by Anju Gattani
“My what?” Sheetal turned to look at the corner that held her oil painting equipment. An easel stood upright beside a desk. “Oh, that’s going. It’s the only used thing I’m taking. Everything else is supposed to be brand new.” She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth.
Seconds later came a knock on the bathroom door. White foam covering her lips, Sheetal sighed at her reflection. “What now, Preeti?”
“It’s me. Your grandmother,” called Asha Prasad, Papa’s mother. “Hurry up. Everyone’s waiting downstairs.”
Like all the Prasads, she was in a hurry when it came to attending public events.
“I’m trying, Dadi,” Sheetal used the term of respect to address Papa’s mother and then pressed her ear to the door.
“Well, you’d better be ready before I die of old age. Or I’ll just have to get the camera man and all those singing women up here.” At sixty-six, Dadi was nowhere close to dying. A split-second later, Dadi’s voice shot an order for Preeti to spread a brand-new, yellow-gold sari on Sheetal’s bed, which set in motion another auspicious ceremony to mark Sheetal’s wedding.
***
Two hours later, Sheetal returned from the Pithi Ceremony that had been held on the Garden Terrace. The ceremony took place before Lord Ganesh, the elephant-headed god worshipped by Hindus before initiating anything of significance. Female relatives had dabbed Sheetal’s cheeks with pithi, an herbal mixture of yellow, moist chick-pea flour peppered with turmeric, oil and sandalwood, to initiate the cleansing of the bride and mark her transition from one household to another. After the ceremony, Sheetal was escorted back to her room so that Mira Bai, a masseuse, could complete a massage.
After Sheetal changed into a yellow petticoat that covered her from waist to toes and wrapped an orange towel about her upper torso, Mira Bai directed her to sit on a footstool in the bathing corner of her bathroom. Sheetal’s bathing area consisted of a tap, located three feet above the tile floor, and a plastic bucket with a floating plastic mug. As she bathed, excess water ran over the bathroom floor and spilled into a corner drain.
Sheetal hated the sandpaper texture of Mira Bai’s caloused fingers covered in layers of sticky yellow pithi, which scratched back and forth along the length of her upper arm. And the way Mira Bai chewed paan like a cow, grinding the condiment-stuffed betel leaf, made Sheetal sick. She hoped the woman had the decency to spit the blood-colored juice in the sink when the time came.
The pain of having a body wax three days ago, then having her eyebrows and upper lip waxed yesterday, and now this pithi massage, were all taking a toll on Sheetal’s sanity. But tradition demanded a bride be cleansed and purified in precisely this manner over a two-week period prior to the wedding day. A bride had to be absolutely perfect for the groom when the couple consummated the marriage.
Sheetal had not even visited Rakesh Dhanraj’s home on Barotta Hill, and here Mira Bai was preparing her for his bedroom. Sheetal squirmed with the thought of the ‘first night.’ It was the only thing the women downstairs had been discussing in hushed tones during the Pithi Ceremony. She tightened the towel around her torso, careful to keep her feet away from puddles of water on the floor that still hadn’t dried.
Mira Bai gathered the front pleats of her tattered, dark blue sari, yanked them up between her legs and tucked the fabric in back at the waist. Then she squatted on the floor, facing Sheetal, causing the sari to puff in two balloons around her brown knees.
Mira Bai raised her eyebrows and her large red bindi glinted like a third eye. “Now pull up your petticoat so it doesn’t get wet.”
Sheetal squirmed. She inched her petticoat up her ankles, aware she would insult Mira Bai if she questioned her order because Mira Bai held an unprecedented reputation in Raigun for polishing up a bride like no other masseuse. “Thank God this is the last day,” Sheetal murmured.
“You’re going to miss all this tomorrow. No more pampering.” Mira Bai tilted her head back, no doubt to prevent the paan juice from drooling out of her mouth. “You only get to be a bride once in your life. Every girl looks forward to this day. I know. I see it in their eyes.” She let go of Sheetal’s left foot, grabbed her right arm and dragged her fingers back and forth, spreading the pithi to the tip of Sheetal’s elbow, skillfully avoiding the mehndi. “I’ve seen at least half of all the brides in Raigun, but the pithi only shows its true colors on you.” She smiled and her nose pin gleamed in the soft, yellow light.
“You’re hurting me,” Sheetal squealed.
“Not as much as our new Sahib will tonight.” Her attention flew to the ten-carat princess-cut diamond ring on Sheetal’s finger. “Pretty. Always good for a woman to have beautiful jewelry and wear beautiful things. Precisely why some of us are blessed. But not all are lucky. Poor people like me can only make enough to put a decent roof over our heads and a little food in our bellies.”
Sheetal hated the attention Rakesh Dhanraj’s ring drew. First Kavita, now Mira Bai. When Mira Bai turned away, Sheetal rotated the ring with her thumb so the diamond faced her palm.
“Now, off with that towel.”
Sheetal held on to the orange fabric.
“Relax, Sheetalji.” Mira Bai raised both hands. “There’s nothing I haven’t seen.”
Blood rushed to Sheetal’s cheeks. She protested, but Mira Bai lathered more pithi along her collarbone and neck and then suddenly reached for the towel.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Sheetal twisted out of reach.
“But Sheetalji, don’t you want your husband to melt in your beauty? The most eligible bachelor in Raigun, I hear. He’s going to see you for the first time.”
Goose bumps rose along the length of Sheetal’s pithi-plastered arms. The first night? Alone? With Rakesh Dhanraj? “No one touches me.”
“As you say. Still, not a disappointed husband whose bride was in my hands. Every one of them blessed with at least three children.”
Sex…children… The thought of Rakesh’s naked body touching hers and the agony of his organ ripping through her caused Sheetal to shudder. Would he force her into sex? Would he leave her stiff and rigid like the layer of pithi drying on her skin? From what she remembered, he was supposed to be graceful. Charming. Suave. Too refined a man to force her against her will.
Mira Bai turned her face away and spat out the betel juice, staining the white marble floor in reddish-brown streaks. Then she casually dipped the plastic mug into the bucket and sloshed water across the floor, causing the juice to glide toward the drain, leaving the tiles stained in dirty red streaks.
Cold water filled the hollows between Sheetal’s toes and a chill shuddered up her spine. It was twelve-thirty. Ten and a half hours left. She had to dress and find Mama. Now.
***
Under a white tent on the front lawn, relatives and friends clustered around a buffet table mounded with artfully displayed food. The aroma of fried onions, tangy tomato gravy and spices flavored the air as waiters, dressed in black and white suits, passed in a steady stream from the kitchen to the lawn and back, burdened with silver trays of food and drink. The guests helped themselves to the fare and spilled out across the lawn, their plates loaded with curries, saffron rice and tandoor-cooked breads.
A topiary hedge of peacocks, elephants and deer surrounded the garden, and guests wandered from one display to another while eating.
Sheetal spent fifteen minutes looking for Mama. She had to convince her to stop this wedding. She couldn’t just sleep with some stranger on his bed and have sex with him for the rest of her life. There was enough time for Mama to talk sense into Papa and call off the wedding.
Sheetal gently urged people aside so she could make her way across the lawn while congratulations flew at her from all directions.
“There you are!” someone shouted.
A fishy odor fouled the air, and Sheetal froze. Only one person could tear through a commotion in just three words. Hemlata Choudhary, Papa’s younger sister
, known among the family as Hemu.
Dressed in a gaudy green sari and balancing a plate of food, Aunty Hemu made her way toward Sheetal. “Hambe! Let’s see it.”
Sheetal drew her right hand behind her back. “I’m looking for Mama. Do you—”
“Come now. The ring.” Aunty Hemu swallowed a spoonful of sweet almond halwa coated in a leaf of edible silver. “About time I see what I’ve been hearing for weeks.” She swiped the mixture of mashed almond, ghee and sugar from the corner of her mouth with a napkin then squeezed the soiled end of the fabric between her teeth and sucked hard. “Out with it.”
Sheetal held out her hand for Aunty Hemu to see.
Aunty Hemu leaned in for a closer look, her shadow falling over the ring. A trinket in Sheetal’s world was a fortune in Aunty Hemu’s.
Without warning, Aunty Hemu spun around and her waist-length plait lashed Sheetal. “Look Veena, Rita, Meenu!” She waved, summoning three of Sheetal’s aunts. “I was right. See! I was right.”
The three plump women rushed over. One grabbed Sheetal’s hand and held it up for a crowd of more than fifty to see.
“I told you it was a princess cut,” Aunty Hemu declared. “Not five, but a whole ten carats!”
“Let me see!” Aunty Veena seized Sheetal’s wrist.
“And me!” a stranger declared from the crowd.
“How about us?” someone else yelled. “We want a look.”
“It must have cost at least—”
“Take it off,” Aunty Hemu ordered. “I want to see that ring. Now.”
The air thickened with tension.
Sheetal grasped the ring and started to twist if off when Mama called, “There you are, Sheetal!”
Mama made her way through the crowd, and Sheetal exhaled in relief.
“Shashiji’s waiting upstairs in your room,” Mama said. “You need at least two hours, if not more, to get dressed. Now, off you go. Quickly! I’ll have lunch sent up for you.”
“I must say, Bhabhiji,” Aunty Hemu addressed Mama, “all I asked Sheetal was to give me the ring. For a minute. Just one minute. But she refuses.”
Liar! Sheetal ground a heel into the grass.
“Hambe. As if I’m going to keep it,” Aunty Hemu didn’t slow, oblivious to the irritation in Mama’s expression. Then she pressed a palm to her head and flattened the black strands of oiled hair. “I would never even think of such a thing. How could I? After all, I’m…I’m her own blood—in a way. But young girls nowadays…” She clucked her tongue while the crowd mumbled its disapproval. “Spoiled.”
Sheetal tugged Mama’s hand. “We need to talk.”
“Later, Sheetal.” Mama raised her voice, “Now, now then, Hemuji, that’s such a small thing to worry about. I have so much more of Sheetal’s jewelry you must see before it leaves for her in-laws’ house.”
Sheetal curled her right hand into a fist. Why did Mama have a soft spot for Aunty Hemu when all Aunty Hemu did was meddle in family affairs and make life difficult?
Two years ago, when Papa bought a new car, he first called Aunty Hemu to share the details of the purchase. When Sheetal passed her Master’s exam, Mama and Papa first shared the good news with Aunty Hemu. The reason was always the same…Aunty Hemu was family and had once been a Prasad. Because she was not as well-off as them, Mama and Papa continually kept Aunty Hemu engaged in the loop of their lives because they had risen in wealth and status shortly after Aunty Hemu’s marriage to a man of the lower class, and they still lived with the guilt of having left her behind. Though Mama and Papa had consulted several family members about Sheetal’s dowry, as was customary, Aunty Hemu was given priority over everyone else. This time, the excuse was that any family member who had not been consulted would feel left out, take offense, and possibly try to sabotage the wedding.
How was an attack possible, when weddings gave families an opportunity to come together, rejoice, renew family ties, and forge new ones? In any case, this was too much! Mama had given Aunty Hemu more than her share of attention during the Pithi Ceremony this morning. And during Aunty Hemu’s son’s wedding, Mama had practically managed the event. Sheetal needed Mama now. “Mama, I need—”
“Sheetal,” Mama was firm. “Later.”
Mama placed a hand on Aunty Hemu’s shoulder and steered her away from the crowd, curtailing the opportunity for more public fury. “Now, Hemuji, I need your advice for the most important…”
The cluster of women followed Mama and Aunty Hemu to the dowry room, and Sheetal, furious, broke away.
***
“Hatto chowkidaar,” Indu Prasad ordered aside one of the fifty security guards manning the three thousand square foot hall and invited Hemlata and the women in. According to rumor, Rana Prasad had arranged for a fraction of Raigun’s military to guard the dowry.
Thirty designer salwar kameezes, one hundred and one saris and a dowry fit for a princess glowed beneath twelve crystal chandeliers. Each sari had been puffed, pleated, folded, and pinned into an endless display of shapes and designs. A pink crepe silk sari, shaped to resemble a rose, lay beside a yellow sari resembling a sunflower. A boat of red organza sailed on an ocean of blue chiffon. An olive-green sari, folded to resemble a kite with gold trimmings and a tail of bright pink chiffon, was followed by a succession of colorful silks, tissues and organza.
The display of Sheetal’s clothes went on and on in different hues of burgundy, cream, yellow, blue, maroon and silver until there wasn’t a color in the rainbow unrepresented. In the center of it all, mounted on a pedestal, under the grandest crystal chandelier, a golden tissue peacock, pleated together from fifteen different saris, stood proud, jubilant and three feet tall. Brocaded in threads of emerald-green and ocean-blue, the bird’s tail fanned over an array of twenty open-top jewelry boxes, wrapped tightly in sheets of transparent cellophane, with guards positioned to protect their contents.
Word spread quickly that the dowry room was open and a crowd of three hundred gathered in less than five minutes. In one of the twenty jewelry boxes, the curve of a pearl necklace separated a pair of matching earrings and a triple-string bracelet. A golden Cartier set in another box, dotted with pigeon-blood rubies and pink sapphires, was fashioned in loops and rings. Drops of white gold graced the edge of a swan neck choker, and fine latticework encrusted with diamonds sparkled in the center. The spectators drooled, uncertain where to look or which way to turn. There was so much to see and so little time.
Then Hemlata Choudhary sidled between several people and made her way to the teardrop necklace from Belgium, matched with a pair of earrings and a double-string bracelet. Strands of one-carat diamonds, woven with slivers of white gold, converged upon a two-inch wide pendant. She put a hand to her throat, her chest heaving, as if struggling for air.
Indu led the women forward, ordered two security guards to step aside, and pulled open panels of white chiffon curtains, revealing the hidden dowry.
Wedgewood Serenity Goblets encrusted with sapphires nestled on a blue velvet bed. Two dozen Araglin glasses marched across a red tablecloth. Each tulip-fluted glass, fashioned with diamond-shaped vertical wedges, reflected light from a chandelier. A Paris Evening tea set in copper and gold hosted five-dozen teacups, enough to serve fifty guests. Matching globe sugar bowls, cream holders and teapots complemented several velvet display boxes brimming with sterling silver cutlery. Fancy soup bowls, custard troughs, decanters and punch bowls, all bearing the same zigzag pattern, trailed like a never-ending maze.
The dowry was, everyone agreed, a grand display of affection. All this was intended for Sheetal’s mother-in-law, Pushpa Dhanraj, to use as she deemed appropriate.
“And those are Sheetal’s personal things.” Indu diverted the crowd’s attention to three Louis Vuitton suitcases in one corner of the room, the only items not open for display. “And this is for Rakeshji.” Indu pushed a green button on a remote control and a wooden folding wall on the left began to lift, revealin
g sharp streams of daylight.
Hemlata Choudhary squealed and stumbled backward, and spectators gasped as a car, unlike any ever seen, rolled into view.
The convertible’s metal and chrome chassis shimmered in the pool of sunlight. Its hood sloped with the same vicious slant of a hammerhead shark. The exterior mirrors had been sculpted to resemble the mammal’s wide-set eyes.
“It’s…it’s…” Hemlata’s jaw dropped.
“It was flown in from Italy. A Lamborghini. Onyx Diablo,” Indu said. “A twelve-cylinder purchased well in advance. Three years, in fact, because only eighty have been released.” Then she pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and unfolded the yellow fabric to reveal a car key. She pushed a button and the doors of the vehicle opened skyward, revealing a tan leather interior shaped like an airplane’s cockpit.
The crowd crept closer to the vehicle, and Hemlata leaned forward, a hand extended toward the mullet-shaped exterior, before Indu placed a hand on her arm and urged her back.
“We have been planning this for some time. For the lucky man who would marry Sheetal.”
“Remember your time, Hemu?” Asha, Indu’s mother-in-law, turned to Hemlata. “I packed everything in your dowry when you were married. From your toothbrush to the four saris, petticoats and whatever else I could.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I tried to do the best so…so you were well supplied for at least a year. It was so simple then. So easy in our two-bedroom flat, compared to this.”
Indu’s attention wandered to the Lamborghini. “You know your brother when it comes to giving. He’s all heart. Remember how much he spent on your son Vikram’s wedding two years ago? I—” she turned to look at Hemlata, but Hemlata had slipped away.
***
A renowned beautician had been called upon to dress Sheetal for the wedding. With more than twenty-five years’ experience in the bridal business, this woman maintained a flawless reputation, and was hired to assure that Sheetal outshone any other bride. But the robust woman, in her mid-forties, merely looked from Sheetal’s cousin Tina to the golden wedding gown spread across the bed, to Sheetal, and her eyebrows plunged into a V. She made her way to the fishtail ghagra—designed by Anita Dongre, India’s leading fashion designer—that lay glimmering in the sunlight. “Is this what I’m supposed to work with?” She shook her head and her large earrings trembled.