My Big Wedding Night
By
Paul Mohan Roy
Till last summer I was swinging around my mother, cuddling onto her
arms for a quick hug or sleeping on grandma’s lap and receiving loving pats
from my father.
My nineteenth birthday onwards things had
changed. “You are no more a child. Now you’re a grown up girl ready for
marriage,” was my mother’s opening refrain every morning. My grandma’s
accompanying note would be a cautious one. “A marriage is a tender sapling,”
she would say. “It needs careful transplantation and nurturing to make it stand
for one thousand years. Let’s wait for a good proposal.”
To my father and mother marriage became a
subject for discussion during breakfast and dinner. Sometimes it was brief,
spoken in signs and codes that I could not understand. Yet I would remain silent and watch.
One day, my father said his friend and the
local MLA was happy to take me as his daughter-in-law.
“The MLA is a big gun in his party, though
his party is not in the ruling coalition,” mother replied, throwing a glance at
me to check my reaction.
“He’s confident his party will be returned to
power in the next election. I’ve seen his son once when he came to the club
driving a BMW to meet a friend. I think the boy is a high school dropout. Our
Manju is a college going girl,” said my father.
“If he is a school dropout… we should reconsider
the proposal.” My grandma was quick to assert her opinion. I liked it.
“The family is rich. As a son of an MLA he
has opportunities to grow in politics. That the MLA is also a leader of our
community is another plus point. What else we expect in Manju’s future
husband?” It was my mother’s point of view.
“Why, one day the boy may become an MLA and a
minister. Think of our Manju becoming the wife of a minister,” mother added
another dimension to her stand.
Grandma and father became silent for a while.
When father was about to say something, mother cut in and said her last word,
“Read the newspapers. The sons of our politicians are rising. They become either
ministers or industrialists.”
“He is like an uncrowned monarch in our
area.” Mother said our constituency was something like the MLA’s pocket borough
and his family would represent us in the Assembly for generations. To this, my
father said, “The boy still appears in the third-page news columns.”
Ignoring
my presence they were discussing something that concerned me. Father said his
last words, “We don’t know our Manju’s idea of marrying into a politician’s
family.”
“Manju dear, today evening the MLA and his
wife are visiting us. They want to see you. Please come early. I’ve left
instructions to the driver to bring you home by four.” This was my mother’s way
of saying the curtain is raised for the first act in the marriage play: Formal bride-seeing, an old tradition most
Indian families are still following!
“What if I come late,” I swallowed my
question.
On my way to college I visualised my mother,
ransacking the wardrobe to choose the best dress that would impress the MLA’s
family.
My evening home bound ride was the best part
in my daily schedule. The driver uncle was knowledgeable in many subjects. He
was my window to the world outside. At times I would even request him to go
slow. I enjoyed seeing my class mates riding bicycles and scooters. And I
envied their simple freedom, their sense of enjoying leisure hours at home or
outside, while I was always nailed to a routine set by my parents.
I
wished the car to stop at every signal. I wanted to see young men on their
Hondas or Yamahas standing level with the car window, honking or raising the
accelerator to draw my attention and catch a glimpse of my forlorn look. What a
variety of young men, smartly dressed and flying on the roads. Today I was
wondering how the MLA’s son would look like, handsome and acceptable or rough
and tardy. If the MLA is a monarch, his son must be a prince. This was my
logical expectation.
On reaching home, I found the house spruced up, furniture polished
and realigned and windows covered with new curtains.
“Oh! Dear you’ve come in time. Take extra
care to look presentable. You know the MLA’s wife. She’ll observe every inch of
you — I mean she will closely look at you, the dress and jewels you wear and
the way you appear before the guests.”
Evening the bride-seeing function started. I was made to look like a doll and
sit before a bunch of watchful eyes. I knew they would ask the same customary
questions they are supposed to ask, the answers to which they already know.
They would come with certain four-point scale in a preferential order to
measure my suitability as a bride: wealth, age, skin complexion and lastly
education. Yet the elders would disperse saying marriages are made in heaven.
My friends are the source of information on
all rituals relating to marriage and Santhi-muhoortham—the
wedding night — and my role in each. This they would tell me in a chorus of
mild giggles.
I saw the MLA’s men were restlessly waiting
in the garden, leaning on their Toyotas and Scorpios.
The MLA and his wife entered the hall
accepting my parents’ warm welcome note, saying a mouthful of Namaskars.
I was not to walk into their presence immediately. My mother had drawn certain
protocol to observe by the bride-to-be.
Mother entered my room, dragging her heavy sari
and panting. And she was seen murmuring something to herself, a quick prayer
perhaps. She looked an inch shorter as she was not able to carry her own body
and the jewels.
Did she succeed in feeling equal to the MLA’s
wife, I wondered.
My mother told me the dos and don’ts in
strict accordance with the custom: “Don’t look into the eyes of the guests till
you’re introduced. Smile at them when needed. Don’t laugh as you do in the
company of your friends. Keep your face downcast and walk in measured steps.”
How many sessions of this kind my mother
would have undergone before being chosen by my dad’s people? I was wondering.
By this time she had acquired enough knowledge to write a manual on the
conventions to be followed in arranging a marriage.
Mother signaled me to follow her. Two of her
friends held my hands on either side and led me to the hall.
I was asked to say Namaskar to
the MLA and his wife. The MLA, a fatty huge bear of a man smiled and patted on
my shoulders. He said, “Oh! She is now a grownup lady. Last time when I saw her
she was a small girl, running errand to her grandma. See, how years fly by.”
I knew it was a routine compliment, a simple
and cheap one, all elders love to utter.
“She was then in high school. Now she’s in
the final year of her college studies,” was my mother’s timely reply on the
inevitable process of growing.
The MLA’s wife was wrapped in an expensive
silk sari dotted with designs of leaves and flowers of lotus plant, in golden
thread. She’d worn it with elegance and utmost care to camouflage her bulging
hips, pulled its right end, now and then, and made it fall like a shawl on her
shoulders.
They all talked something not connected to
marriage or the wedding day. Perhaps they would have checked and cross checked
the other points — the matching of horoscopes and the extant of dowry, expected
and agreed-upon — in their previous and more casual rounds of discussions. Now
this was only an informal bride-seeing
ceremony to satisfy the custom and come with an announcement that the marriage
was ‘arranged’.
The MLA first profusely apologised for having
come late by an hour. He said he was in a meeting with the party president.
“The discussion was on new ways to organise
our party in my area. The talk was on the welfare of our young followers and I
was keen to look into every aspect. I offered some suggestions on several
issues — my humble contribution to our party. Hence this delay”, he said.
I saw dad in a silent mood, but smiling. He
was passively listening to the MLA’s self-proclaimed role in politics, conveyed
in an unassumingly casual way. I knew dad was the last man to believe it.
The MLA continued, “On the wedding day, I
would have to steal time to be with you. I wish our president make a fleeting
visit to the reception. Otherwise I could not manage the crowd. I expect a
large gathering on the wedding day. The whole cabinet would come to bless the
couple, followed by their supporters and a pose of security men. Anyway it is
an important occasion to all our party people.”
I looked at the worried face of my father.
Perhaps he was thinking how my wedding would become the MLA’s party function.
“Let’s make the wedding simple. After all
we’re bringing two young people into wedlock,” said the MLA sipping the Bhadam
Gheer that mother had served.
“Oh! What a sweet drink you’ve prepared. Give
me one more glass. I like it,” he said, still licking the few last drops in the
glass he was holding.
My mother obliged immediately and said, “It’s
our Manju who prepared it. She is good at these things,” a blatant lie she’d
uttered on my behalf.
“Our son is lucky to marry a girl with such
culinary expertise. You agree with me?” The MLA’s wife asked her husband. The
MLA was now wiping off the extra Gheer that got smeared on his
upper lip. He approved his wife’s statement with a nod.
“How is your friend, I mean your classmate in
the college, now sitting with the ruling coalition in the Assembly?” The M.L.A
threw a contemptuous enquiry about dad’s best friend for years.
“We don’t meet often. But when occasion
demands we’d ring up and talk,” dad confided the truth.
The MLA had his own way of showing he was
superior to dad’s friend. He said, “Tell him he has no opportunity to rise up
in his party. I’ve a soft corner for him. He’s our man. Doesn’t he belong to
our community? I want to help him. If he’s ready to switch to our side I’ll
speak to my party president and arrange for his entry without much fanfare. He
is one of those unfortunate men who have joined the wrong party.”
The elders exchanged pleasantries, spoke
about the scorching sun, failure of monsoon and water scarcity, and updated
news about their leader’s activities as if they all had an invisible connection
to my proposed marriage. They rose up. At the end, the MLA’s wife hugged me,
offered a pretty long string of fresh jasmine, tucked it into my hairdo, kissed
me on my forehead and tickled my cheeks — signs confirming the deal in favour
of everyone present.
Next day, I learned from the driver uncle that my marriage was
arranged, the date fixed, an auspicious Wednesday, and a marriage hall booked,
all without consulting me. Why they didn’t inform me first, I was asking myself
all day.
“I’ve not seen the groom yet,” I told my
father. Father conveyed this to the MLA when he visited us. The MLA replied
with a smile, “Is it? I know days are changing. No wonder Manju wants to see
her man. I’ll arrange a dinner tomorrow evening in the Palmgrove Hotel. Let the
two take dinner and spend an hour in the hotel lounge. I’ll keep a table
reserved for them.”
He turned to me and spoke about his son, “I
suggested he go to Harvard or Yale for a law degree. But he said he has a
passion to serve our people by being a politician.”
Do Harvard and Yale enroll school dropouts,
was my doubt. I could not share it with anyone.
“You’ll be impressed about his knowledge of
politics. He knows all the crucial issues in our party—the party agenda, the
crowd-pulling strategies, enrolling new members and vote-gathering techniques.
He has even prepared speeches for me and our president. Besides he is a
tireless worker for the welfare of our community.” The MLA coaxed his words to
sound true.
The driver uncle drove me to the hotel where
the MLA and his son received me with an obliging smile and reverence. During
the dinner, the MLA excused himself and left early. He told us he had to catch
up with another important meeting elsewhere.
The son of the MLA was not young or handsome.
He was not the prince I had in mind. His handlebar moustache was big and dark;
the sideburns were incongruously white and long. He ate a liberal quantity of
several dishes and licked off the morsels on his fingers and left the plates
clean. He washed down all that he ate with two bottles of Coca-Cola at one
stretch.
Sitting opposite a man for the first time and
taking dinner with him in a hotel, was it a blind date? I endured it
half-heartedly.
He asked me what subject I was studying in
the college. I said, “Economics.” Little did I know it was the only word I ever
spoke to him in the rest of my life.
“Oh! Economics, fine, you’re studying it
while I’m working for economic equality among our people. What a strange coincidence”,
the man blurted out with a loud laugh. There was no charm in his voice, no
trace of having ever attended a school or college.
The wedding turned out to be a big event. It was even dreamier than
I could imagine. A team of florists, decorators, caterers and beauticians were
pressed into service. Jasmine and roses, the hall smelt of these things while I
was drenching in sweat.
It was obvious the MLA was creating
opportunities to flaunt his influence. My wedding had become one.
The marriage rituals—the prohit pouring ghee, spoon after spoon, into the holy fire, his
monotonous, but rhythmic, uttering of long slogas
that no one could understand, tying the knot, walking thrice round the holy
fire and the exchanging of garlands—all lasted for an hour while the MLA and
his entourage were impatiently waiting for the wedding feast.
Under the heavy smell of flowers and sandal I
felt suffocating.
Almost all the political leaders of all
parties lined up to bless us. They wore a made-up-for-the-occasion smile for
the media flash, their gifts carried and delivered by their personal
assistants. I was tired of producing an artificial smile for each guest and
choked under their hugs and handshakes.
The MLA and my father embraced to say the
function was a great success. While my father was making a mental calculation
of the money he’d spent on the wedding the MLA was counting the political
‘likes’ he had reaped.
Before I was ushered into the nuptial bed my grandma spoke to me in
whispers for a brief minute. She told me what to expect on a wedding night and
tutored me on what my friends had giggled out already.
The man, my husband was in the room, rose up,
locked it from inside and sat on the middle of the bed. When he motioned me to
sit I chose the other end of the cot and sat at its edge.
The upper part of his white shirt was left
unbuttoned, revealing a broad hairy chest and a big gold chain. He tried to
strike a casual conversation about his days in school, his circle of friends
for whom he was a leader and his insatiable passion to serve the people. He
spoke nonstop and I listened dutifully, casting a series of pretensions to say
I believed his words.
He was not keen to know my interests I was
eagerly waiting to share with him.
As he went into a long monologue I felt
drowsy. Everything seemed new and undreamt of: A man, my husband, sitting by me
and telling me the stories of his youth and political ambitions, all lulling me
to sleep.
Suddenly I heard voices outside. Someone was
calling my husband by name. Was it my mother-in-law’s voice? It was followed by
a gentle knock on the door. Cursing the situation, my husband got up, opened
the door and held it half-open.
I saw his mother standing behind the door. He
went out leaving me alone. I felt happy to fall flat on the bed and sleep
undisturbed. Now there was another knock. I thought he’d come back to disturb
me. Again it was my mother-in-law, smiling broadly and apologetically, and
waited for me to respond her smile. I didn’t.
“Excuse me,” she said, “The party president
is on the phone line. He wants to talk to my son. It seems something urgent. He
was at the wedding hall for a few minutes and left early. Now, I think he wants
to bless you both. Your husband will come and join you in another few minutes.”
When I woke up it was seven in the morning. I heard voices
downstairs, people talking in high pitch. I saw my husband sleeping by my side.
Lying on his stomach with no pillow under his head, his legs splayed out,
spider-like, he was snoring in mild rhythms. The sight was repulsive. I didn’t
recollect when he returned or slipped into the bed. Nor I could remember
anything unusual happened to me as predicted by my grandma.
I sat upright. I didn’t know what I was
expected to do when my newly married husband was still in deep sleep.
There was a knock on the door, gentle at
first, followed by a series of thuds. Someone yelled out my name, the voice was
not familiar. There was nothing pleasant in the tone. Neither it was friendly,
“Manjula, open the door.” I got up; it was with some effort and fear. I was in
heavy bridal outfit, still undone.
I thought someone had come with coffee. I
opened the door. In a blurred vision I saw a handful of men. It was strange to
see a large pose of policemen in all ranks and cadre, including a stout woman
police officer.
What’s happening in an MLA’s house,
post-wedding morning, that too in a bed room where the newly married couple had
slept the previous night, I was wondering.
Brushing me aside the lady officer entered
and shouted, “Here he is. Take him.” The words were ungraceful and
authoritative, as they fell out loudly.
“We were waiting for the dawn. We didn’t want
to disturb you in the middle of your wedding night,” I heard the same female
voice, less harsh but still unsympathetic. She was curious to see my lipstick
and eyeliner still fresh and the bridal sari unruffled. On the nuptial bed, I
was sure my husband did not reach for my body.
“Look, how innocently he is sleeping,” cried
another officer. It touched the height of scorn and sarcasm.
My husband got up as if nothing serious were
happening around him. He did not resist or speak anything in defence. The officers held his arms and lifted him up. He followed them
in majestic strides as though he were escorted to a political function where he
was to chair a meeting. No one took notice of me.
In the melee the driver uncle managed to step
in.
“Manju”, he called me out. His breathing was
strange mix of fear and astonishment. “Last night a man was done to death near
the party headquarters. Your husband is the prime suspect. Now they are taking
him for interrogation”.
Fear gripped me. All my dreams were twisted
into one terrible nightmare.
“Why?” I cried out, feeling a sudden hatred
for my husband of a night. I couldn’t believe he had become a murderer on the
day of my marriage. The driver uncle hissed into my ears, “The murdered man was
an up-and–coming leader in the party’s youth wing. And your husband hates men
from other communities sharing reins of his party.”
My marriage was celebrated in pomp and splendor,
and my wedding night passed unconsummated, leaving me a murderer’s wife and someone
a widow.
Years later I learnt how the
MLA and his son turned my marriage a perfect alibi to commit a murder and
escape. It is part of the contentious history of their party, for they were
playing a lumpen politics to the cheers of a sleepy mass.
