Suffocated

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Reshma cleared the files and papers from her desk and switched off her computer. The clock on the wall told her that it was time to head home from work. She checked her cell phone. She had missed thirteen calls from Satish who had also left her seven messages. With a sigh she decided to read the messages first.

“Hey babes, hw r u?”
“Busy? I’ll call? Wanna head to the beach today evening?”
“I knw u gotta visit ur mom bt can’t it wait? Reply plzzz.”
“Pick my call. R u tat busy? Dnt u luv me anymore”
“Just wondering if you are with someone else. I DON'T deserve this.”
“I knw by the blue ticks on WhatsApp tat u read my msgs. Why dnt u reply???”
“Where the hell r u? Cm home. Visit mom later.”

She heaved a sigh. What was with Satish? Things had changed so much in three years of marriage. Initially she would blush when she received his texts while she was at work. She shared with him her whereabouts and engagements. Her colleagues too thought it was cute and sweet of her husband. But with time the messages revealed his insecurities and inferiority complex. She had tried to convince him that it did not bother her at all that he was a clerk and she, a reputed doctor.

But Satish was always doubtful. He demanded to be updated with each and every detail of Reshma’s day. The patients she met, the fiends who invited her over and even how she spent each penny of her salary. She was fed up of answering his questions. She had informed him that she had an important surgery scheduled and so would be busy. She felt suffocated, unable to live freely. She glared at the messages; they seemed like a death sentence.

She decided she couldn’t put up with his demands anymore and messaged him back.
“You are right. You don’t deserve this. Good bye.”



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Remorse

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I listened to the ticking of the bedside clock in the dead silence of the night, each repetitive beat filling me with fresh guilt, ache and remorse. How I wished to travel back in time to that careless moment, erase it and then change the course of events to a much happier ending. In that case it wouldn't have been an ending but a new beginning.

I  understood very well the futility of these thoughts that haunted me every night, waiting to play in my head when I was alone. They were as meaningless as the desperation of an archer to take back the arrow he had shot. Like my wish to take back the tears I had shed. The words I had spoken. Perhaps my wounds were destined to remain raw and unhealed.

Words. They are so powerful, sometimes soothing and capable of healing. At other times hurting and capable of wounding. Little had I known this when I spat out words that pierced his heart like daggers. What had started off as a small difference of opinion soon snow-balled into a major fight. He chose to be silent but I spewed venom, coercing him to join the verbal duel.

Being his wife, I knew well what would hurt him. When he could take it no more, he walked out of our home. I felt triumphant and waited for his return to celebrate my victory. Little did I realise that I had lost him forever. The clock ticked away and the world moved on but I was sucked deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit of remorse.



P.S: This is my 100th post! I'm on top of the world. Feeling proud of my 8 month old journey :) A huge thank you to each one of my readers. I hope you continue the support and that I can keep up to your expectations!



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Nostalgia

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After spending fifteen years in the Gulf, we returned to our native village in Kerala. The naalukettu looked exactly the same, though the surroundings were now dotted with new buildings and houses. I walked over to the swing that hung from the Gulmohur tree. It was wet from the early morning showers.

I sat clutching the sturdy coir ropes enjoying the gentle swing back and forth. The bright red flowers let go of the cool drops of rain they held. They awakened within me a feeling of nostalgia, a sudden longing for my past that now seemed  to be so perfect. It was as if each drop wanted to remind me of a story long forgotten. Under my feet lay a thousand red petals of the Gulmohur on a carpet of green grass.

It was many years ago on a similar morning that I met Madhavan. He used to walk past our house every day wearing a crisp white mundu and checked shirt. An occasional glance gave way to smiles and soon we started meeting at the nearby temple, spending endless hours under the sacred Peepal tree. Life seemed so perfect, with Madhavan as the hero of my love story.

I was jolted back to reality when he waved from the other side of the brick wall. “How have you been?” he queried with a smile.

“Fine.”

There was an awkward silence before I headed into the house saying “It is going to rain.”

How could I face him, having given in like a coward to the pressure from my family to marry a rich man working in the Middle East? I drifted back in time to sweet memories untainted by the bitterness of my marriage.

Naalukettu - Traditional house in Kerala

Mundu - A garment worn by people in south India

Gulmohur - A flowering tree

Peepal - Sacred fig tree




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A Name for Keeps

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A name is a word by which things, people, places and animals are known. It helps us to identify them from a group with ease. Well, when it comes to names of people, it is a little more complicated, given the socio-cultural set up we live in. So it is common to find people with two names, a given name and a surname. The surname could be the name of a parent (mostly the father), family or even caste. So a name can reveal quite a lot about a person!

I wouldn't say that one’s identity is tied to a name but I do believe that a name, over the years becomes a part (however small) of one’s identity. We grow up being known by a particular name. Some people choose to keep them; some change them of their own accord or under pressure. Ultimately it is just a matter of choice. However, it is more common among women than men to change their surname after marriage. Some of the reasons given by people who prefer to change their names post marriage are:

1. Everyone in the family will have the same surname, creating a sense of belonging and it is easier to identify members of a family.
2. It avoids hassles especially while travelling abroad, inheriting property etc.
3. It helps the new daughter in law adjust easily and accept the new family as hers.

I’m accepting of the fact that everyone has a right to choose what they want for themselves. But I would definitely want to keep my original name. It is a name I have grown to like over two decades and a half. Everyone knows me by this name. I have been Vidya Subramanian for my friends, teachers, family, employers, colleagues, students and many others. Even my husband and his family got introduced to me and even liked me while I sported this name. My certificates of birth, my achievements in academics, sports and art have been inked with my maiden name. Why would I want to change that? Is there any pressing reason? Not that I know of.

About blending into the new family, I have accepted my husband’s family even without a surname change. I am as much a daughter as I am a daughter-in-law. And a xerox copy of our marriage certificate is enough to convince authorities that we are married (whenever there is a need), so there is nothing to spoil our plans of going abroad. So what if surnames differ within a family? It doesn't make a person a stranger at all. My mom has kept her name since birth, but we still are a loving family. Isn't it strange that the same is not expected of men? Don’t they too have to accept the girl’s parents?

And having said that, why should anyone change a part of themselves for any relationship? Two individuals willingly sharing their lives, love and family without compromising on their identities - that’s marriage for me. It is bad enough that my name is tagged with my father’s, when I would have preferred just “Vidya”. I’m too lazy to take the arduous journey to Indian government offices to add, subtract, replace and modify my name. So I let it be. Vidya Subramanian it is, from birth to death and even after!!

P.S: I understand that people have their own reasons for keeping/changing/modifying their names. To each one his own! I'm thankful that my husband finds the idea of my name change equally absurd.

This post was written for the IndiSpire topic Should a woman change her maiden surname after marriage?
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Matchmaking

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Parents frantic, seek a match

people applaud as a good catch,

squeamish about qualifications essential

probing if incomes are substantial.

Essential is a job quite decent,

 with no stage in life quiescent

height and weight just perfect

complexion that doesn't deject.

Family name, fame and wealth,

education, hobbies and health

supersede matters of the heart

for a secure married life to start.

With the essentials in place

man and woman see face to face,

the best of them they showcase

lest they fall behind in the race.

In lightning speed vows are made

elaborate plans are then laid;

a game of luck has just begun

hope it turns out to be some fun.

P.S: This poem is written in lighter vein about the Arranged Marriage Market in India. It is in no way intended to hurt any one’s feelings. The debate over Arranged vs Love marriages is never ending. It works differently for different people. Ultimately all that matters is one’s happiness in life. Happy Holi!

Written for the prompt "Essential" at B-A-R
 Linking to http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

The Scarlet Prophecy

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She smeared vermilion along the thin line of scalp that gleamed, furrowing backwards from her forehead.  Her long wet tresses sought refuge within the spirals of her towel wound carefully into a bun at the nape of her neck. She plucked the safety pin lodged between her teeth and secured the obedient pleats of her starched cotton sari, slipped on a few red bangles that chorused in ecstasy at her touch and bridged her brows with a red dot. Her eyes shaped like a lotus petal, were lined with black kohl that smudged at the corners, adding to her charm.

It had been their wedding the previous day and this was her first day in her new home.  She looked at herself in the mirror, surprised at how a ring on her finger and a new mark on her forehead could turn her world upside down. In her naiveté she had consented without second thoughts, to tie the knot with someone she barely knew. She had known no other options. This was what all the women in her family had done and they were all happy, at least that was what they told her.  As she gently touched her reflection, she felt something was amiss but could not settle on what it was. Was it her innocence? Her dreams? Desires? Or was it the twinkle of hope in her and the smile on her lips that was missing?

Memories of her nuptial night which by now had swollen into a tidal wave, lashed uncontrollably across her eyes, spilling over its kohl rimmed beauty. Her shyness, exaggerated by her excitement over blossoming love and anxiety about first impressions, were soon replaced by shock, pain and fear. She remembered with deep remorse the way he ate into her spirit like a savage animal caring the least about the tenderness within her that he was butchering.

This was least expected, not the kind of romance she had seen in movies or heard from her friends. In her mind she begged him to stop but her thoughts refused to form words; when they did, they tied themselves into a stubborn knot at her throat. With a bruised body and a heart pierced by the shards of her shattered dreams, she waited for sunrise. She hoped against hope that the rays of the new day would brighten up her life as well.

Wiping her tears, she walked across to the window and watched her surroundings burst into a riot of colours with a green backdrop. The garden was still moist from the early morning dew that adorned the leaves, grass and cobwebs. They glistened in the morning sun like precious jewels. Her eyes searched for the lone hibiscus that had blushed along with her when she stood at the threshold of the house as a bride. Draped like her in the hues of a bride, the blossom awaited with nectar in her heart, the touch of a hovering bee. She had imagined only hours before, that its scarlet petals prophesied the consummation of her marriage like the vermilion on her forehead. But today it lay shrivelled, devoid of colour on the damp earth.

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Poisoned Pleasantries

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Any social gathering, be it a wedding, a party or even a small family get together has a dangerous tendency to turn into a buzzing hive of gossip as long as there are enough people and delicious food to fuel stray sparks caused by snide remarks and incessantly wagging tongues that seem to have snapped free from the wiring that links them to the brain respectively. These meetings are the perfect times for people to catch up on each other’s lives, being “busy” at all other times. So it is quite natural that questions that prod, pry and probe into others’ lives are shot off at random, amidst the zillion interactions that happen over food and drink.

What I find absolutely amusing, is the ability of people to spice up even mono syllable answers and comments of others into emotional epics of melodrama and serve it to others. For example, a “well-wisher” asked me if I was pregnant, to which I answered in the negative. News spread that we as a couple had decided not to have kids and soon every other person in the crowd wanted my mother to “speak to me (and my generation of selfish youngsters)” to throw light on the folly of our decision. Talk about (bungee) jumping into conclusions!

At another function, someone passed a “well meaning” remark that my husband and I were saving money by eating less (both of us happen to be thin). Some others went to the extent of judging my culinary skills. Such remarks filled with malice defeat the whole purpose of getting together. Instead of going home with pleasant memories, one is often left wondering whether theses forced relations hold any meaning at all. Why make an attempt to keep in touch with people who eagerly try to bring you down all the time, no matter what you do or say?

Once, during a wedding someone went on and on in loudspeaker mode about how ugly the bride looked. I could only pray that she hadn't heard those rude words, for doesn't everyone want to think they look nice on their wedding? If only it is possible to press “mute” when some people talk! Now when I think of it, more instances surface to my memory. People commenting on the colour of your skin, your attire, your diet, your lifestyle choices, career (or the lack of it), how you choose to celebrate, where you go on a holiday, how you spend your wealth and so many other matters which I think are too personal to be dissected in public. People have their opinions, I know. But why air them all unnecessarily? Why is there a deliberate lack of connect between the tongue and the brain?

Of course, one way out is to shut these people out by giving them and their comments a cold shoulder. Sometimes it is not that easy, especially if the person is a close relative. Some people are sensitive and can easily get hurt by these bullets from mindless mouths. I don’t mean to say that we should be hypocrites and shower praise without meaning a word of it. But if we don’t have anything nice to say, isn't it better that we keep quiet. That’s what I do. Remembering the words of Mark Twain: If you have nothing to say, say nothing. How true- if you don’t have anything nice to say, golden is the colour of your silence.

Compare not

Image courtesy: Google

When they first saw the infant,

they spotted at that very instant

a squint of the eye, a scar on the thigh,

and deeply pondered why.

“The older one was fat and fair

with flawless skin and ample hair.”

they quipped in keen observation,

summarizing their evaluation.

Ensued a long, tiring journey

dodging and ducking their baloney;

comparisons many different kinds

conjured up in crooked minds.

Adolescence, youth, middle age;

the war never ceased to wage,

mediocre minds catching up

on stories of not matching up.

Isn't each one beautifully unique?

Do they deserve your hefty critique?

Pry open the windows of your mind

to new vistas, leaving comparisons behind.

Image courtesy: Google

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The World Within My Blanket

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“Shhhhhh…..give me your hand and haul yourself into my world quietly. It is a tender, delicate world in here, under the cosy comfort of my blanket. It is a magical world that you will soon find is too good to be true. I love making new friends, and I’m glad tonight it is you. Come into my world beneath the warm folds of my star studded blanket. A world I have created just to invite friends over and share my fascinating tales. I love telling stories. Be my guest tonight and allow yourself to be enchanted by the beauty of my world.

I am like any ordinary 10 year old girl you can imagine. I live with my parents and little brother in a wonderful house by the brook.  My parents think I’m a kid but I think I’m quite grown up; at least enough to understand all that happens around me. Under the starry blanket, the sky of my world, I live a happy life with a loving family and many friends.

My parents, you know are the best in the world. My classmate Liz says they look beautiful and warm. My brother and I mean the world to them. Both of them are doctors, the kind who speak to people about their problems and try to fix them. I thought only God could do that, from above the twinkling stars. Don’t you think that’s a cool thing to do? No matter how busy they are, they spend a lot of time with us. A lot. We often go on picnics, to the movies, the circus and once in a year we go by plane to a faraway place. We play together, have fun, invite my friends over, cuddle up and read books, go fishing and do so many things together.

My dad and mom I think are the best of friends. Sometimes I feel they are in love! Like the older kids in my school. They hold hands and talk a lot. But what makes my friends jealous is that they never yell at each other or go mad at me. I can tell them my fears and even share some secrets. They listen. They would do anything to keep me happy, I’m sure. Dear friend in my blanket, don’t you think they’re awesome? Hold my hand and tell me you’d love to have a family as great as mine. I really hope you do."

---------------------------

Outside, I hear the click of a door. I poke my head out. Dad is home. I strain my ears to catch the tiniest of whispers. But I don’t have to. The familiar yells, clattering of china, a few sobs, menacing threats and a flow of words I had been asked never to mouth, pulled me out of my blanket sewn with stars. The world outside my world was so different. Which one is real? I don’t want to know. I disappear into the reassuring warmth of my blanket and pull it tightly around me. It is such a beautiful world in here.

Image courtesy: Google

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Henpecked!

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To my dear henpecked husband,

No I don’t intend to insult you, unlike our society ever ready with many tags that aim to degrade you, to question your testosterone levels and to reinforce its archaic, misogynistic beliefs on you so as to snub out the slightest glimmer of hope for change. To me the word “henpecked” brings renewed hope, and pride in having a partner who truly cares and believes in equality ignoring the rants and grunts of people around. A partner who dares to stand by his convictions least affected by society’s screwed up ideas of what makes a man “man enough”.

You are special my dear henpecked husband, a rare gem among a million “Indian men” out there. You actively share the boring house hold chores making them a fun activity. I can freely ask you to do the dishes without having to feel guilty (mama’s boys don’t do house work, it is meant for girls) or to press my legs when they ache. Of course you too seek my help with office work and other things.

I like it that you don’t sit snugly, propped up by pillows, watching T.V with other men while I prepare tea or clean up. I have never had to scream in my head “You are the host too!” when we have had guests. I feel loved, my presence in your life respected, when you never follow the “let men eat first” rule and make sure we eat together. You are the man of my dreams, for whenever there have been little sacrifices, they have been mutual.

Domestic chores thanks to you don’t get pushed into “woman’s domain” in our house. It is our home so together we work to keep it clean. We all feel hungry so we think nothing of sharing kitchen work. We are both educated having thoughts of our own, our own interests and ambitions. We defend and safe guard them for each other. I want you to know my henpecked hubby, that I love it that you don’t interfere in my career choices. You realize that beyond the umpteen roles I juggle, there is another me, just me with dreams and desires for myself. So do I. I promise you we will do what we love to.

Much to the displeasure of our society, you love to spend time with my parents as much as yours and realize how important it is for me to know that they are happy and well. And because you are special, you don’t expect to be showered with gifts and given a lot of importance by my family just because of your Y chromosome. You involve me in the decision you take and the choices you make.

I am truly blessed to be holding your hand in life knowing for sure that you’re real with all your imperfections. A real person with emotions that are not locked up in false perceptions about manhood (men don’t cry) with ambitions whose reasons stretch beyond the need to be a provider to the family. Love, this, let me say, is what I find most appealing in you.

These you may feel are too trivial to be written about, but I have no words to tell you about the solace they bring. It is not very easy to be a twenty first century- married- Indian -woman(feminist) with a career. It is like living in a pressure cooker forever. Those who yield to the pressures and live a life of conformity may seem to be happy, but the compromises they endure for the make-believe peace sets off a turbulent storm in their heads that rages for a lifetime.

So be proud of that label dear husband, go ahead and flaunt it.

Your Happy Hen ;)

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Aftertaste

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The echoing silence told me
that I was now alone,
his empty chair offered me
its lap where I could moan.
Friends wept, family too,
before they parted.
And without much ado,
I waved and nodded.

But his face lingered,
framed, on the wall,
his voice I heard
as I waited for his call.
His scent so familiar
still hung in the air,
making me shed a tear
at our incomplete pair.

Love birds and butterflies
resumed their part;
mesmerising with their lies
many a young heart.
The aftertaste of lost love
they kept a dark secret,
so surely tomorrow
love, all will tread.

Real love

Image courtesy: Google

The soft click of the door was music to my ears. Music that liberated, music that ignited hopes and desires, music that prophesied the much awaited shuffle of feet along the cobbled garden path. It was such a great relief to have him by my side every day, soon after my husband left for work juggling his bag, a huge file that was too big for his bag, his coat, spare house keys, mobile phone, and a sandwich half wrapped with foil that he ate in the car. His presence was infinitely comforting like the warm sun rays that caressed me in the cold December mornings, the warmth having survived the double barriers of the painted glass window and silky soft curtains.

He came every day without fail. No cards, bunches of roses, perfumes, jewellery or tickets to a surprise luxurious holiday in one of those boringly similar resorts that my husband treated me to. No formal dinners or romantic dates or packed movie halls with buckets of popcorn. No passionate nights that people thought to be the cherry on top of the cupcake of love. No elaborate words of love to impress me. Just his loving presence when I needed him, plain love without the fake frills. I am glad it is this way with us because sometimes these frills are so breathtakingly beautiful and intoxicating that even a fleeting moment of deprivation throws us into a loveless, lonely abyss powerful enough to shield out even the brightest rays of hope.

He had no business empire to keep him busy, nor did he have a passionate inclination towards the share market. He would rather preoccupy himself with my emotional ups and downs than the rise and fall of share values. No mobile phone to distract him during awkward moments or when he was bored. He enjoyed my company and whatever it gave him- interesting conversations, talks about mundane stuff, my lack lustre marital life, problems to ponder upon, promises to be given and kept and many other things. With him I could be my very own self, the naked truth in stark contrast to the mirage I was to my husband.

This was my deep dark secret, a strange love that I sought outside wedlock. My husband would never forgive me if he knew. He could never be expected to fathom my need for such a grave infringement of forbidden territories. To him I was a mere responsibility, a wife who had to be sheltered, clothed, fed and infused with his overflowing passion that trickled through his bursting seams. In his view, he was doing a great job keeping me happy and content within the cruelly confining walls of a massive bungalow only that accentuated its emptiness.

“What more could a wife possibly wish for?” his friends would exclaim whenever they came over for dinner. And to this my husband would reply with an unnatural laughter, feigning humility. All the things he showered me with were the very same things I just did not want.

What I wanted was a companion as real as my heart full of love, as real as my hatred towards my conjugal life, as real as the fear of my bold venture out of marriage being exposed by the person fate had forcefully bound me with. But I prided myself in having made a perfect plan to keep both of them from meeting. We met only when my husband had sped away to sit at a desk in a faraway office, flirting with computers as much as he did with his secretary.

On my birthday, we lovers decided to hold hands and talk a little more than our daily quota. As we laughed till our stomachs hurt, threw pillows like lunatics and teased each other, I was oblivious to the click on the front door. Soon he was there, my husband, looming in front of us with a baffled expression that I thought was smeared with jealousy. Too horrified at being caught red handed, I now could only think of our safety, how to escape from the beast.

“Run my love; go away before he hurts you!” I screamed. I kept screaming, howling and crying out of fear of the unfamiliar events to unfold and the nagging possibility that I may never again hear the much awaited shuffling of legs at the doorway.

“I hate you! We are in love, leave us alone you bastard! “I spat at my husband who suddenly looked so concerned. To insult him further, we hugged each other for the first time, determined not to let go.  I was drained by the end of it and swayed unsteadily. I must have fainted because when I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital room. What had happened? Had he tried to kill us? Or just him? What story had he cooked up and served to all the relatives who had gathered? Did he want a divorce? My head was throbbing. Was it my cruel fate to weep all my life over lost love?

 My husband came in with a doctor. I listened to their conversation while pretending to sleep.

“She has deluded herself into thinking that she has a lover. When I went home today, earlier than usual to give her a birthday surprise, she was talking to the walls, laughing insanely. I am really worried about her. There was no one else in the room!” said my husband. Liar. He had caught us both having a nice time and now he was trying to make others believe I had a problem. I couldn't believe this was happening. Had he gone blind? Or was he losing his mind? I had to tell the truth to someone. But who would listen to me? Who would believe me? I cried at my fate, for my lost love and the desert of a life I would be forced to lead with a person who I never loved.

When the doctor left with my husband, I opened the flask to pour myself some milk. As I unscrewed the lid, a tiny face bobbing up and down peered back at me. My happiness knew no bounds. I hadn't lost my love after all. He had been hiding in the bottle, waiting for the chaos to die away.

“Come out, I've been waiting for you!” I whispered. As he came out from the flask and sat beside me, everything felt normal again. He held my hand and we talked. My love was real indeed. It was ridiculous of anyone to think that I had delusions. They would never see or acknowledge the real love of my life. 

Rightfully yours

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Dear children of my cursed womb

I beg of you from my newly dug tomb,

to see how senseless was this fight

among tender hands that once held tight.

Those endless days of joy and laughter

veiled so well what was to come after,

that I prided in the perfectness

of the happy family I would witness.

 But age and ailment suddenly pranced

and wore me out as they advanced,

snapping the threads of brotherhood

I’d woven you with since childhood.

When you sought a fancied treasure

my grief and rue knew no measure.

This life of numbers that you lead

can never count the tear drops I still bleed.

When you surrounded me on my bed

I saw hungry vultures wanting me dead.

To the pain and grief I was ready to succumb

when I saw no love in your eyes so numb.

You abruptly had ample time at hand

to sever a precious piece of land.

With great passion you contemplated,

discussed, debated till you felt elated.

“The house for me, the shop and jewels for her.

The other one deserves not a single acre.”

The echoes of your heartless words

will haunt me even in other worlds.

I have only one thing to say

To the bits of my womb gone astray,

By claiming what you thought was rightfully yours

You have lost pure love that was truly yours.

Where Ganga meets Yamuna

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I am Ganga. This is not my story alone.

In fact this is the only story I have seen around me and heard from the women of my neighbourhood at the end of a tiring day or while waiting to fetch water in the long queue that snakes around the corner of the tall buildings where the lucky rich people live. Of course, theirs is a different story because they live in houses that touch the sky, beyond the reach of miseries and wretchedness.

I am a working woman.  My day begins at three in the morning when I wake up without the aid of alarm clocks. That’s the time my husband’s day comes to an end and he knocks at the door. On some days he prefers to bang so hard that the wooden planks that I painstakingly gathered and nailed together fall apart. My husband slaps his victory on my cheeks. Sometimes he celebrates by wringing my neck till he squeezes out a few drops of tears from my eyes. A few punches mean that the cheap liquor he had gulped down was not to his liking. On a lucky day he just disappears into the only other room in our house with a younger woman. He ends his day by slumping on the straw mat on the floor, where our daughter sleeps.

 I fear for the safety of my daughter but I have to go out to work. I do not want us to stay hungry. So I cook some food and sit down to make floral garlands that I sell at the local market. This is the best part of my day. I bathe in the fragrance of the delicate flowers that is a magical balm to my wounds. As I thread the flowers together, I weave dreams of a better life. Sometimes, I feel jealous of my Memsab who lives in one of the tall buildings; security guards watching over the queer houses stacked one on top of the other. Her husband is a caring man who never beats her. He pampers her with the luxury he can easily afford. He gives her so many gifts when he returns from places where he travels by plane. They have a beautiful daughter who goes to school, speaks English and dances well.

After selling garlands, I go to work as a maid in a few houses. By evening I reach Memsab’s house. In between my chores I talk to her. She listens patiently to my laments. She seems to understand my problems though she has none of her own. I have dinner at her house, pack some food for my daughter and return home. My daughter and I mop the house and wash clothes. We say a prayer and try to sleep hoping we never hear the knock at the door next morning.

I think about my day as I lie on the floor at night. I did the same tonight. Today Memsahab was not her usual self. As I poured out my heart and the story behind my bruised body, I noticed a stray tear slide down her cheek. It must have been a very heavy one because it dragged itself along, peeling away a few layers of a beautiful mask, so skilfully worn that I never had a clue all these years. Beneath her mask was a similar story veiled by silence.

She is Yamuna. And this is not her story alone.

The Alliance

Image courtesy: Google

“She’s getting too old!”

Pushpa aunty told.

“Better get her a mate

To escape ill-fate.

Let me help you here

With a boy so dear

We’re looking every where

For a pretty girl who’s fair.

Educated but homely

For our son so lonely.”

“You just saved us,

See what she does,

My daughter well-read

Says, marriage she won’t tread.

It’s a world she dreads

Being tied down by threads.”

“Oh! These girls so educated

Seem so agitated

Don’t they need a man

To give them all they can?

My son is just perfect

Same caste, same sect

Has a big fat pocket

Enough to buy a rocket.

Lucky, your princess

We expect so less

Just some cash and a car

You needn't go too far!

About jewels I won’t talk

As I know you’d have stock

From the day you had a girl

It’s been part of your world.”

“Thank you Pushpa, I feel so bright

To me the match looks all right

We have saved some money

For our dear little Honey

She’s ambitious and smart

Bright head and soft heart.

She…..

“That really doesn't matter

Girls’ dreams do shatter

It’s nothing very new

Mine did too.

In time she’ll be expert

At cleaning away dirt

Taking care of us

Without any fuss

Cooking up dishes

Will be something she wishes

Serving guests well

So that our hearts swell.”

“Pushpa, take it cool

For I ain't a fool

To give my daughter away

Go elsewhere to bray

I sure for you will pray

To get a girl one day.”

And my daughter, let her fly

The sky so high

Let her find her love

Who fits like hand in glove.”