by Shona Patel
“Is he here?”
“Yes, yes, he’s here. Let’s go. Have you got everything? Where is Auntie?”
“What happened?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you later. Everything is fine, groom has arrived, priest has arrived, guests have arrived. Come on, come on. Auntie? AUNTIE! Where is that old bat?” Moon ran off to look for her.
I slipped my red alta-rimmed feet into my bridal slippers and jangled my way out to the veranda. It was hard to do anything with any semblance of mobility.
Auntie was nowhere to be found.
“I thought she was out on the veranda,” I said.
“We can’t wait for her. Come on, come on, let’s go,” said Moon, taking hold of my elbow. “Walk faster, will you? Hurry, Ma is throwing a fit.”
“Why is everything so late?” I asked, shuffling along, my stiff sari crackling like a wafer.
“Your Manik was late, that’s why.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes. Just as well you are not getting married at the exact auspicious hour. You would have missed your timing and the wedding would be canceled.” The car engine was running, and the driver held the passenger door open. “Here, let me help you get inside. I will lift your sari for you. Are you okay?” She ran and got in from the other side.
“Jaldi! Jaldi,” she urged the driver in Hindi. Drive fast!
I breathed a sigh of relief. I was going to get married after all.
Everything after that was a blur. My arrival was heralded with the blowing of conch horns, ululation and the ringing of bells. I dimly remembered the flower-bedecked school porch, strung with garlands of tuberoses and marigold. Somebody had painted alpana designs on the floor, and there were rows of guests seated in folded chairs. I caught a glimpse of some familiar faces: the District Commissioner, the Forest Officer and Amrat Singh, the Police Chief, wearing a bright red turban sitting next to his fair, plump wife. There were also other well-known poets, artists and dignitaries—Dadamoshai’s acquaintances, mostly.
I noticed Anik was actually wearing the blue pajama suit that had been picked out by his mother. He had obviously been bribed, evidenced by the brown smear of chocolate all over his face. Then I saw Manik. I hardly recognized him in his flowing silk shirt and pleated dhoti. Manik looked equally surprised to see me—even mildly suspicious, as if maybe the bride had been switched on him.
A small ceremonial area had been set up under the jacaranda tree. The path leading up to it was strewn with rose petals. I approached the small canopied platform accompanied by Moon. I could feel Manik looking at me. When I looked up and caught a glimpse of his face, I was taken aback to see there were several shaving nicks on his chin. What on earth had he shaved himself with on his wedding day? A dagger? I was also slightly disturbed to see his glasses were broken. They were held together with what looked like a piece of tape.
A small hush fell over the congregation as the minister, a Bhramo scholar, read out a Tagore poem, and a gust of wind sent a shower of purple blossoms from the jacaranda tree swirling at our feet. Manik and I exchanged garlands. Our hands were tied together with a string of jasmine. Ladies blew conch shells and threw puffed rice and rose petals.
The rather solemn and eloquent ceremony was momentarily interrupted when a ripple of laughter pulsed through the audience. Anik had got into a kicking fight with a small girl. When his mother shushed him, he pulled down his royal-blue pajamas and exposed himself brazenly to all the dignitaries in the front row. Mima clutched her heart and almost fainted. Anik was hauled off by Moon, kicking and screaming, undoubtedly to some dark dungeon to be spanked soundly. The ceremony then continued without further interruption.
I was constantly aware of Manik’s presence by my side. I felt the warmth of his hand over mine, the brush of his shirtsleeve against my arm. The resonance of his deep voice vibrated through my body as he said his vows.
Finally it was all over. We were led to the flower-bedecked chairs to receive our guests. We touched the feet of our elders, who blessed us with sandalwood, rice husk and darba grass. I went through the motions like a sleepwalker, completely devoid of emotions. The long day had begun to take its toll. I barely remembered the wedding lunch.
“Hello, wife,” Manik whispered conspiratorially, halfway through the first course. His breath was warm, and his lips buzzed against my ear. “I can’t wait to be alone with you.”
I felt a tremor of excitement followed by panic. The fatigue of the day was making my head swim. Please, dear God, I prayed, please don’t let me faint—that’s all I ask.
* * *
Dadamoshai’s old bedroom was turned into the nuptial chamber. It had been cleared and aired, the double bed canopied with long tuberose and jasmine garlands that trailed down to the floor. The cream-colored bedspread was strewn with red rose petals. On a table there was an engraved brass bowl with white lotus flowers floating within it and a peacock-shaped incense burner in the middle. The air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood and flowers.
The door closed behind us, shutting off the sounds of teasing and revelry. Some kids banged on the door, hooting, then ran off laughing down the hallway. Suddenly we were alone. Manik and I. Married. Husband and wife.
I could hear my heart thudding. Every sound seemed amplified. The folds of my heavy sari crackled; a single movement of my wrist set off a noisy clamor of bangles. I stood in the center of the room feeling gold-laden and weighted down.
Unlike me, Manik looked happier and more relaxed than he had all day. Without a single word, he lifted me off my feet and twirled me round, toppling us both through the floral curtain onto the bed. I lay on top of him, pinned against his chest, my bangle caught in a silk thread of his kurta as he tried to kiss me through my veil.
I was trembling uncontrollably. The tension that had been running through me for weeks amplified into what I can only describe as full-blown virginal terror. My hands clenched, my throat parched up and then to my horror, a tear rolled helplessly down my cheek and plopped onto my husband’s nose. Manik was taken aback.
“What’s wrong, Layla?” he asked, frowning.
Two more tears plopped down. Oh, God, oh, God, I am going to die, I thought. I buried my face and sobbed right into his beautiful silk wedding shirt, leaving big damp patches of ugly makeup on his chest. I was past caring.
“Layla, look at me...please!” Manik was really worried. Shedding a nuptial tear or two was one thing, but weeping like an open faucet was another.
I sat up. My bangle was still threaded to his kurta so I covered my face with my free hand. Manik peered down his nose. He squinted as he unpinned the bangle. He sat up, pushed his glasses up his nose and put his arms around me, but I was a small stony mountain surrounded by chilly winds.
“Layla, what is the matter? You must talk to me.”
I wiped my face with the end of my sari. The gold brocade scratched my skin like wire wool.
“I am scared,” I said finally.
“Of what? Of me?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I see,” said Manik quietly.
He slumped back down on the bed and lay there with his hands behind his head. I could see from the corner of my eye that he was thinking. “Layla, please,” he said finally. “We won’t do anything until you are ready. I promise. I give you my word.”
I began to relax somewhat. I started to take off my heavy gold bangles.
“Here, let me help you,” Manik said, sitting up.
He kissed my fingers as he squeezed the gold bangles from my wrists one by one and laid them on the bed.
“I’ll leave the room while you undress. I can change in the bathroom.”
I did not say anything. Manik walked over to his small overnight bag on the floor. He unzipped it and pulled out a few items.
> “Don’t run off on me now,” he said, giving me a wink. Then he went into the bathroom and pulled the door shut behind him.
I took a deep breath. What a relief it was to get out of my wedding sari and undo the ten thousand pins that held up my bun. I opened the small bag that had been packed for me and saw with dismay the new, baby-pink, granny-looking nightgown Mima had selected for my wedding night. It had a silly lace biblike thing in front, a drool catcher of sorts. Romantic hearts were appliquéd in a merry-go-round on the breast. Mima’s idea of enticing nuptial attire, no doubt.
I sat on the bed in my granny nightgown and waited, combing out my hair and trying not to think squeamish thoughts. Manik was taking an awfully long time in the bathroom.
Finally he opened the door. He had on white pajama bottoms and, to my embarrassment, not a scrap of cloth on top. Manik was more muscled and slim-hipped than I had imagined him to be. I was so rattled seeing his tanned skin and the million hairs on his chest, I could hardly bear to look at him.
“Are you done?” I asked, shuffling to my feet.
He held the door open and bowed me gallantly into the bathroom. I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart beating wildly.
I scrubbed my face with neem soap to get all the war paint off. I looked in the mirror. My skin looked pale and my eyes were small and tired. But at least the person who looked back was someone I knew. I smoothed some sandalwood lotion on my face, combed out my hair, then stood by the door and counted to ten, trying to calm myself, before I reentered the bedroom. My heart was thumping all over again.
Manik was lying on the far side of the bed, ankles crossed, his hands behind his head, looking as if he was relaxing in a sunny meadow. He must have noticed my granny nightgown for the first time because he looked mildly shocked, but he made no comment.
“Just so that you know,” I blurted, “this is not the kind of thing I normally wear to bed. This is my aunt’s idea of a romantic nightdress.”
He laughed. “I don’t care,” he quipped, “as long as it comes off.”
I tensed. I am not sure he noticed.
“I could kill for a smoke just now. I am having a nuptial anxiety attack,” Manik grumbled. “Giving up smoking just before the wedding was a bad idea. Now that I am married, I better spend my money wisely. Otherwise my wife will give me a bamboo-beating.”
I was perched on the edge of the bed like a sparrow on a windowsill.
“Lie down and relax, will you,” he said, patting the mattress. “I won’t pounce on you, I promise.”
The bed creaked as I lay down. My toes were pointed primly together; my hands were straight by my sides. I must have looked like an embalmed mummy. I was so dangerously close to the edge of the bed that if Manik so much as sneezed I would blow right off.
“Stop treating me like a leper, will you? Come over here,” Manik said, patting the bed. “What kind of treatment is this? I have waited three lonely years and I am expected to abstain on my wedding night. Just who do you think I am—Gandhi?”
I inched over and he curled his arm around my shoulders. My cheek lay against the bare skin of his chest. I could hear the soft beating of his heart. He smelled really nice, too.
“It feels so good to hold you, Layla,” he murmured into my hair.
“What are all these cuts?” I asked, touching his face. “What did you do—get into a catfight?” My hand grazed his lips and he chewed on my finger, sending a small shiver down my spine.
He laughed. “Why, didn’t Moon tell you anything?”
“No, what happened?” I sat up and looked at him.
“Kiss me first, wife. Otherwise I won’t tell you.”
I hesitated then gave him a small peck on the chin. He crushed me to him.
“Don’t blame me if things get out of hand now. You started it.”
He must have seen the anxiety in my eyes because he said softly, sadly, “My God, you are really afraid, aren’t you? I had no idea how unworldly you really are, Layla.”
“So, what happened,” I repeated, trying to change the subject, “on your way to the wedding? Did you have an accident?”
Manik laughed softly. “I was a wreck when I got here. The lads threw a party last night for me in Aynakhal. They got me completely plastered, dunked me in the bathtub and then shoved me in the jeep and sent me off with Alam, the driver. I slept all the way to Silchar. I was lucky I made it to the wedding at all.”
I was shocked.
“So you can imagine the state I arrived in,” Manik continued. “I did not have any time to shave, bathe or anything. Moon was horrified. She took one look at me and pronounced me unacceptable. She gave me a big lecture and said I would disgrace the Rai Bahadur. I have a dubious reputation as it is, then to show up looking like a beggar at my wedding would only confirm everyone’s suspicion that I was a gone case. My glasses were broken. Moon worried I would go and garland the wrong girl and create an even bigger scandal.”
Manik twirled a strand of my hair. “The poor girl ran around to find tape to fix my glasses. She borrowed some relative’s razor so I could shave. There was no shaving soap, and the blade was a hundred years old.” He touched his chin gingerly. “So here I am all patched up and married to you.”
I was thinking about the bachelor party. It must have been full of debauchery, I imagined. I did not dare to ask.
He must have read my mind because he suddenly asked, “Do you know what the Kama-sutra says?”
I had one foot on the floor and was ready to bolt out the door.
Manik hoisted himself on his elbows. He looked at me, his glasses askew. “My God, you didn’t wait for me to finish, did you? So what do you think the Kama-sutra is all about?”
“I have a general idea...”
“I don’t think you do. You may want to know it has some serious counsel for lovers and newlyweds. But listen, wife, I am not going to share anything with you, unless you start treating me in a more civil manner.”
I lay back down with my head on his chest.
“That’s better. The Kama-sutra says the first step to a happy and lasting marriage is for the husband to win a wife’s trust before initiating sex. It is a delicate process and can take time. Women are typically less experienced than men. They bruise emotionally when roughly handled and this can create an unhealthy power balance between man and wife. Eventually it leads to distance between couples. Only once the wife has overcome her shyness can the couple fully engage in the other business you were thinking about.”
Just imagining the “other business” created a mini avalanche. The din in my head grew louder. We lay in bed, skin to skin, our breaths intermingled, and nothing happened. I was dimly aware that although we did not have a traditional wedding, we were abiding by a time-honored rule. In a Bengali marriage the couple was not supposed to engage in sex on their first night together but use that time to get acquainted instead. What “getting acquainted” meant was anybody’s guess. I wonder if Manik knew about this tradition. I did not broach the subject in case the conversation trotted off toward naughty ideas.
“Tell me about Aynakhal,” I said.
“Aynakhal,” Manik sighed happily. The timbre in his voice deepened. “Aynakhal means ‘Mirror Lake,’ you know?”
Manik described the Koilapani River that flowed through the tea plantation as a webbed waterway that widened into the Aynakhal Lake before vanishing into a giant marshland on the Kaziranga border. The Aynakhal Lake was a pristine jade-green and resplendent with dazzling lilies—white, pink and mauve, with centers of glowing butter-gold. There was no easy access to the lake from the tea garden; the only way to get there was on elephant back or by taking a boat through the long meandering waterway. But Manik had discovered a secret trail from behind his bungalow that led right down to the water’s edge. He often went there for a swim. It
was the most peaceful place on earth, he said. River otters played among the lilies, and turtles sunned on fallen logs. The only sounds you ever heard were the whisper of the reeds and the gentle lap of water on the shore.
Manik’s soft voice describing the peaceful lake made me deliciously sleepy. My breathing slowed and my whole being began to unfurl—like kelp in flowing water.
* * *
A small boat bobbed along the waterway. The lilies parted and the water crumpled like silk against the shore. I could see ahead the vapors from the marsh rising to meet a wind-torn sky. The boat caught an eddy and swirled in a graceful waltz to turn me around.
The boatman laughed. “Look,” he said, holding up his empty hands, “I have no oars.”
I shielded my eyes, trying to see his face, but his features were blurred.
“How do we know where we are going?” I cried.
“We don’t,” the boatman replied, “and we won’t know till we get there.”
* * *
I opened my eyes in the morning to find I was still in my granny nightgown. I had not been deflowered in my sleep, as I had secretly hoped, which was a pity because the whole thing would have been over and done with. Losing one’s virginity, I naively imagined, could happen in a careless moment, like dropping a handkerchief.
My brand-new husband, sweetly tousled, his eyes soft from sleep, was propped on an elbow six inches from my nose, looking at me. Without his glasses he looked disarmingly boyish. He had a blue-gray stubble on his chin, and his nicks had turned a pinkish-purple. He stared at me in wonder as if I was some moon rock fallen from the sky. I looked back at him feeling a little astonished myself.
“What’s the time?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“Hmm, time?” Manik murmured dreamily. Then he leaned over and kissed my mouth.
Not that I had expected to shake hands first thing in the morning, but I must admit I was taken aback by the sweetness of his kiss. When I did not resist, he kissed me some more, but something happened to me halfway: a circuit tripped and my body shut down.