At that instant, Ayesha burst into tears and stormed out of the room. Seema toddled off alongside her and Mrs Kulkarni trailed behind them.
“Those colours,” said Shailesh through gritted teeth, “were my father’s… for his football team.”
Suddenly, Monisha felt a sense of Mr Kulkarni’s presence. His ice-cold stare on her shoulders. The strong, proud, family man. Snatched away from them, all too early. A chill ran down her spine. She gasped.
“Oh Shailesh! If only I had known…”
“And the saris were like sacks, I hear.” He shook his head and began walking towards his room. Monisha leapt out of her seat and followed him.
His bedroom was dark and sparse. A flimsy watercolour sketch of the elephant god Ganesha hung on the wall. A thin mattress covered in blue-and-white-checked sheets rested on a mahogany bed frame. His wedding outfit drooped on the clothes rail opposite. Its turban dangled from the door. Monisha pulled out the only chair in the room and sat. Miserable and heavy hearted.
But she kept an eye out. At any moment her mother-in-law could walk in. Or Ayesha might bring over an armful of ironed shirts. Such was the privacy! And in two days’ time she was supposed to be sleeping here. With this man. If he ever forgave her.
Shailesh heaved the door shut. The silk turban swung from side to side. “You girls and your stupid weddings,” he hissed. “My sister had to leave her baby and buy all this nonsense for those rich bitches.”
It was harsh, but she nodded anyway.
When he saw her, his face swelled with rage. He flung the turban onto the floor and stomped over to his bed. The coins in his pocket clinked and jangled as he collapsed onto the blue-checked sheets.
“If I had it my way, I wouldn’t have a stupid, social wedding.”
Fear gripped her throat while she watched him, her mouth was parched. Outside the street boys cheered as ball hit bat. She’d have to speak above their shrill cries.
The words came out, just barely. What kind of wedding did he have in mind?
He would have much preferred a registry wedding. And the cash her parents had spent; well, he could have taken it instead.
She picked up the turban from the floor, hung it on the hook and eased back into her chair. Surely he was joking?
“Like… a dowry?”
He shot her an angry glare.
“Of course! I’m a Brahmin surgeon! Why should it cost me to get married when I should be the one getting paid?”
Monisha looked up in horror. This could not be happening. This was not the man she’d sipped shandy with at the Leatherhead Café, in front of its mauve walls and blond hippies. Her stomach churned.
“I thought dowries were illegal.”
He told her that dowries were the norm. She shot out of her chair. Her hands began trembling. But she was a doctor! A resident at St Anthony’s!
Shailesh marched over to the door and flung the silk turban off the hook, again. It slid across the floor and brushed her leg.
“Do you think you’re the only lady doctor looking for a husband? I could have chosen anyone I wanted!”
Monisha covered her ears and started running. The pounding began again in her head, her chest. Her bare feet slapped against the cement floor. She rummaged through the reception room for her sandals. Where the hell were they?
Mrs Kulkarni held them up in front of her face, chewing betel nut as she spoke. Her lips blood red, her teeth brown and jagged.
“Are you looking for these?”
Their silver hearts flashed. Monisha nodded.
“Men say terrible things when they are angry. Then they forget.”
Monisha shook her head. There was no way she was going to forgive and forget.
Drool bubbled in the old woman’s mouth. She ambled towards the front door, chewing. “Please remember, we were rich once, like yourselves, but we lost everything.”
Monisha snatched back her sandals and edged closer to the exit.
“My father is a lecturer and my mother has never worked. That doesn’t make us rich.”
The old woman spat out a glob of reddish-brown, speckled gunge. Out it flew in a perfect arc, until it landed in a spittoon by the door. An entire mouthful of stinking, saliva-filled betel nut almost filled the earthenware pot.
Monisha turned her face away and shuddered. How disgusting! She had to get out. Out of the flat. Out of the marriage. Right now.
But Mrs Kulkarni and Shailesh were both standing in the doorway.
“What have you said to upset this poor girl, Shailesh?”
He lowered his head until it almost touched his chest, but didn’t answer. Mrs Kulkarni sighed and pulled out two chairs. She made them sit, facing each other.
“Shailesh say ‘sorry’… And, young lady, you can’t just leave like that. We’re family.”
Monisha groaned.
“Yes, I can.”
But there was no arguing now. They had exchanged rings in front of Lord Krishna. And, according to Mrs Kulkarni, that was that.
Shailesh apologised for using the word ‘dowry’. What he needed was a loan. Of around $30,000. He promised to repay it.
But that was extortionate! She didn’t have that kind of money.
Apparently, it was nothing when you compared it to the going rate for a top civil servant husband: one million US dollars. One million outright!
Monisha covered her ears and got up. Hot tears trickled down her cheeks.
“I can’t go through with this,” she cried. “It’s all too much. Too much!”
At that moment the doorbell rang and Aunt Romila’s driver came charging into the reception room pointing at his watch. In a flash she was on her way back to Sitara Road, glum with despair.
15
Aunt Romila’s jeep bounced and clunked through the dust and debris of the back streets. Past bright, ragged saris and bony babies. Before blood splattered brick walls. While Monisha sat silently in the passenger seat, with rage bubbling away inside her head. Ready to spew forth any moment, like fiery lava.
What was Shailesh Kulkarni playing at?
He’d been so different the week they’d met: silky haired, suit clad, cool and successful. How had he turned into this money-grabbing monster? Damn that Ayesha! Stupid, reckless girl. She was to blame. Or was she?
He was totally inconsistent. On the one hand, against tradition. He hated bridegroom interviews, bogus astrologers and even wedding receptions. He’d been happy to marry a career woman: a medic from the States.
Even happier to take a dowry.
But what about her aunts and cousins? Poking fun like that. Bitches indeed! Could they have pushed him over the edge?
The sign for Sitara Road flashed before her eyes, and then the gleaming white house. The place she treasured. Outside the marquee was ready now, painstakingly decorated with pale-pink roses and swirls of soft, white tulle. Her mother’s choice. She began to sob. Loudly. The driver handed her a handkerchief. He’d blab, but she didn’t care. Every inch of her body was now filled with despair. Choky, sickly, achy, vomity despair.
How would her parents take this?
She scrambled out and kept her eyes on the ground. Away from the beautiful marquee. How much could it have cost them? Thousands probably. She’d pay it back in full. Sell her car. Get a loan. The money would be in their account in five working days. Just like in the commercial. And she’d have to cut back on her already spartan lifestyle.
After three half-hearted knocks on the front door she was in. The swirly marble floor sparkled in the mid-afternoon sun. Flies buzzed round the mahogany dining table, which was now hidden under baskets of fruits and flowers. At one end of the sofa sat her father, twiddling his thumbs. Next to him, her mother, eyeing the door.
And, in front of them, stood Shailesh!
Shailesh Kulkarni, her soon
to be ex-fiancé with his head bowed low and his motorbike helmet tucked underneath one arm. Sickness whirled through her stomach. Into her throat. Breathe, she told herself. Oh dear God, just breathe!
Then everything went dark and tingly.
“Ice, ice,” cried Mrs Bastikar.
First, she felt something cold and jagged scraping her cheek. Then, a bangle brushed against her wrist. She opened her eyes and caught sight of her mother kneeling beside her. A scarlet-faced Shailesh hovered over them both. She sat up sharp as a tack.
“I’m sorry, Monisha,” he said, before launching into a lengthy explanation about the events of the past few months. He just hadn’t been himself. Everything had happened at once: his sister just landed up, then her baby came. The baby needed an operation and…
“I would have liked to have bought you far more, but…”
Leela Bastikar shot up off the floor and immediately sent all the helpers out to the garden. Only when the door was shut behind them did she begin speaking again.
“The gifts were absolutely fine, Shailesh. Monisha, what have you been saying?”
Realising that he might have sparked a row, Shailesh turned his attention towards Professor Bastikar. He sat himself down by his prospective father-in-law’s feet, placed his motorbike helmet beside him and began speaking about Ayesha. And how she’d started off as her father’s favourite and ended up being gang raped by criminals after his death.
“She’s been unlucky too, with poor Seema needing surgery. It almost bankrupted me. That’s why I asked Monisha for a loan.”
Mrs Bastikar gasped. Professor Bastikar’s eyebrows curled together into a knot. Shailesh fidgeted in front of them, tapping the shiny surface of his helmet.
“But you said you should have been paid a dowry,” protested Monisha, “and you asked for $30,000!”
Leela Bastikar shrieked so loudly that it triggered a coughing fit. Monisha called for water, but the helpers were all outside, so she ran off to get some. Shailesh tried speaking above them. He hadn’t meant to use the d-word. It was just a loan he needed. Honestly!
Professor Bastikar looked at him gravely. The young man in front of him was clearly suffering from familiar afflictions: a ‘cash crisis’ and ‘family trouble’. Both could be eradicated with a one-way ticket to the States. Once upon a time, he’d used the same remedy.
“You have been through a very difficult time, Shailesh,” he said. “Things will get better.”
Monisha’s emotions began to run haywire. Suddenly she felt a surge of compassion. Poor Shailesh! Just when he was trying to establish himself, his sister’s divorce and Seema’s operation had hit him out of nowhere. He had only done the decent thing by helping them. And got into debt. But $30,000 was still too much.
Her father delivered welcome news: there would be cash gifts at the wedding. And, of course, when he moved to the States, the dollars would start coming in.
Shailesh nodded like an obedient schoolboy.
Leela Bastikar stared nervously at the clock, then at her son-in-law.
“Now that we have reached a solution, Shailesh, I must ask you to leave. It’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other after dusk.”
“What poppycock!” exclaimed Professor Bastikar.
“You stick to E = mc2, Amit!” retorted his wife.
And, after what seemed like an eternity, the joyous sound of laughter filled the air. Leela Bastikar ushered Shailesh towards the front door. Monisha watched him from her window until he disappeared into the pitch-black night.
16
It was half past seven in the morning. The smog filled air above Sitara Road was thick with tension and excitement. The wedding marquee now drooped under the weight of its floral decorations. Scents of sandalwood incense and burning butter wafted throughout the house. In the kitchen, Aunt Romila shouted orders over the hissing and spluttering of hot oil, while Leela Bastikar scurried back and forth, checking on everything.
Upstairs, the makeup lady traced around Monisha’s eyes with kohl, and hooked the golden tikka onto her parting. And suddenly it happened. The transformation she’d been waiting for all her life. A beautiful bride beamed back in the mirror. Bedecked in jewels from head to toe, and wrapped in luxurious, green-and-gold silk. Just like in the movies. Except that her nose throbbed from the tug of its ring and chain. And the petticoat was so tight she could barely breathe.
She staggered to the window for fresh air. The groom’s party were already here! Outside they marched, with Shailesh at the front, in his cream silk robes. Seema skipping along next to him in pink. Aunties, uncles and cousins, in rows of four.
And Ayesha, pale and beautiful, in apricot chiffon.
A chill ran through her spine. Then the thorns began to prick. If it hadn’t been for Ayesha there would be no debt. Prick. Shailesh would never have mentioned the d-word. Prick. And this day would have been a truly happy one. Prick.
The sound of her mother’s footsteps caught her by surprise.
“Where’s Mrs Kulkarni?” There was no way she could bring herself to call the old woman anything else.
Her mother told her that widows were barred from auspicious occasions.
“But why?”
Mrs Bastikar slapped a wad of cash onto the makeup lady’s palm and sent the woman on her way.
“Widows are bad omens, Monisha – a reminder of sorrow and loss.”
But what about the old lady’s sorrow and loss? Were widowers banned as well? There were so many traditions in Indian weddings that didn’t make sense to her, like dowries for instance. How long had they been around? And why were they still around when women were earning?
According to her mother, it was the Europeans who’d started the tradition. But somehow they’d managed to relieve themselves of it and dump it on India.
Other little questions burned inside.
“Why hadn’t Shailesh just taken a bank loan?”
Aunt Romila knocked on the door. Downstairs a crowd had gathered.
“Indian men grow up knowing they’ll get money through marriage,” whispered Mrs Bastikar.
Monisha grimaced. Was this how it was meant to be? The best day in her life? Beginning with a $30,000 debt and an emotional roller coaster ride. With Shailesh assuming he’d be paid to marry her. She froze.
The knocks became louder, more frantic. The priest could not be kept waiting. For wedding rituals, timings were sacrosanct.
Leela Bastikar stared at herself in the mirror, and adjusted the folds of her sari until each one was stiff and perfect. Then she strutted over to her daughter and gently lifted up her wedding veil.
“My dear girl, don’t ruin your beautiful face with that look.”
Now Monisha had no choice. She took in a deep breath and smiled the smile that all Indian brides spent years rehearsing.
The next seven hours went like a dream. First the prayers to welcome the groom and the blessings for the couple. Afterwards, a white cloth was placed between herself and Shailesh as the priest recited the story of Tapati, the daughter of the sun-god and her marriage to a virtuous king.
Up, up, up went the cloth when he’d finished. And, for the first time, Shailesh looked into her eyes. Not his usual two second glance. But fully. Deeply. So deeply that the dowry and debt were forgotten for a moment. Her heart skipped a beat.
Then, down came the rice and confetti. Frosting up in piles. And, everywhere, the smell of incense. Flickering flames, flashes of gold and silver. So intoxicating! She was high. Really high! High, like the drug addicts who hung round Highgate Mall.
Her jasmine garland felt as light as a feather. Over his neck, she placed his, standing on tiptoes. A cocky smile lit her lips. He was tall, thank God!
Then the most famous part of all. Round the holy fire, seven times. One for sap. Two for juice. Seven times for seven lives. She knew
it off by heart. Her hand across his chest as he spoke the words.
“Dear wife, by taking these seven steps, you have become my dearest friend.”
A thrill soared up through her ankles.
“Go again,” shouted the crowd. “That was only six.”
“Okay then, just to be sure,” yelled Aunt Romila.
And round they went once more.
At last, he applied the powder on her parting. In a perfectly straight line. Like a surgeon’s cut, they cried. Thick red dust whooshed into the air. Some landed on her nose. A sign of good luck.
Her turn now. Oh God. Oh God. The sandalwood paste for his forehead was a slushy mess.
“It’s a zigzag,” screeched Riya. “You’ve started a new trend!”
More laughter. Then rice and confetti. Hoots. Cheers. Ear-piercing whistles. Everything warm and fuzzy, her head starting to spin.
It was over. They were married. Eleven months after they’d met. Four days after she’d landed in Mumbai. And one night after a heated argument.
That evening, the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel buzzed with guests. Scribbled on a chalkboard outside the conference room were the words: ‘Dr Shailesh Kulkarni, Mrs Monisha Kulkarni and wedding party’.
It took a while for it to sink in.
For the next two hours, Shailesh and Monisha stood in the doorway, flashing painted on smiles for guests and gatecrashers. When they were done, silver trays of sizzling kebabs awaited them. Naan and tandoori breads were puffed up like pillows.
Everything was perfect. Just as she’d always wanted it.
After the party ended, the couple made their way into the bridal suite. When the lights came on, she saw the king-sized bed blanketed by rose petals. Shailesh pulled her close. Time stood still as he struggled with her hooks, chains and pins. Suddenly her hairpiece rolled off her head and onto the floor.
“My, what thick tresses of hair you have!” he joked.
Together they burst out laughing.
She glanced over at the mirror, the kohl was still thick round her eyes and her lips dusty-pink. He took her henna-stained hand and lay down on the bed. Thump! Thump! Her heart raced faster and faster. Tina’s words came catapulting back.
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