Love Across Borders (6 page)

Anjum, our star, is back in our
life.

∞

ABOUT ANDY PAULA

Andy Paula is a world citizen who
is equally at home in India, UK or Kuwait. As a child she had more
friends from other communities than fr
om
her own. The erudite Indian family she hails from ensured that she
had a secular upbringing and respected differences. A hitherto
unknown aspect of her family was revealed to her when her famously
progressive grandmother told a young Andy that she could marry
anybody she wanted except Christians or Muslims. Having studied in
Christian missionary schools all her life and enjoyed biryani with
friends every Eid, this was a rude blow to her value system. In a
household that encouraged intelligent discussion, this declaration
by the matriarch remained an unbendable statute. “I was so
embarrassed that I became uneasy with my Catholic & Muslim
friends, assailed by guilt, fearing the aftermath of the discovery
that my family was not as modern as they portrayed themselves to
be.’’

A silent crusader of oneness,
Andy’s evolution was at university when she was pursuing her
masters in English. Her horizons broadened as she found like-minded
youth who were passionate about secularism and world peace.
Together they formed a society under her leadership that warranted
that their contemporaries broke free from the limiting beliefs
handed down by their ancestors.

The Love Across Borders concept
resonated with Andy’s principles so deeply that she sent in her
contribution, Anjum, the very same day
.

***

Love’s Labor
by Andy Paula

Will caste and community keep Pia and Sathya
apart, or will they find a way to overcome it all?

Dressed to Kill

PARUL TYAGI

This was Sejal’s second visit to the majestic
and mystical Chandni Chowk. For all North Indian brides, it was
obligatory to shop here at least once. And a Delhi bride could very
possibly be booked under the criminal section of the Trousseau Act
if she did not venture here. Sejal had no intention of not
complying with tradition. She had been here exactly thirty-two days
earlier, and she had counted the days till she would come here
again.

Today was the day she was going to get her
bridal dress—a red and green outfit that she had dreamt of all her
life. As she alighted from the rickety rickshaw she was greeted
with the seductive smell of freshly coiled
jalebis
. Another
mandate for all brides, like the visit to Chandni Chowk, was to
remain on a strict diet, till literally, the day before the wedding
when female relatives would shove
motichoor ladoos
into the
bride’s mouth saying
“kha le beta, kha le.”

Avoiding even looking at the
jalebis
swimming cheerfully in the big
kadhai
of oil, Sejal held her
mother’s hand and made her way to the Novelty Emporium where her
wedding
lehanga
awaited her.

“
Namaskar Pandit-ji.
” She greeted the
seventy-year-old bespectacled shop owner who sat behind the
counter, counting fresh notes.

“
Namaskar, namaskar
. I was waiting for
you,” he greeted them warmly.

“
Pandit-ji
, this girl has not slept for
two nights now. I cannot tell you how excited she is!” said Mrs.
Rupa Shah, shaking her head at her excited daughter.

“I understand, Madam-
ji
. I have dressed
many brides in my forty years here and I see the same excitement in
each one of them.”

He waved them over to a plush sofa. They sat and
were served colas. Sejal could barely sit still; she rubbed her
hands and fidgeted like a child and her mother looked at her
indulgently.

Twice they were asked if they would like another
drink, some water? Who was interested but? All Sejal wanted was
that they reveal her dream dress. She would try it on, click a few
pictures, share a sob moment with her mother and head happily back
with it, to the parking lot, two kilometers away, where they’d had
to park their car.

Finally it arrived! A young boy reverently
carrying a red-and-yellow
bandhini
printed box walked in,
with coy smile on his face. He too, played up the moment of
anticipation, by walking at a stately but excruciatingly slow
pace.

“Here it is,” remarked
Pandit-ji
unnecessarily. The atmosphere was charged with expectation,
anxiety, and hope. In a moment Sejal was going to lay her eyes on
the her dream wedding dress, a creation with gold
zari
-work
that she had selected from the bridal wear collection of a top
designer and spent five hours with the Master-
ji
in this
very shop, explaining exactly how she wanted each peacock and
curlicue while critically comparing the design to the photograph on
her phone screen.

“Ok, now close your eyes,” said Rupa, “I’ll tell
you when to open them.”

“No way Mummy,” Sejal didn’t want to miss a
second of the unveiling.

The boy carefully put the box on the wide wooden
table, specifically designed to showcase the finished dreams that
Pandit-ji
crafted for his brides. He switched on the
specially placed light above the table and placed a small stool in
front of the full-length mirror where Sejal could model the
lehanga
. When the finished outfit appeared from under the
wraps of a shimmery gold cloth, it was the most magnificent work of
art Sejal had ever laid eyes on. There it was, her wedding dress,
which she had taken such pains to get exactly right.

“Go try it on
bitiya
.”
Pandit-ji
pointed to the dressing room next to his counter.

“I don’t think it’s even required! I love it and
I am sure it fits me perfectly,” Sejal said, without lifting her
eyes from the gem in front of her. It was difficult to determine
whether her eyes sparkled more or her gold-worked
lehanga
.

“
Arre,
why won’t you try? Have I come all
the way just to pick it? Stop staring at it and go and try it on,”
her mother insisted.

“Ma, stop playing my puppeteer! Today is Monday.
Come Sunday, I’ll be gone and you can’t boss me around then,” Sejal
chuckled.

Carefully, she lifted her
lehanga
blouse
and skirt and went to follow her mother’s orders.

Pandit-ji
looked satisfied at having
fulfilled the dreams of yet another bride.

Just then another mother-daughter couple entered
the Emporium.

“Salaam
Pandit-ji
,” said the younger
woman. She was almost an exact replica of Sejal, tall and slim with
the same long dark hair.

Pandit-ji
got up, and with the same
measure of warmth he had accorded Sejal, he greeted the lovely
bride-to-be.

“Welcome Saleema
bitiya
. How are you
doing?”

“I can’t put it into words! My stomach is
churning and it feels as if all your Indian butterflies have joined
their Pakistani peers inside it,” Saleema said, putting her hand
nervously on her stomach.

Pandit-ji
gave her a gentle pat on the
head.

“
Madam Hassan ka box leke aao
,” he called
for the boy to repeat his processional act of carrying the box that
contained a young bride’s most prized possession.

Saleema was
Pandit-ji’s
customer from the
other side of the border. His grandfather had dressed her
grandmother and his father had dressed her mother. Like Sejal, this
was also Saleema’s final visit to the shop. Here with her mother,
she was going back home the next day on the afternoon flight.

Saleema had broadly explained what she wanted to
the Master-
ji
on her first visit and the rest of the
communication had been via email. She had sent
Pandit-ji
the
exact color, exact motifs and the exact neckline cut that she
wanted and couldn’t wait to see the outcome.

As Saleema’s
lehanga
was unwrapped, Rupa
also decided to peek and see what exactly these people from faraway
lands were getting.
Pandit-ji
carefully lifted the
lehanga
and put it on a similar table in front of Saleema
and her mother.

There was absolute quiet, like the silence
before a storm. There were none of the happy bride responses that
Pandit-ji
was accustomed to. No outbursts of excited
happiness, no shrieks of joy. Nothing.

“What is it Saleema
beti
?
Sub theek
hae naa
,”
Pandit-ji
dared to cut through the
stillness.

Saleema looked up at him, her eyes brimming with
tears. She managed to speak.

“But…this is not…
Pandit-ji
this is not
the color I sent you,” she burst out.

A minor earthquake was no doubt recorded in both
countries.

With trembling fingers, Saleema opened the
pictures she had sent, which were saved on her phone. As he looked
through the pictures,
Pandit-ji
tried his best to explain to
the distraught bride that he had come as close to the color as it
was possible to, considering the difference in laptop screen
pixels, but Saleema could not take it in.

Saleema’s mother tried to calm her, telling her
to look on the bright side, to look at how beautiful the outfit
was, and that Saleema should trust in the expertise of
Pandit-ji
. For Saleema though, a major disaster had
occurred. Her heart was broken and there was no way anyone else
could understand what it meant, to not have the exact replica of
the wedding dress she had carried around in her imagination for
months.

After a few tense moments of argument and
counter-argument she folded onto the sofa with her head bent
low.

Pandit-ji
stood by the rejected
lehanga
, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe
it. “For the first time in my forty years, I have disappointed a
bride.”

“Don’t say that
Pandit-ji
. Give her time.
She will be fine.” Saleema’s mother fanned her daughter with her
dupatta
.

“Just look here,” came a voice from behind
them.

Pandit-ji
and Saleema’s mother turned
around.

“Aunty, please ask her to look at me,” Sejal
said, gesturing towards Saleema, who was still sitting in a
dejected slump.

Saleema turned slowly.

She was awed at the sight of the beautiful girl,
dressed in a beautiful
lehanga
, perfect to the hilt, with
gorgeously intricate details. Sejal had taken help from Zuber
chacha
,
Pandit-ji’s
right hand craftsman, to wrap the
dupatta around her head just like she had seen Pakistan brides do,
from pictures on the Internet.

Mesmerized Saleema stood up and walked towards
Sejal.

“You like it?” Sejal asked Saleema.

“I love it. This is beautiful,” she replied,
unable to take her eyes off Sejal’s exquisite outfit.

“You take it,” Sejal said decisively.

Her words caused Rupa to cry out in protest. She
had witnessed Saleema’s utter breakdown after seeing her
lehanga
and had been grateful that her own daughter had
managed to get a masterpiece.

“Take it? Have you lost it Sejal? This is no
time to joke,” Rupa said testily.

“I am not joking, Mummy. When I came out from
the fitting-room, I heard the entire conversation between Saleema
and
Pandit-ji.
Trust me,” Sejal said, turning to Saleema,
“there is no-one who understands what you are going through better
than I.”

A tear slid from Saleema’s eye. Sejal gently
wiped it away.

“I hear you have to fly back tomorrow and there
is no way you can stay. Really, take my
lehanga
and I know
that
Pandit-ji
is here to make another one for me in time.
Maybe by Saturday evening?” Sejal asked, now looking in
Pandit-ji’s
direction.

Beaming widely, he nodded.

“Yes,
beta
. I promise to make you exactly
this in six days. I’ll stake the entire experience and reputation
of my forefathers to deliver this time.”

Sejal beamed back at him.

“Don’t think too much, Saleema. Just say yes,”
she said softly.

“When is your wedding?” Saleema asked.

“Same day as yours. You don’t have to worry. We
will both wear wedding outfits that we love. And now we will be
wearing exactly the same ones,” said Sejal smiling.

“Oh, Sejal. You don’t know what this means to
me. I absolutely love what you are wearing. I can’t believe you’re
being so generous.” Saleema said, hugging Sejal. “I have no words,
really.”

Rupa had collapsed in disbelief. As Saleema now
went in to try the
lehanga
, for the Master-
ji
to make
the final fitting, Sejal tried to explain the reason behind her
gesture to Rupa.

She finally gave up trying. “Imagine me in her
shoes, Mummy and then you’ll understand. And if you still
don’t—well I give up,” she retorted with finality.

Next Sunday: Wedding Day.

Once Saleema was ready she sent her picture to
Sejal’s WhatsApp inbox.

“I owe you my happiness for today
Sejal…actually—Angel. You know what we are?”

Sejal smiled at the image she received. She
looked at herself in the mirror and couldn’t help but smile at how
similar they both looked. She got her cousin to click her picture
and sent the image back with the query, “What?”

“Soul-Sisters,” came the reply.

∞

ABOUT PARUL TYAGI

Parul Tyagi is the author of Love Will Find
a Way (Indireads) and has to her credit several short stories
published across online literary journals and paperback
anthologies. A compulsive blogger, among serious interests like
food, films and travel is her interest in politics.