as often, me). âTruly, Dev has brought Lakshmi to your house,â the women said, and a few reached out to appraise the heft of the gold in my bracelet or the size of the jewels in my necklace (one of them even pretending to brush back my hair in place so she could get a better look at my earrings). âSuch full cheeks. Such nice eyes. And not too dark-complexioned, just right.â The questions they asked me were like those one might put to a childâwhat was my name, where did I come from, how I liked it in Nizamuddin. Afterwards, Mataji led them on a tour of the refrigerator and the radiogram and the kitchen utensils, tantalizing them with the myriad feats of magic reputedly possible with the pressure cooker (another first for the colony, this time imported in its entirety from England). âAll we really wanted was Meera, but look how they insisted, look how theyâve given us so much,â she said.
It was good that there was so much activity those first days in my in-lawsâ house, since it prevented me from steeping in regret every waking moment. Mataji must have understood what I was going through, because she quickly started introducing chores into my day. She would notice me staring balefully at Dev as he sat down to his evening liquor with Babuji and Arya, and quickly pull out a soda water bottle from the fridge. âTell them to roll it over their foreheads before they open it. The way Babuji keeps grumbling about the fridgeâit will remind him how warm his drinks were before you came.â
Every time I entered the toilet and braced myself for a cockroach to scramble over my feet or whir into my face (âThe old oneâs Shyamu,â Hema informed me. âYou can kill the ones that fly, but not himâ), I thought back fondly to the clean white tiles of bathrooms past. I smelled rich curries and Basmati biryanis each evening as I tried to plow through the clods of Sandhyaâs rice on my plate. The sound of children playing outside transported me to the park in Darya Ganj where Sharmila and I played badminton every summer and flew kites in the spring. I even pictured myself back in Pajiâs dreaded library, standing in the cold rush of the air-conditioning vents, each time the electricity failed in Nizamuddin.
Most agonizing of all was not knowing when I would see my parents again. Mataji had made no mention of it, although it was clear from her supervision that I was not to venture out by myself. I was too timid to ask her directly, though Hema somehow zeroed in on what was on my mind. âEveryone knows the bride isnât supposed to return to her fatherâs house for three months,â she declared. âDidnât you see that movie? Suraiya goes back after only five weeks and her husband gets bitten by a snake and drops dead.
âDonât think your mother can just come by whenever she wants to see you either. Sheâs from the girlâs side, so she needs a proper invitation from us before she can show her face here. And who knows how many months it will be before Mataji and I both agree itâs time?â
ON MY THIRD EVENING in Nizamuddin, I decided to escape. The idea materialized on the spur of the momentâMataji was with Hema in the kitchen, berating Sandhya for not browning the onions enough, and the men were all in the living room, their voices already a little unsteady, and punctuated by the pops of soda bottles. Why not sneak out to Darya Ganj while nobody was looking? Perhaps never to come back? My heart began racing at the prospect. I could be sitting on our terrace in less than an hour, enjoying guavas plucked freshly from the tree downstairs. My incarnation as a bride left behind like a spent nightmareâfrom which I could cull the more harrowing tidbits anytime I wanted to frighten Sharmila.
Then I felt a pang of regret. How to retrieve my dowry? For an instant, I wondered if I could gather up all the jewelry and
It was good that there was so much activity those first days in my in-lawsâ house, since it prevented me from steeping in regret every waking moment. Mataji must have understood what I was going through, because she quickly started introducing chores into my day. She would notice me staring balefully at Dev as he sat down to his evening liquor with Babuji and Arya, and quickly pull out a soda water bottle from the fridge. âTell them to roll it over their foreheads before they open it. The way Babuji keeps grumbling about the fridgeâit will remind him how warm his drinks were before you came.â
Every time I entered the toilet and braced myself for a cockroach to scramble over my feet or whir into my face (âThe old oneâs Shyamu,â Hema informed me. âYou can kill the ones that fly, but not himâ), I thought back fondly to the clean white tiles of bathrooms past. I smelled rich curries and Basmati biryanis each evening as I tried to plow through the clods of Sandhyaâs rice on my plate. The sound of children playing outside transported me to the park in Darya Ganj where Sharmila and I played badminton every summer and flew kites in the spring. I even pictured myself back in Pajiâs dreaded library, standing in the cold rush of the air-conditioning vents, each time the electricity failed in Nizamuddin.
Most agonizing of all was not knowing when I would see my parents again. Mataji had made no mention of it, although it was clear from her supervision that I was not to venture out by myself. I was too timid to ask her directly, though Hema somehow zeroed in on what was on my mind. âEveryone knows the bride isnât supposed to return to her fatherâs house for three months,â she declared. âDidnât you see that movie? Suraiya goes back after only five weeks and her husband gets bitten by a snake and drops dead.
âDonât think your mother can just come by whenever she wants to see you either. Sheâs from the girlâs side, so she needs a proper invitation from us before she can show her face here. And who knows how many months it will be before Mataji and I both agree itâs time?â
ON MY THIRD EVENING in Nizamuddin, I decided to escape. The idea materialized on the spur of the momentâMataji was with Hema in the kitchen, berating Sandhya for not browning the onions enough, and the men were all in the living room, their voices already a little unsteady, and punctuated by the pops of soda bottles. Why not sneak out to Darya Ganj while nobody was looking? Perhaps never to come back? My heart began racing at the prospect. I could be sitting on our terrace in less than an hour, enjoying guavas plucked freshly from the tree downstairs. My incarnation as a bride left behind like a spent nightmareâfrom which I could cull the more harrowing tidbits anytime I wanted to frighten Sharmila.
Then I felt a pang of regret. How to retrieve my dowry? For an instant, I wondered if I could gather up all the jewelry and
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