyes.

  ‘I’m looking forward to tonight,’ he said huskily, almost to himself.

  Someone called out to him, but he held her gaze for a few seconds, his jet-black eyes burning into hers before he turned away. Tara could feel her pulse racing. Thankfully no one was near enough to notice her agitation, and she took a couple of deep breaths before she went to stand by Vikram’s side for the next round of photographs.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TARA scowled into the mirror. ‘This blouse was a mistake,’ she said, looking at the fussy red and silver long-sleeved brocade blouse she was supposed to wear for the wedding reception that Vikram’s father was hosting at his swanky club. ‘I shouldn’t have let my mother and the tailors bulldoze me into getting it stitched this way. I look ridiculous.’

  ‘Tara, it’s too late to do anything. The guests have begun to arrive,’ Ritu protested. ‘Put it on, and we’ll drape the sari in a way so it doesn’t look too bad.’

  ‘I am not about to step out in front of a thousand people dressed like Santa Claus in drag,’ Tara said through her teeth. ‘Can you get me a pair of scissors from somewhere?’

  ‘Tara …’ Ritu said despairingly.

  Tara turned around. ‘I need to look like I belong with Vikram,’ she said. ‘Not like some schoolroom miss dressed up by her mum.’

  Ritu’s face softened. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s do what we can.’

  Twenty minutes later Vikram looked up as a slim figure dressed in a sari crossed the club lawns gracefully to come towards him. It took him a few seconds to recognise his wife. Her thick hair was piled into a beehive hairdo that left her long, graceful neck exposed, and her sari was a light-coloured shimmery thing that made her look like a moonbeam. But it wasn’t the sari everyone around him was staring at—it was the blouse.

  At first glance it looked as if she wasn’t wearing one at all, as if the only thing covering her breasts was the gauzy material of the sari that crossed from her right hip to flow over her left shoulder. Closer inspection showed that she was wearing a blouse—a thin strip of material that barely covered her breasts and was tied in a knot at her back. Most of her back was bare, Vikram noticed as she came to stand beside him. So was most of her waist. The sari was tied very low, and her navel peeped out seductively above the point where the front pleats were tucked into the waistband of the satin underskirt.

  A sharp wave of lust hit Vikram just below his belly as a vivid mental image of slowly pulling the sari off sprang up. He took a quick swig of his drink to regain his composure, and held his hand out to Tara. ‘You look lovely,’ he said, smiling at her warmly.

  Tara tucked a hand into the crook of Vikram’s arm. For the second before Vikram had smiled she had been on tenterhooks. Between her efforts and Ritu’s the blouse had ended up a good deal skimpier than she’d intended. It wasn’t indecent, but it definitely didn’t suggest a virginal bride, and she’d been worried that Vikram would disapprove.

  Vikram put an arm around her and steered her to the next group of guests. Acutely conscious of the strength cloaked under the silk sleeve of his jacket, she was glad of the arm for another reason—she was beginning to feel very, very cold. It was evening, and around fifteen degrees Celsius, and they were right out in the open. She gave a little involuntary shiver as a gust of cold wind blew across the lawns.

  ‘Do you want to go inside?’ Vikram asked.

  She nodded, hoping her teeth wouldn’t begin to chatter. Indoors would be warmer, and she desperately wanted to be alone with him—not standing around and socialising with a bunch of their parents’ friends. He was looking good enough to eat. This was the first time she’d seen him in a suit and tie, and he was gorgeous, the perfectly cut suit emphasising the powerful breadth of his shoulders and the white shirt setting off his smoothly tanned skin. His straight black hair flopped over his forehead, and he kept pushing it back impatiently with one hand.

  For a moment Tara wondered what the reaction of the assembled guests would be if she leaned across and planted a passionate kiss on his beautiful mouth. Yet another twist to bringing shame on the family if she did. Vikram might end up being the only Indian man in history having to fight off public advances from his newly acquired bride. Sighing, she allowed Vikram to lead her inside the main hall, where a buffet dinner had been laid out.

  It was warmer inside, but not much, and Vikram frowned as he felt her icy hands. ‘Drink this, it’ll warm you up,’ he said, stopping a passing waiter to grab a bowl of soup.

  Tara took it from him gratefully, cupping her slim hands around the bowl to soak in the warmth.

  Ritu spotted her and came across. ‘Here—I got you a wrap,’ she said, thrusting a silvery-white hand-embroidered Pashmina shawl into her hand. ‘It’s a wedding gift from one of your aunts,’ she said, when Tara looked up at her enquiringly. ‘I heard her twittering on about how well it would have matched your sari, so I dug it out and unwrapped it. You have a matching tie,’ she said, turning to Vikram. ‘I left it in the box. Now, get this girl to cover up before she freezes to death.’

  Vikram looked after Ritu as she bustled off. ‘I like your friend,’ he observed, and Tara found herself liking him even more.

  Without realising it, she started telling him the story of the mutilated blouse, and he laughed, his black eyes sparkling with amusement. He was still laughing when a tall woman with restless eyes wandered up to them. Tara had spotted her earlier, standing alone by the bar. She was really lovely, in a film actressy kind of way, and she was dressed in an expensive-looking churidaar kameez that proclaimed designer-wear from a mile off.

  Vikram’s expression changed, becoming almost sombre the second he saw her. ‘Tara, this is Lisa Andrews—a very close friend of ours,’ he said as he stood up to greet her.

  The girl leaned across to kiss Tara on the cheek, surprising her so much that she only just managed to stop herself from jerking back. People in Jamshedpur normally shook hands—kissing on the cheek was a western custom that was only slowly coming into vogue in society circles of big cities.

  Lisa was smiling, taking her hands into her own. ‘You’re beautiful,’ she said.

  Her voice was so genuinely warm that Tara abandoned the thought that she might be an ex-girlfriend.

  ‘I’m so happy Vikram’s finally married. We were beginning to give up on him.’ She looked up at Vikram and smiled. ‘He’s a wonderful person. You’re a really lucky girl,’ she said, and squeezed Tara’s hands once gently before letting them go. She kissed Vikram next, and hugged him briefly. ‘Congratulations, and I hope you’ll be really, really happy,’ she said.

  But there was something in her eyes—a lurking sadness that made Tara feel strangely uncomfortable. Her eyes followed Lisa as she walked away, and she saw Vikram’s mother hurry up to her and put an arm around her. There was something happening here, Tara thought, and she looked up at Vikram. He was looking at the two women, too, and there was a kind of frozen look on his face that made the question Tara was about to ask die on her lips.

  Then another set of people came up, and Vikram turned to greet them—he sounded so normal that Tara began to wonder if she’d been imagining things.

  They finally had dinner at eleven o’ clock, after all the guests had left. Then the two of them, plus b
oth sets of parents, were taken to the Krishnans’ bungalow in three different chauffeur-driven cars.

  After much discussion on whether their first night should be at a hotel or in the Krishnans’ home, it had finally been decided by the powers that be that Vikram’s parents’ home was the best place for Tara to lose her virginity.

  Being escorted there by her own parents was embarrassing beyond belief, and as far as she knew not part of tradition, but she hadn’t had the guts to put her foot down. Vikram seemed completely unfazed, she thought, peeking at his face quickly as they entered the house. Maybe the first night wasn’t quite such a big thing for him—again she told herself he’d probably slept with dozens of women. Of course he hadn’t married any of them, but he’d still find her totally inexperienced in comparison.

  A maid showed Tara to the room she’d be sharing with Vikram. It was lovely, and someone had strewn the bed with rose-petals. Tara repressed a grimace, looking at it. It so obviously screamed out wedding night bed. Her cases were already in the room, ready to be carried to the station the next day, and once the maid had left she quickly changed into a demure but alluring white satin nightgown, with narrow pink shoulder-straps and pale pink rosebuds embroidered over the bodice.

  After the episode with the sari earlier in the evening she thought it better to be conservative with her night clothes, at least in the beginning. The nightgown had a matching robe, and she slipped it on—in spite of the heater in the room it was still a little chilly—then she carefully brushed the rose petals off one side of the bed and sat herself down to wait.

  Her anticipation had built up to fever-pitch by the time Vikram entered the room, and her uncertainties were beginning to build as well. She had no idea what he expected of her. He must know how inexperienced she was, and he might be put off if she acted too eager. On the other hand he didn’t seem the kind of man who’d appreciate a shy and blushing bride, and in any case she wasn’t sure she could manage pretending to be one.