(Entry for the platform: www.penmancy.com)

Prompt: a family dinner gone wrong

The piquant aroma of methi-malai-mutter wafted through my senses and I almost brazenly drooled. The creamy dish placed next to Jeera-rice was followed by the daal-fry’s cluster gusto, complete with raita and phulkas, augmenting my hunger further. The elaborate spread by my super-cook-aunt was a welcome break from my mundane hostel dinner.

I had rushed to my aunt’s home, from my hostel after an SOS call from my recently arrived melodramatic amma. Amma’s sole aim in life was to marry off her 22-year-old overaged daughter. I had to stuff my bulk into my next-in-line plump friend’s salwar-kameez and bear with the horrid humid Mumbai evening and pollution to travel across the city ends.

All this, for a prospective alliance.

I was however glad for a respite from my prosaic hostel even if that meant going through this farcical ritual.

“Ayyo Nita…” Amma fumed as I stood flinching in my borrowed attire. All of us and amma the consummate complainer waited arduously for the prospective groom and his folks. They were late by over an hour.

Finally, they arrived but the America-returned guy chose to play hooky and only the father and the sister made it. The father with a burst of hearty laughter embraced my uncle and greeted us before seating himself at the head of the table.

Why was I here when the guy had a choice? I hated the archaic philosophies plaguing my folks.

The quintessential sister with her auburn mane of lustrous hair adjusted her slimy outfit, much to amma’s utmost chagrin.

The clock chimed 9 PM a while ago, and I had surpassed my habitual dinner time. I was peeved and annoyed. But instead, the talks began. I was prepared to answer anything they asked about me; my studies, future professional plans, etcetera.

“So, Nita, what do you think constitutes a healthy body…?” the man asked, stunning even amma into silence. Seemingly pleased, he continued. “…you see, regular exercise and adequate nutrition are important. My Shilpi here swims twenty laps every morning after her run….” For the next five minutes, he cruised along his anecdotal slices of fitness nostalgia.

His voice faded away and I only saw the unconsumed supper.

“…Nita…?” He called, rousing me from my reverie. “…do you exercise?”

Couldn’t he look at me and deduce?

Amma quickly asked. “What kind of a girl does your Rahul desire?”

Really amma?

Shilpi quipped. “Rahul wants a girl with a curvy figure, good looks…” She described Aishwarya Rai to the T minus the greenish orbs.

Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam had just released and was a craze…

By then even methi-malai-mutter lost its appeal.

“Can I see Rahul’s picture?”

All eyes centered on me as if I had asked for the Kohinoor.

Shilpi showed one from her purse.

“Shilpi, if Rahul wants an Aishwarya Rai, he has to be a Salman Khan too… and not skinny-bones. He is too thin for my taste.” I went guns blazing in hunger.

The two left without touching a morsel.

©priyagole

(For ArtoonsInn Writers Room)

(prompt: Bapu’s visit to India on 15th August 2022, India’s 75th Independence day)

I stood under the sanguine sky the gentle gust patting my frail body, as I stared at my beloved Sabarmati. Riverfront, they now call it. Probably that’s what development stands for. The crack of dawn was mesmerizing. I had time-traveled accidentally from another realm. The time machine waited, as Dr. Sinha worked on the glitch.

I decided to take a tour of my cherished motherland. After all, today was the 75^th Independence day… The freedom for which my ilk laid down precious lives and I am told that many of our frontline warriors have given up theirs for this breath of free air. My chest swelled in pride as I saw the tricolor fluttering atop buildings and even little homes.

I stomped along the graveled path towards a roadside stall, to relish a cup of tea, but trouble brewed instead. The owner adorning a forehead tilak, screamed profanities at his woman just because she borrowed sugar from their neighbor who happened to be a woman wearing a burka. I shook my head and moved on.

I reached a locality that was a marked contrast from where I began.

“This is a lesser reported area Bapu…” Dr. Sinha joined me.

“How can people stay in such unhygienic conditions, Sinha?” My heart fell at the mephitic air clogging my crumbling lungs. I looked at a dilapidated board.

‘Bapu Basti’ My picture, tiny and worn-out flanked it on one side.

I was heartbroken. Poverty still prevailed…

I saw a few people gathered on a nearby ground but instead of the tri-colour they held banners.

“They are here for a protest rally, Bapu… seeking reservation for their caste”

What? Caste-based reservations even after 75 years…

Vanishing into the black hole would surely be less agonizing.

“Sinha, when did you say we could get back?”

Royal doors

The crowd gathered outside the haveli walls each trying to outdo the other in his quest to get a sneak peek at the magnificent doors, unmindful of the scorching heat of the morning sun. The beautifully carved ornate entrance had stood the test of time just like the haveli itself and was always the talk of the town. Owned by the Shriyam village headman who boasted of ancestors from the times of the great Prithviraj Chouhan, the haveli was decorated with floral arrangements as though it were the bride.

The entire village was promised a feast and the swelling crowd outside was a testimony to the eagerness. Finally, after decades, the haveli had witnessed a wedding. The headman’s youngest son Karanveer Singh had finally found himself a bride. Three of his older brothers were left behind because of the lack of prospective brides and now they had crossed the marital age as required in the social circles.

Karan’s mother Rukmini Devi peeped through the specially made crevices in the door from where she could look at the outside world without being a spectacle herself. She was comfortable in her archaic gamut within the walls, inside the royal gates. She didn’t have any option, did she?

Pulling her palloo over her scanty aging head, she sighed as she returned to the kitchen. She cringed as she stirred the dal in the infernal room a couple of degrees above the outside desert heat. Her painful arthritic joints curved beyond their regular shapes were giving up. She hoped the new bride would be of some help to her… if only. How could she expect the poor girl all of 18 to go beyond the line of duty… duty which was entrusted upon the unsuspecting bride forcefully? The girl was from a neighboring village that had faced a drought so severe, her father preferred to marry his daughter to the Singh family than let her die of starvation.

Rukmini Devi stood still, wiping the sweat off her brows. She hadn’t slept last night after returning from the wedding a minuscule affair in the neighboring village.

The agonizing screams echoing within the haveli walls that vibrated through those ostentatious doors would be remembered for years to come. The young girl was officially married to Karan but she was meant to satisfy Rukmini’s older sons too… After all, they held conjugal rights too as per the unwritten rule in their antiquated mindsets.

Rukmini had done it as well and now history had repeated itself. Today her sons had gone out for an annual event and would return only late in the afternoon, in time for the feast. Her husband was busy catering to his headman duties unmindful and uncaring about the women in the house. The women- both living as well as those Rukmini had been forced to let go right after birth. She had lost count of the umpteen ones she had lost in the womb because they were girls…

Rukmini shut the gas stove and walked towards the new bride’s chamber. She had work to do before her husband’s ire fell upon them. She held in her wrinkled, scrawny hands a small brass tin. Well carved by the finest craftsmen it held the top quality ‘paste’. The paste would be now applied to cover the new bride’s bruises. After all the young girl had to get back her glowing blush before she performed her ‘duties’ that night and the nights to follow. Just like Rukmini had done, so also the scanty women in their village, a mere blip on the map of India, had done.

On her way, she glanced up at the shining doors, closed and regal. Would they ever open for her and let the light sunshine in? Would the scarce women in their village ever regain their lost blush?