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Since Fancy Furnishings had already married once into the Banwari Lal family, the strengthening of these ties gave everybody a quiet sense of satisfaction. It was to be the cloth wedding of the season.

The forlorn misery that was Nisha’s burden increased with every step made in the direction of her brother’s marriage. Had her parents not been so determined to reject Suresh, she could have been revelling in attention as the groom’s only real sister, instead of feeling a source of apology and justification. She wished she could disappear into some hole till the wedding was over. But the hole did not exist that could conceal a daughter of the house on such an occasion. All she wanted was to be ignored, even as she was consulted daily about clothes and jewellery, involved relentlessly in every ritual performed, and assured constantly of her luck in getting a permanent companion in her brother’s wife.

All around her was nothing but wedding: the family were breathing, eating, sleeping, visiting, buying, stitching, envying, calculating, spending in its atmosphere. Relatives started pouring in, and when the house was full, they were accommodated in nearby guest houses. Some were put up by Fancy Furnishings – after all, they were family too. This side, that side. The distinguishing line had blurred.

If the bile Nisha swallowed continuously amongst these people vented in poisonous barbs from time to time, her family reacted indulgently. In her condition it was natural she be upset, and here voices lowered, and by the end of the wedding, all family members not previously privy to the details of her life could now consider them well mastered.

Nisha’s skin was breaking out again, and to make sure she looked her best, it was decided to resume the mudpack treatments. Under the soothing, cooling, heavy weight of the mud slathered over her body, she felt some of the tension pressed out of her. When Raju accompanied her, though, it was harder for this to happen.

‘Tell me, Raju,’ remarked Nisha, as brother and sister were waiting at the nature cure centre one morning, ‘now you are getting married, you must be glad that you destroyed my happiness with Suresh. Your Fancy Furnishings wife will not be related to such a goonda, no – what was the word you used? Yes, saala, chutia.’

Silence.

‘Or am I misremembering?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said at last. ‘I only did what Mummy Papaji wanted, which was to make sure you were not taken advantage of.’

‘Even if I get such a disease, and become a pariah?’

‘Have you gone mad? Mummy Papaji are spending so much on your clothes, your jewellery, and you are talking like this.’

Tears filled Nisha’s eyes as she gazed unblinkingly at the receptionist crammed behind her small table in one corner of the room.

With a sigh Raju put his magazine down. ‘Listen, I also don’t like what is happening. I always thought I would marry after you; suddenly they tell me it’s my turn, the family’s welfare depends on me. What choice did I have?’ demanded Raju, sounding injured.

Sullen silence.

‘Besides, Babaji says after I marry your fate will improve.’

‘How convenient,’ managed Nisha. ‘I am glad you are doing your duty.’

‘I am. You think I like getting married to a burnt girl? But they don’t listen, not to me or to you.’

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was clothed in his engagement finery. The foot he was tapping was shod in new black Bata slip-ons. The wrist that lay across his thigh was decorated with a sleek black and gold Citizen watch, Ray Ban sunglasses were tucked into his bush shirt pocket. He radiated newness, sparkle, and complacency.

The girl may be burnt, but he didn’t seem to mind too much. Everything had gone right for him from the day he was born. What had he done to deserve his fate, what had she done to deserve hers? She felt restless and suffocated; she hated every doctor and vaid she had ever seen – when had they actually helped her? She only went so her parents could think they were doing something, though the time for doing something had long past.

She got up and stepped outside. She didn’t care about her treatment. She didn’t care about anything.

Raju pursued her. ‘Why are you always doing drama?’ he demanded, grabbing her arm. Nisha shrugged him off, and strode into the crowds.

The sidewalk was as usual jammed with pavement sellers, their goods displayed on tables or hung from boards. Towards the road side, wares were spread out on dirty pieces of cloth: underwear, vests, socks, plastic dolls, knives, second-hand textbooks, cheap novels, suitcases, bags, petticoats, blouses, rubber chappals, lottery tickets, pens, pencils, stationery, magazines, scooter helmets, and key chains. Standing next to these were vendors with their trolleys hawking fruit chaat, fried potato, lemonade, water, and paan.

By the time Raju caught up, Nisha was stepping around banana, potato, apple, and cucumber peels that overflowed from a little tin can at a fruit chaat wallah’s feet. The pavement was so crowded that a hand snaking across breasts or thighs was inevitable. A man brushed past Nisha, stroking the cleavage in her buttocks, his eyes elsewhere. She cringed. When Raju turned her around to go back, she went quietly.

The Banwari Lals had agreed to wait until the bride’s secondyear exams were over before pressing ahead with the wedding. Throughout this time Raju was fretful and quarrelsome, he wanted a say in all the arrangements, and he complained about everything. He was the bridegroom, and as such his status was undeniable, but no bridegroom had behaved so badly.

His mother sometimes wondered whether he really liked the girl. She dared not utter her thoughts to her husband, who from time to time accused her of spoiling the boy.

‘What does he know of the hardships of life? He has not had to see his shop burnt at the age of seven, nor left his country on foot, walking for miles in fear of his life, nor done all the heavy housework because his mother was pregnant and in shock, nor put in long hours in the shop helping his father. He has not done all these things so he can behave as though his wishes are the only thing in the world.’

As usual, there could be no answer to this. Instead Sona asked her son, dreading the response, ‘Beta, do you not like the girl? It is a question of your future happiness. Your parents will not do anything against your will.’

Raju snorted.

His mother repeated her question. ‘Do you not like the girl?’ By then five hundred invitations had been printed.

‘Who said anything about the girl? I do not even know her.’

‘But you only refused to go out with her. We offered.’

‘Nice going out it would be with ten other people coming along and staring.’

‘You are too-too shy. Vijay had no problem meeting Rekha.’

‘Then such a big wedding,’ pouted Raju, ‘so much needless show. Five days! I feel like a monkey. Why can’t all that money be put in the business?’

The mother thought there was no limit to her son’s innocence. ‘You are such a simple boy, Raju, you have been working in the shop since school, and have no idea of the world. The bride’s side is arranging everything, how can we interfere? And then we have only one son, why should he not be married properly?’

‘Huh, it’s too late to change anything now,’ said Raju grumpily. Sona put out her hand to stroke away his irritation, but Raju shifted from her side.

As she watched him leave the room, Sona counted the things he was getting, more than Vijay, substantially more. Part of her trembled, it was too much, but the girl had a scar, and scars had to be paid for. Pooja was bringing quantities of cash, a car, a fridge, an air-conditioner, a TV, a Godrej cupboard, a double bed with a deluxe foam mattress, a dressing table, twenty-one sets of jewellery, countless watches, saris, suit pieces, frocks, and little pant-shirts for the women, men, and children, and a honeymoon in Europe, all expenses paid.

Would they have to do the same for Nisha?

Two weeks later, courtesy of Raju, another daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, cousin-in-law is added to the house. Throughout the wedding, the guests exclaim at the bride’s beauty, radiance, and sweetness, and then continue the narrative over Raju’s handsomeness, intelligence, and genius at business.

Three carloads escort Raju and Pooja to the airport. They arrive and swell the masses already there. Durries and blankets are spread under sleeping people seated against the wall, flanked by stacks of luggage. Some waiting women nurse their children, some brandish foreign-looking feeding bottles, some babies have equally foreign-looking pink plastic soothers attached to stiff yellow plastic necklaces dangling from their mouths. Crowds line the glass wall of the building, peering inside.

Family clusters elbow their way towards the entrance. The going abroad one is belched forth from their midst, accosted by the stern gate man, identity card swinging importantly from his chest, demanding to see the passenger’s ticket. His relatives try and stay as close as they can, they are phlegmatically, wearily, indignantly, casually, and repeatedly held back.

As the Banwari Lal-Arora group push their way to the entrance, Pooja’s sobbing becomes louder, and Raju’s look more harassed. Everything marks them as newly wed: her bangles, her mehndi, her jewellery, her glittery clothes, her tears, his new suit and self-conscious air, besides all the pristine luggage.

After the couple vanish, Ajay quickly buys tickets for everybody to the visitors’ section. The family hasten to the authorised side of the building and frantically wave to Raju and Pooja across the barrier. Pooja looks down, Raju smiles and nods. He has checked in, he is in charge. Confidently he leads his bride closer so she can gaze at her family. Pooja’s father, a big, heavy man, on seeing his daughter tries to push past the guard. In his palm is a discreetly folded hundredrupee note. The security man sees it, blocks his way, and acts morally outraged. Legitimate people pass, the inspection of tickets and boarding passes is elaborate. During a lull, complicated signals occur and two-hundred rupee notes exchange hands. Pooja and Raju dart across the barricade. Pooja’s mother cries. Pooja cries while the guard gazes on imperviously. Finally, the announcement that all passengers for BA Flight 401 to London should proceed to security. Pooja and her mother cannot bear it. The tearing-away scenes are repeated. The couple leave once again.

‘There, there they are, standing in line,’ chorus the family. ‘Now they are closer to the gate. Closer, closer, gone.’

Sona moves to comfort Pooja’s mother – ‘you have gained a son’ – and everybody sombrely walks to the car park.

On his honeymoon, Raju phones home for three minutes once a week. He is having a wonderful time, wishes they were there.

The night the couple are to come back, rose petals are strewn over Raju’s brand new double bed, and garlands of jasmine hung on the headboard and footboard.

The flight is to land at two-fifty a.m. Everybody gets ready to go to the airport.

‘I want to stay at home,’ pleaded Nisha.

‘Don’t be silly, what’ll they think?’

‘They won’t notice.’

‘Pooja will. Husband’s own real sister. Everyone will feel you are not welcoming.’

Nisha is forced to go. She stands next to Vijay and Rekha on the balcony of the arrival section, her nose pressed, like Rekha’s, to the glass stained and smudged with thousands of handprints.

‘There, there,’ shouts Rekha. ‘Pooji, Pooji.’

The couple are too far away to hear. They are absorbed in each other, holding hands. Pooja has her head covered, her wedding bangles stand out in the crowd, as wedding bangles do.

‘I’ll tell Mummy Papaji I have seen them.’ Rekha hurries down, leaving Ajay and Nisha at the glass.

‘He’s put on weight,’ remarks Ajay.

‘Has he?’ replies Nisha, gazing down.

‘I could have gone abroad for my wedding,’ muses Ajay, ‘but I didn’t like to take so much from Rekha’s parents. For what? Four weeks of wandering around. Time waste. Money waste.’

Nisha is thinking her own thoughts. What was the great difference between Pooja and her? She didn’t even have a scar. She too could have been at some airport with her new husband, new luggage, gold sandals, gold jewellery, wedding bangles, and covered head. She too could have been the one eagerly awaited by a family after her honeymoon.

Her attention shifts to Raju’s feet. He had gone in a suit, he has come back in keds and jeans. The feet in their new white running shoes move back and forth across the terminal, she could not make out why. But his steps seem purposeful; those feet belong to a man who has visited London, travelled across Europe, and come back replete with accounts of how strange, wonderful, advanced, clean, and peculiar everything was, how he had managed to figure out things impossible for a simple Indian from Karol Bagh. Pooja will listen and smile. It was there in their feet, one pair roaming, one pair still.

At last they emerged, pushing a trolley laden with heavy suitcases, hand baggage, and duty-free. Frantic waving, here, look here, here, look, and the dazed, expectant look on Pooja and Raju’s faces turns to recognition as they rush into the arms of their loved ones.

Pooja’s mother breaks down when she sees how much less noticeable her daughter’s scar is after four weeks of honeymoon. The heavy garland of roses that she has been holding for two hours is put around Raju’s neck. He bends and touches her feet, while Pooja bobs down towards the feet of her in-laws. The cousins grab hold of the loaded trolley and all together they move out into the dusty, oppressive heat of Delhi.

XXI

Pooja

Early on it became clear that Pooja was made of sterner stuff than her cousin Rekha. Rekha had been the first in the family to go on a honeymoon, but only for a week and only to Simla. How much metamorphosis can a week at a local hill station effect compared to a month in Europe?

The bridal couple spent all their time in their unit, their desire to be alone shamelessly palpable. Home from the shop, Raju could barely be greeted, let alone fussed over, before he disappeared into the maw of his bedroom, shutting the door softly but oh so firmly behind him. After a while Pooja emerged to make tea. Only two solitary betraying mugs on a tray, ringed with little bowls of dry fruit, spicy mixture, and biscuits.