by Anju Gattani
***
Within seconds, Mama and Preeti reached Sheetal’s side and a cluster of brightly dressed women followed.
The thick fragrance of Givenchy perfume flooded the room. Papa entered, his gray and white moustache quivering as he pushed thick, black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What on earth is all this?”
Sheetal lowered her gaze to the floor to avoid the stares. Papa’s cream-colored silken pajamas and the pointed toes of his embroidered silk shoes filled her view. “I… I was in the bathroom. I didn’t hear you call. I was—”
“What nonsense!” Papa yelled, his juttis thudding the carpet. “She’s wearing five million rupees worth of jewels and you leave her alone, Indu? What’s wrong with…”
A business transaction… Her heart sank.
Mama escorted Sheetal to the bed and sat her down as the women speculated in hushed whispers. Mama ordered Preeti to get Sheetal a glass of water and sat beside her. “I was here the whole time until Tina and I had to go and change. So, we left her alone for a few minutes. But she’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about. We should try and find the missing necklace. Did—”
“What’s gone is gone,” Papa said. “We can’t go looking for it now or we’ll ruin everything. Get Sheetal out there or we’ll be the laughingstock of Raigun if the Dhanrajs reach the reception grounds before we do. Now come on, everyone. We have a wedding to show the world.” He marched off, the smack of his juttis on the corridor floor fading rapidly in the distance.
The women surrounding Sheetal exchanged hushed remarks about how Sheetal shouldn’t have been left alone, how guards should have been placed outside her bedroom door and extra guards stationed near the jewelry sets in the dowry room, their whispers buzzing like a thousand angry bees. Sheetal pressed a palm atop Mama’s hand for support and curled her fingers around the edge.
“Perhaps you should all head down now,” Mama interrupted. “We can’t be late, and I need some time alone with Sheetal.”
The women filed out the door.
Mama looked at the broken glass bangles near the balcony door and then narrowed her attention on Sheetal. “He came for you, didn’t he? Arvind.”
Sheetal turned away from the press of Mama’s stare.
“And you didn’t go.”
“I couldn’t. You and Papa. I thought of—”
“Forget him. You did the right thing. Now, let’s go.”
Sheetal rose to her feet and looked about her room one last time. The walls had sheltered her childhood. The bed had lulled her into a million dreams. The minutiae of her life, from dupattas, hair clips and cosmetics, to hangers and pairs of sandals, lay scattered around the room after the hustle and bustle of the afternoon. She imagined Preeti clearing up this room after all the guests left, the skinny brown figure picking up twenty-two years of her life and putting them away.
“Let’s go.”
Sheetal took one step forward and let go.
Chapter Seven
Royal Renaissance
At precisely six o’clock that evening, Rakesh Dhanraj mounted a white mare and rode toward the Royal Renaissance Hotel’s Waterfront Garden entrance while the wedding procession accompanied him on foot. A shiny brass band, bolting out renditions of famous Bollywood tunes, preceded three-hundred-and-fifty family members and close friends dressed in heavily embroidered saris, suits and kurta pajamas, while fifty senior members of his family rode to the hotel in white limousines.
A piercing honk from a trumpet caused the mare to reel back and stomp her hooves, which made her brocade caparison tremble. The horse’s owner, who walked alongside Rakesh with a firm grip on the reins, tugged to control the unnerved beast.
Rakesh swayed and shot a hand up to secure his white turban and the fifteen-carat diamond that glittered at the center of the saafa.
The entourage paused when some of the wedding procession formed a dance circle behind the band. Rakesh nodded approval, pleased with the laughter and good cheer, and straightened a string of pearls around his neck. He adjusted the low-cut Mandarin collar of his two-piece, pure white crepe wool sherwani. Kashmiri embroidery in a shade of stone blossomed along the length of the shirt and unfurled down to his knees. He tightened his legs against the horse’s belly to secure his position should the mare grow nervous again, and the matching, skin-tight churidar clung to the taut muscles of his calves.
Passers-by and oncoming foot traffic stopped to gawk at the procession, and Rakesh’s heart swelled. How could people not stare at his attire, custom-designed by India’s premier fashion guru, Arjun Khanna? And it wasn’t just any collection, but came from the House of Khanna Classic Couture.
The ring of dancers broke apart and the procession advanced toward a pair of elephants that stood guard at the hotel’s entrance, their bodies draped in glittering, embroidered caparisons and their heads covered in golden, jeweled nettipattams. The entourage stopped as the elephants raised their trunks and trumpeted the joy of the groom’s arrival. Rakesh accepted a silver stick and touched it to a religious placard mounted overhead. The crowd cheered at this formal signal of his arrival.
A throng of pundits, women and children wearing brightly colored, sequined clothing followed Indu Prasad toward the groom. Indu carried a thali, a sterling silver plate, in her left hand, which contained separate mounds of dry rice; yellow, vermilion and white powders; and a small, sterling silver vessel of water. Indu stopped at the main entrance as Rakesh dismounted and stepped onto a decorated footstool before her.
Indu dampened her right thumb and third finger, then dipped both fingers into the vermilion powder. She dotted the gap between Rakesh’s eyebrows, then used her thumb to extend this dot upward in a vertical line. Then she dipped a finger into the dry rice and dotted a few grains onto the base of the vermilion trail as pundits chanted shlokas. She held the thali and circled it clockwise before Rakesh to officially welcome him to the family. Only then did Rakesh step off the stool.
Members of the bride’s family cleared a path for the groom’s entrance. Six female ushers dressed in sequined ghagras of white silk with black sashes broke away from the crowd in pairs and preceded Rakesh down a hall, scattering rose petals on the red carpet. Golden trellises woven with vines and flowers lined the hall, the scent of tea roses perfuming the air.
The trellises gave way to a bridge that arched gently over the sunken wedding ground almost twenty feet below. Rakesh gestured for the entourage to slow and kept his gait relaxed so it didn’t appear that he hurried to marry Sheetal. He certainly didn’t, and the guests needed to know that.
He looked across the right railing. Buffet tables, laden with golden serving dishes that offered cuisines from around the world, awaited the grand feast. The floral arrangements had been flown in from Holland, while bottles of wine and champagne were imported from France, Portugal and Italy. His heart soared at the ostentation. It was going to be a fabulous wedding, indeed. A wedding to remember.
A breeze swayed strands of miniature lights woven through the branches of trees. While those around him oohed and aahed, Rakesh kept his expression blank, like he had expected the Prasads to spare no expense. After all, their daughter was to marry the most sought-after bachelor in Raigun.
A fifteen-feet-tall yacht, with Destiny in golden letters across the bow and surrounded by a moat, was the stage upon which he and Sheetal would be presented to the world. The yacht’s gold sails flapped in the breeze. Behind the yacht, a collage of roses, blue bells, marigolds and sunflowers depicted a sunrise. Two staircases, one on either side of the ship, provided access to the deck.
The moat branched into channels that circled the inner perimeter of the wedding ground. Rock pools, flora, lotuses and multi-colored lights peppered the trickling waters. Crystal fountains sprouted silver webs of water that locked and wove apart with the breeze.
Rakesh signaled the entourage to continue and followed the litter of rose petals to a ramp that angled toward D
estiny. He straightened his posture as the waiting crowd beamed at him.
He was ready to take on the bride and her world.
Chapter Eight
Destiny
Ten women escorted Sheetal up Destiny’s left staircase as she struggled under the weight of her jewelry. Halfway up, she gripped the banister decorated with alternating yellow and purple tulips to steady herself. A dark abyss gazed back at her. Was that an eight feet drop, or more? She couldn’t tell. When she neared the top, a spotlight fixed on her. Breathe. The air seemed too thin, and she struggled to inhale against the throttling pressure of her choker.
Finally, she reached the deck, stepped aboard, was led to the vessel’s bow, and halted before two majestic thrones plumped with satin cushions.
Surrounded by an entourage of men, Rakesh approached from the opposite staircase and stopped two feet away.
Sheetal’s knees weakened, but female relatives coaxed her to close the gap between her and Rakesh. On her right, a thousand guests watched. She held her breath. What if Arvind suddenly climbed over the railing and whisked her away?
A photographer called out to her. Sheetal glanced up as a flash of hot white light blinded her. Another breeze swept past, and the satin sails flapped, their thumping synchronized with the beating of her heart. The audience raised their fluted glasses to toast and waited for Sheetal to make the first move.
A five-inch thick, ten-pound string of flowers was thrust into her hands. Rakesh grabbed a similar garland from a sterling silver thali carried by one of his friends for the Garlanding of Flowers, Varmala Ceremony. They were to drape the garlands around each other’s neck to signify acceptance of the other as husband and wife. But how could she accept this man when she wanted nothing to do with him? Her heart pounded. She crushed the flower petals and sap trickled down her wrists. She turned to Rakesh. The stone hardness of his perfectly chiseled features sent a shiver down her spine.
He towered a foot above her. Too high. Out of reach.
Sheetal raised the garland until it hung like a halo of flowers before Rakesh’s face. She tiptoed and rocked forward, paralyzed by the knowledge of what she was about to do. She hated everything about Rakesh and here she was accepting him as her husband. She released the garland and almost lost balance. The garland slipped from her fingers and draped the Mandarin-cut collar of Rakesh’s sherwani.
Waves of applause filled the air. Fluted glasses clinked against one another, accompanying the drumming of the tabla. Sheetal was about to rock back and regain her balance when Rakesh tossed his garland around her neck. The string of flowers lunged at her like a noose, causing her to stagger back into the arms of the women behind her, who laughed and pushed her back on her feet as the crowd cheered louder than before.
A minute later, Sheetal sat down on a throne beside Rakesh, bearing the full weight of his authority, on display for all their guests.
***
At exactly eleven o’clock, as stars twinkled above the mandap, Sheetal and Rakesh sat cross-legged and barefoot on the floor before a fiery havan, her right hand locked in Rakesh’s ice-cold grip.
Two pundits dressed in saffron-colored robes chanted Vedic shlokas and poured ladles of ghee into the havan, causing thick gray smoke to fan across the guests. Sheetal turned away from the flames, her skin scorching in the heat. A pundit ordered them to rise from their lotus-like positions, then tied her golden dupatta to a stole draping Rakesh’s left shoulder. Sheetal scrunched the carpet under her toes and inched forward carefully, leading the first of seven perambulations. The first signified the family’s prestige. The second, their honor, and the third, their integrity… Family, she reminded herself. She was doing this for her family.
Then Rakesh took his position in front of her, and she followed him for the final phera.
It was now or never.
She was halfway around the fire, inches away from losing her freedom. Sheetal gathered the sides of her golden ghagra and just before the final step, a flash of hot white light blinded her, causing her to lose her footing and stagger. She bumped Rakesh’s back and the wall of his white sherwani suit filled her view. As fire raged in the havan, the crowd joked about the bride’s hurry to marry Rakesh and have him.
The photographer wildly gestured for she and Rakesh to stand closer together and face him. “Smile!”
Sheetal stared into the camera lens as another flash of light blinded her.
It was over.
Chapter Nine
Solitaire
Rakesh Dhanraj watched as family and friends prepared for a prayer to seek the Lord’s blessing before he slept with his bride for the first time.
The pundit asked Rakesh to fold his hands in prayer and Rakesh gritted his teeth. Why pray when a glass of scotch cured all ills? Stares from family members and relatives caused him to align the palms of his hands. His head pounded. His throat was parched. He hadn’t had a drink in more than twenty-four hours. Or a cigarette, for that matter.
Alcohol wasn’t supposed to be consumed on auspicious days. Not only did drinking violate tradition, it insulted the gods. Rakesh didn’t plan on making tradition a habit.
A priest dotted Lord Ganesh’s forehead with vermillion powder and dry grains of rice, then instructed Rakesh and Sheetal to do the same.
Sheetal obeyed, but Rakesh turned away, sick to his stomach. Hadn’t he followed enough orders by now? The surrounding crowd frowned. Rakesh turned back, dipped the third finger of his right hand in a tiny trough of water, then into red powder, dotted Ganesh’s head and wiped his hand on a tissue. His fingers trembled. He gulped.
He slid his right hand along his thigh toward a hip flask fastened to his belt. After the Varmala Ceremony, he had changed into a suit and tie and equipped himself with enough scotch to make it through the night. He curved his fingers around the cold metal as loud Vedic hymns pealed the air. Not now. He patted the bottle. Later. When alone. Then he slid his hand into the right pocket of his suit and ran his thumb over the fine latticework of the Belgium diamond-drop necklace. Later. When alone.
Chapter Ten
Black Knight
Sheetal took four steps into the bedroom before she turned back toward the corridor, but the door clicked softly shut. She stood alone in Rakesh’s bedroom. The nuptial bed stood hidden behind a curtain of red and yellow tulips threaded in neat vertical rows. The fragrance of flowers and mint made her dizzy.
According to romantic Bollywood films, she was supposed to take her position in the center of the bed and coyly wait for Rakesh to enter. Instead, she stumbled to a sofa, grabbed an armrest, and sank onto a blue cushion, nearly toppling a swan-shaped silver jug and matching sterling glasses on a nearby table. She blinked, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. The room blurred into two of everything. Goosebumps puckered her arms and legs. She wrapped the chiffon dupatta around her shoulders. It provided little warmth. Her legs ached from sitting cross-legged for hours and then standing all evening. She raised her feet onto a coffee table, closed her eyes and slumped against the corner of the couch.
All she had to do was keep Rakesh’s hands off. Stay pure. Untouched. Manage for a few weeks, then go home and prove to Mama how wrong she and Papa had been. They’d see their fault, give in, and then let her marry Arvind.
So what if Papa had forced her to marry Rakesh? There was no way that he or anyone else could force her into Rakesh Dhanraj’s bed.
Five hours later, when Sheetal woke, that’s precisely where she was.
She reeled back, disturbing the strings of tulips surrounding the bed.
“Easy, easy.” Rakesh raised a hand. His steely complexion filled her view. He lay along her left side, an elbow propped on a pillow and his palm cupping the side of his face. From his easy manner, it was obvious he’d been waiting for her to wake.
A deep impression on the pillow, where her head had lain, indicated she’d been here for some time. “How did I get here?”
He reached out
and traced his index finger down her nose, lips and across the right cheek. “I carried you.” He continued gliding his finger down to her chest, past folds of wedding gown, and stopped in her cleavage.
Sheetal pushed his hand away. “Get off me!”
“I’m not on you.”
“Move back or I’ll—”
“Scream?” He smiled. “They’re expecting that.” He gestured to the bedroom door. “Now, allow me.” He leaned over, inched his finger down her cleavage, and pulled her closer, his eyes glinting in the bedroom’s soft, yellow light.
Sheetal flinched, but Rakesh was quicker. He grabbed her wrists, pinned her arms against the pillow, and kissed her on the lips.His tobacco breath burned her throat, the stubble on his cheeks grated her skin, and she cried out when his teeth cut her lip.
She kicked, managed to free her hands, and shoved his bare chest, but Rakesh ripped off her dupatta and began unfastening her blouse. She grabbed his wrists but he kissed her again, filling her lungs with the odor of burnt copper. The stench of alcohol caused bile to well up her throat. She thrashed her head. His saliva smeared her lips and cheeks.
He ripped apart the final blouse hooks.
She cried out and swung an arm to cover her nudity but struck Rakesh’s head as the tips of his canines grated her breast.
She opened her mouth to scream, but Rakesh clamped a hand over her mouth and drove his teeth into the flesh above her left collarbone.
She found the mattress’s edge and pulled, fighting to escape the pain, but Rakesh grabbed her legs and yanked her back to the bed’s center, causing her skirt to bunch around her hips. She tried to kick him away, but he surged between her separated legs, yanked aside the crotch of her panties and drove his organ through the seal of her virginity.
A scream gurgled up Sheetal’s throat and erupted as the wail of an animal.