1. The New Bride

When Tara came home with a young bride, I was six months and two days dead.  I watched the amber sky set on Tara and his new wife. My vison blurred and multiplied, and, in an instant, they transformed into a fiery ball. I shuddered at the sight. The fragrant scent of the marigold garland hanging around the newlyweds’ neck thickened, burning my eyes as if the flowers had bred poison. Against the evening sky, the thin line of dimming twilight separating the newlyweds, dissolved slowly. I could see the young bride leaning ever so slightly on Tara as if she was too weak to stand. Cloistered in her coyness, the new bride glowed like a radiant pearl. Her brown eyes twinkling with delight, she pulled the thin shawl over her hennaed hair which carried the colour of rage. Red. Like my nervous eyes, darting between the couple until my gaze settled on Tara.

Nostalgia warmed my senses. A vein of memory split open. Suddenly, I was an eighteen-year-old girl standing at the tea shop with Tara and a love affair was on the brink of bloom. 

That was six years ago. On a spring morning, my friends and I, six girls, went to the grand carnival that came once a year to a hamlet nearby. We were fresh off the pen and paper after writing our matriculation exam. I can still hear the rustle of the green saree I wore that day, brushing against my legs. Young, gingerly tiptoeing around the uncharted territory of freedom, we were uncertain how to use the gift.

Other than walking to the nearest hamlet, we had no choice. On lucky days, one could take a free ride on the pickup trucks headed to town for the delivery of fresh milk and vegetables. But the elders had warned us enough about the dangers and advised us to walk instead. ‘It is dangerous to be pretty, young and then a girl.’ It was an innocuous remark from an elderly man, which made little sense until a few days later; I eloped with Tara.

After an hour-long journey, when we finally reached the hamlet, our parched throats, whistling like a dying animal, needed respite. We walked into the nearest tea stall with a low thatched roof alive with the incessant buzz of the customers. ‘The tea pickers are on a break,’ the shop man apologised, ushering us to a vacant spot outside the hut. It was there I saw Tara sitting alone. The slight wave of his straight hair set around his forehead. The deep round eyes, the sunken cheeks and his lean structure—which had never pushed a needle forward on the weighing scale since he was eighteen—made a handsome silhouette. Our eyes met for the first time. Later, we both agreed that it was love at first sight.

While I lived, Tara never found a fault in me. I despised my slanted eyes, a feature typical of the Rai clan. ‘Chimsi’—it was a nickname for someone with tiny eyes. As I grew up, the sobriquet replaced my shadow. No one in my village called me by my name. Tara was the first. He loved me the way I was. Even though he had an aquiline nose and big round eyes, a trait he claimed to have inherited from his Chettri ancestors. ‘I have a mountain, and you have a valley for a nose.’ Tara would make such jokes to cheer me up whenever I made complaints about my flat nose.

 Now, the ghost of Tara’s words dance before my eyes.

The new bride was nothing like me. The half-sided smile illuminated her angular face, highlighting the heightened glory of her sharp cheekbones. Lean, as tall as Tara. Gazing into her big, deep-set eyes, I knew I had lost the battle. I gazed at the pretty marigold garland adorning the sweaty necks of the newlyweds, and I wished for its instant death. I rubbed my eyes to cleanse them of the vision now contained in my eyes. But the newlyweds stood unchanged. I shut my eyes and said a prayer. Nothing changed except a trickle of hot tears washed my cold cheeks.

‘Tara, is that you?’ Sharmila aama[1] waddled as quickly as her aching knees allowed, ferociously suing the cat meddling with the yarn balls out of her way. Just in time to greet her son. ‘What a pleasant surprise, Tara!’ The sudden jerk made the ill-fitting glasses slip and sit precariously on the edge of the old woman’s calloused chin. ‘Bindu, come here!’ Sharmila aama directed her voice towards the kitchen.

‘Pleasant? Aama, this is betrayal.’ I screamed. The words lay smothered in my chest. Deeper than the earth dug for my burial.

‘Bindu, have you lost your hearing?’ Sharmila aama scurried towards the kitchen. The tiny coins inside the knitted waist-purse jingled endlessly, as if eager to join in the commotion.

‘New bride.’ Sharmila aama’s words rammed into my frail body. As I followed her to the kitchen, the coldness spread through me at the speed of a bullet train.

‘Sharmila didi[2], the new bride has such a beautiful smile!’ From underneath the kitchen curtain, Bindu didi took a peek.

‘Yes, I noticed it too.’ Sharmila aama reached for the precious plate reserved for special moments lined to perfection on the kitchen shelf.

‘Didi, don’t you think we should hold the welcome ritual for now?’ Bindu didi eyed the plate littered with a burning diya, a few incense sticks and a fistful of rice.

‘And what should I do with the new bride until then?’ Sharmila aama shoved Bindu didi’s hands in irritation.

‘Yes, I understand. I’m just saying it’s a bit unfair to welcome a new...’

‘Do you think I am enjoying this? Tara should have known better. And if I turn them away, where will they go?’ Sharmila aama cupped her hands to save the flickering match.

The old woman always found a kernel of wisdom hidden inside Bindu didi’s words. For instance, it was because Bindu didi thought the cheap lime wash made our house look hideous that Sharmila aama then generously slathered the house with a ‘bright green’ paint. But today was different.

‘Who knows what happens after we die, Bindu? It is not like Gayatri can hear or see us!’

I watched the ladies argue. The cat, as black as the night, smelled the crackling tension in the air. Her mewing grew louder every time Sharmila aama uttered a word as though she was nodding in agreement to everything that spewed out of the old woman’s mouth.

‘Bindu didi,’ I called, but she did not flinch in the slightest. Instead, complaining of the chilly wind, she walked towards the open window and shut it.

The cat stole a quick glance before she could spit another cry, but she stopped when she saw me crying. She understands I am not one of them anymore.

The day I died; it was a rainy day. The August air was heavy as dark clouds loomed overhead. I watched from the kitchen window stirring the rice pudding boiling on the stove. It was a day of celebration. After eleven years of service as a waiter at Rajkumar bhaiya’s[3] sweet shop, Tara had finally received a promotion. The role of a supervisor had also earned him a monthly bonus of fifty rupees. On hearing the news, Sharmila aama proudly declared, ‘We should celebrate all the good news with rice pudding.’ Little did I suspect that the sweet fragrance of basmati rice simmering in a pool of milk heralded the beginning of the troubles ahead.

Shortly after Tara’s departure for work, the rain regained its grandiosity from the previous night. The image of the forgotten blanket drying in the courtyard flashed before my eyes. I ran outside. With each step, the raindrops thickened. Darkness shrouded my vision. The raging howls killed every sound. Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminated the courtyard, briefly revealing what it had swallowed. The world fell into darkness and silence. The house held its breath as I quietly settled on the ground like a leaf.

I cannot recall how long I lay there or who came to my rescue. A piercing scream persisting underneath the dark shadow awoke me. I saw a crowd had gathered around the house.

I hurried indoors. Sharmila aama, flanked by women on either side, sat statuesque.

‘What is wrong? What is happening?’

No one bothered to answer me.

Tara howled like an injured animal, retreating to the room’s damp, weeping walls. He held to his chest what looked like a dead body and wept. I rushed towards him, and it was then I saw myself lying dead in Tara’s arms. Curly hot breaths escaped Tara’s trembling lips as if the wisps of vapour rising from the boiling rice pudding had drifted from the kitchen and settled on his mouth.

On me, they became a powerful jolt of electricity, crumbling me to the ground once again.

‘She slipped and fell on the slippery mud courtyard.’ The neighbours engaged in whispery chats. There is no truth in that, just as there is no truth when they said I was only a month pregnant.

‘Aama? Where have you gone?’ Tara yelled. Standing together, the newlyweds had their hands tightly clasped in unison. I felt a slight prick on my back, almost tricking me into thinking I was alive.

“We are coming, Tara bhai,” Bindu didi hurriedly took the matchbox from Sharmila aama’s hands and relighted the diya[4] wavering in reluctance. ‘You are right! Better not create a scene.’ Bindu didi rushed out of the kitchen with a neatly set welcome plate.

Sharmila aama limped with a will.

Confused, I trailed behind.