Tag: Family

Posted in Fiction, Published

Broken: Part 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is third installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. You can find the other parts here: Broken: Part 1 and Broken: Part 2.

On the morning of the fourth day, I gathered wildflowers that grew within the temple yard. A tiger was manning the boundary. It gave me hope that my ‘friends’ wouldn’t be able to come tomorrow, and I wouldn’t have to go back. I could stay here forever, seeing her every day. I held the flowers lovingly in my arms until she came, afraid to put them down lest they’d get dirty.

When she came, I all but jumped up. She placed the basket in the same place and looked at me. I meekly held out the flowers. She accepted them quietly with a smile that almost made me swoon. She turned to leave. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I might have to leave soon. How could I go without knowing her name? Or rather, how could I go at all?

“Please don’t go,” I begged her.

“Do you need anything else from me?” her voice was teasing.

“I…I don’t even know your name,” I blushed to the roots of my hair like a schoolboy.

“I thought you’ll never ask. People call me Kyarr,” she replied.

“Oh! I thought Kyarr was the deity here.”

She kept smiling.

“I…My ‘friends’ are due to return tomorrow. I was wondering…thinking that…I…Would you…” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. What if she says no? What if she considers it an insult? I know nothing about her. She could be married. She looks young but people marry early in this part of the world.

Heck, even I’m married! What was I even thinking?

She waited for a few seconds. Then, probably realised I wasn’t going to finish. So, she simply said, “I know your friends come tomorrow morning. I guess, it is the last time we meet.” She was still smiling.

“Would you like to come with me?” I blurted out, then lost all the courage and looked at my feet.

“I can’t. I’m needed here. But thank you for asking.”

It hurt to see that there was no pain in her eyes. She was smiling as always while my own heart was ripping up in pieces. “Will you at least stay the night? I just want to look at you until I leave,” I knew I was transgressing some social boundary, but I couldn’t remember what…

“I can but you might not like how I look. That’s why I haven’t been staying here for the past three nights.”

I could hear the warning in her voice, but I was past caring now. If it was the last time I was looking at her, I didn’t care if a few hair came out of her bun as she slept. Now that I think of it, I can’t remember how she wore her hair—Was it a bun? Pig tails? Or did she leave them loose over her shoulders? She’d still be the only one I love.

“I insist.”

She shook her head, giving up, and sat on the stone throne on the pedestal. Then she gave me that smile that melted my knees…

…and turned to stone—a magnificent stone Tigress.

*****

My helpers returned the next day and told me the goat was still very much alive. I told them about Kyarr, but they didn’t believe me. They said Kyarr, the stone Tigress, has always been there on the pedestal. She was the temple deity.

They said the curse was turning me mad like all those before me.

*****

I would like to believe them and forget all about her, but how can I?

Even though I have returned home, my dreams are full of tiger calls, and my every waking moment is spent thinking about her. Somehow, her being a tigress makes no difference to me. She’s still the one I love.

Often, I see her walk away from me. I call her. I beg her to stop, but she just gives me a smile that would make me follow her anywhere. And then, she keeps walking until I can walk no more. Once I fall, I crawl behind her until I faint. And when I wake up, I find her gone.

My bleeding feet and knees don’t hurt. My heart bleeds knowing I’ll never see her again. I tried booking a flight to return to my Kyarr, but my wife—I can’t recall her name now—she won’t let me go. I think she’s jealous. Could you please make her understand, Doctor? You do believe me, don’t you?

The doctor looks up at me with eyes filled with pity. He stops the recorder and makes some notes in his pad. He signals a male nurse to escort me to my padded cell—my cage from where I can’t escape and walk until my feet hurt and crawl until my knees bleed…

End

Author’s note: You can find the free PDF version of my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories here: Link.

Photo by Mike Marrah on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction, Published

Broken: Part 2

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is second installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. You can find the other part here: Broken: Part 1.

I settled on the platform on the tree, hid behind the leaves with the gun in position and waited. It wasn’t long when the goat started bleating. A tiger walked in. I guess, it wasn’t hungry because it wasn’t stealthy. It just sniffed the goat, the goat bleated, and the tiger looked straight at the place I sat.

Somehow, it knew I was there.

I had a clear shot, but the intensity of its stare made my hands shake. I fired but missed.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

All of a sudden, sixteen tigers rushed out of the bushes around me, roaring and tearing at my tree. The tree was rather sturdy and impossible for an animal to climb but, in my bones, I knew it can’t last against so many tigers. I fired several rounds of bullets but, weirdly enough, they hit none of the sixteen.

Soon, I was out of ammunition.

After a few minutes—it felt like an eternity—of scratching away the tree bark, the tigers began to return to the shadows of the forest. But one of them remained stationed beneath the tree. I had a suspicion that he’s waiting for me to get drowsy and fall down. After a couple of hours, as the rush of adrenalin subsided, I started getting sleepy. Meanwhile, crazy as it sounds, another tiger had come in and relieved the first one from its ‘duty’, which means they were working as a team.

It was weird and scary in extreme. Three days from now, one of them would still be here, meaning that my help would never arrive.

I wondered whether the ‘help’ had reached home safely. I wondered when he will return. I had travelled across the world to be here, but now I couldn’t wait to return to my family. I clung to a branch fiercely and prayed to see my wife and daughter one more time.

*****

Dusk arrived and the last rays of light fell on a piece of metal shining on the top of the trees—the pinnacle of the ancient temple of Kyarr. The wise words returned to me: “If the situation gets out of hand…” Well, the situation was certainly out of hand. I couldn’t stay the night here. Maybe, the temple could offer a better shelter. I could hide in the inner sanctum and close the doors. Other people had survived there, hadn’t they?

There was no point waiting to die here. I would rather do something.

I couldn’t carry my baggage. It would slow me down. My guns were all useless without the bullets. So, I used them to create a diversion. I dropped my bag down first, threw my heavier gun as far as it would go in my opposite direction, and then my lighter gun ahead of it. In the end, I threw my skinning knife as far as it would go in the trees. The tiger took the bait and ran towards it.

I jumped down and dashed towards the temple. I didn’t hear any tigers behind me, but I didn’t stop to check too.

I reached the temple in one mad dash. It had no boundary so entering was rather easy. I ran inside the prayer hall and turned to close the doors. There were none.

“Don’t worry. They won’t hurt you here. You aren’t carrying weapons,” a pleasant female voice made me turn around. She was sitting on the stone throne on the pedestal.

“But I had shot several rounds at them a few hours back.”

“But you can’t anymore.” It wasn’t a question. She smiled dazzling me. “Please make yourself comfortable until your friends return for you. If you are hungry, you can have these fruits,” she pointed towards a basket at her feet. With those words, she left the room.

*****

I hid there for four nights until help arrived.

The first night, I could neither eat, nor sleep. Occasionally, I heard the tigers roar just outside the periphery of the temple. Not sure what kept them out though—the temple had no doors to close.

It wasn’t the fear that kept me up though. It was the woman—I kept thinking about her smile, her face, her grace, her voice…

*****

The next day stretched before me with nothing to do. My smartphone had stopped working the moment I had entered the deeper forest, as expected. Now the battery was dead as well. I tried missing my wife and daughter, but I couldn’t. All I thought about was ‘her’. I craved for her with the intensity of a man dying of thirst in the desert. But no matter how I tried, I could not recall the colour of her clothes. I had been so taken in by her face.

At dusk, she returned with a fruit basket. I think, she was wearing something orange. I can’t be too sure. All I could remember was her face and dazzling smile. She asked me if I was well. I wanted to say that I was dying to see her again. But all I could manage was a nod. She left the basket in the same place and left with the dazzling smile.

I wanted to stop her and ask her name. I wanted to ask her how she knew my language and about my friends; where she lived and why she returned only at dusk and only to deliver the basket; why she never said a prayer in the temple; and where was the deity anyway.

But the words stayed lodged firmly in my throat. All I could manage was to look like a thunderstruck tree.

The next two nights were spent pretty much the same way. I tried sleeping but kept dreaming of her. But as soon as I would lift my hand to touch her face, tiger roars would wake me up. I could hardly remember my wife’s name. Heck, I couldn’t remember my own name if I didn’t have my ID in my pocket. Both days, mornings were spent waiting for the dusk to arrive so that I could see her again; and evenings thinking of what I could have and should have said to her.

The roars didn’t bother me anymore. I might not even have noticed if the tigers had eaten me.

Author’s note: To be continued…

Photo by Mike Marrah on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

The Far Door: Part 4

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is fourth and final installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and other short stories. You can find the other parts here: The Far Door: Part 1, The Far Door: Part 2 and The Far Door: Part 3.

It is nearly midnight, and I am getting drowsy.

There is a light clicking noise, something I would have missed in my bedroom. I look at the front door, sure that Franc has opened the lock—nothing there! Shaking apprehensively, I turn to look at the far door. The huge copper lock has unlocked itself and is now hanging in the air, slowly descending to the floor without a sound. The metal latch slides open quietly.

Very slowly, thick, fat, gnarled, grey fingers appear on the side of the far door, slowly pushing it open.

My mouth opens in a silent scream—I am clearly not prepared for an attacker who isn’t a human. Should I just hide here and pretend I am not awake? Afterall, it hasn’t touched me yet. Or should I keep an eye and see what it does? Will I ever be able to forget seeing a monster? I am still dealing with so many demons from my own past…

A low squeak, a strangled cry of alarm, reaches me. A child? Is it torturing a child?

The thought of a child in trouble gives me strength I need to face whatever it is. Picking the metal rod and the pepper spray can, I run to the far door and pull it open all the way…

A strange sight greets me. In a darkened room lit by only a night lamp, an incredibly old man—grey skinned with long ears—is standing at the doorway dressed in pyjamas and what looks like a crumpled blazer. The glazed eyes tell that he is sleepwalking. A couple of kids are holding him back—a girl around six and a boy around eight—also grey with long ears, wearing similar crumpled blazers. The kids look stunned at my sudden appearance. The old man simply takes the metal rod from my hand and starts chewing. He doesn’t do it to look intimidating, more like he isn’t really all there.

The boy stutters, clearly at his wit’s end, “S‑Sorry, He’s sleep‑eating. Can’t remember he mustn’t eat metal!”

I blink at his response, not sure how to respond at the apology, “How did he open the lock and latch on the other side?”

The boy is terrified and looks ready to tell me anything, “Standard magic—he can manipulate the metal lock and latch. The wooden latch used to stop him from wandering off in his sleep. But Dad said it is not in its place anymore, so we have to hold him back physically until Dad returns home around midnight. But it is so late in the night, and we get drowsy…and Grampa always gives us a slip. Sorry for the bother!”

Nothing is making sense anyway, so I try to get to the most obvious question, “Why isn’t he eating his own metal? There are plenty of metal fittings here?” I gesture at the copper vase and copper‑framed mirror.

The little girl pipes in, “Copper tastes awful! I guess, that’s why they put it everywhere in the building so the residents wouldn’t eat the fittings.”

A French window opens on its own. Aren’t we on the third floor? Alarmed, I turn to find Franc standing on the attached balcony with his wings (?) open, taking in the scene apprehensively. He is grey-skinned with large ears too. With a huge sigh, he places his laptop bag and restaurant food from a twenty-four‑hour joint on the floor and touches his watch. In a blur, his wings wrap around him like a blazer and turn white. His ears are now normal and skin olive again.

Is it fear lingering in his eyes? He tries to cover it with an apologetic smile, “I see you have met my family. Welcome to the Gargoyle residency. Please don’t freak out. We are not monsters—we just co‑exist.”

His eyes are pleading me to understand. He looks unsure of what else to say, probably waiting for me to freak out anyway. I lean on the nearest couch to support my failing knees. I should be scared but, once I look at the laptop bag and restaurant food at his feet, weirdly, I am relieved instead. Curious—baffled… but not afraid.

In my sternest voice, I demand, “We need to talk.”

I glance at the children. They look scared, and I melt a little, “And I need something to get over this. Who’s up for a hot chocolate?”

The children cry happily in unison. Apprehension gone, Franc is now smiling in the earnest, “Allow me.” He moves towards my kitchen, followed by the kids who take their rightful places on the dining table.

Grandpa is still busy chewing the rod while I lead him to the sofa in the hall. I smile at the absurdity of the moment—the place finally feels home.

END

Author’s note: If you prefer to read the entire book rather than in piece-meals, you can simply download the free PDF version of the book from here: Books by Shaily

Original photo by Casey Lovegrove on Unsplash (with minor edits based on the story)

Posted in Fiction

The Far Door: Part 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is third installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and other short stories. You can find the other parts here: The Far Door: Part 1, The Far Door: Part 2 and The Far Door: Part 4.

**Sunday evening**

I can barely wait for Franc, sitting as close to the main door as possible in case I have to run out again…

In case the monster returns…

When the bell rings, I run to the door and wrench it open. Franc is certainly surprised but doesn’t comment, for which I am grateful. He is a bit wary when I offer condolences and request him to step inside. Looking like a model in his navy blazer and jeans, he sits stiffly on the medieval sofa looking confused at the change of my tone as I pour tea.

So, I tell him about the misunderstanding and my reasons for the hasty purchase—about my abusive marriage and my ex-husband’s multiple attempts to break in—he finally relaxes and nods. “It’s alright. I, too, wanted to apologise for my behaviour the other day. I realised a little too late that the property agent might not have given you the whole story.”

“I’ll be happy to sell the house back to you if you are willing. I spoke with the agent, and he was apologetic. I just need a week until he finds me a new accommodation. Meanwhile, you can bring your family in today. I’ll give you the key.”

“Thanks! My grandpa is not in his right mind, and I don’t want to burden you with him. We will wait until you leave,” he gives me a smile. God, what a smile!

“Really, it’s fine. My grandma was pretty old too and not really all there. We managed fine with her.”

“Still, I insist. While we wait for you to move, I’ll get the paperwork ready.”

His denial unsettles me. I was hoping he would jump on the offer, and his family will come in right away so that I will not be scared at nights. I have been going on without sleep for a little too long. A few more days and I will become cross‑eyed.

Franc interjects my thoughts, “You opened the wooden latch against my warning?!”

I sighed, “I didn’t open it, just changed it to metal for better security. I could hear voices on the other side of the door, and the wooden latch didn’t look strong enough to keep anyone out. Can you please check if there’s anyone in there? My cutlery is missing, and someone has been chewing away my silverware.”

He looks at me like I am certifiably mad, “Just change it back to that damned wooden latch, will you?” And he stomps out.

I should follow his directives, considering it is the door to his portion, and I am selling the rest of the house to him anyway. But I am too mad at him to care. If a metal latch can’t keep out whoever is in there, what can a measly wooden latch do?

**Monday**

**Tuesday**

**Wednesday**

**Thursday**

The previous few days are spent pretending that the far door doesn’t exist while still trying to hear any noises coming from that side, as, slowly but steadily, my steel utensils keep going amiss. Today, some of my jewellery is missing—my white‑gold earrings are nowhere to be found while the sapphires that were encrusted in them are sitting on the top of my dresser.

Something doesn’t add up. Anyone pilfering my jewellery will not leave sapphires behind where I can easily find them. And if something is really ‘eating’ my things, why not eat sapphires as well?

A thought strikes me. Is Franc trying to scare me off the property? All this mess started after I declined his offer. Even though he is behaving casually now that I have agreed to sell to him, he would want to ensure that I don’t change my mind. And of course, he has a key to the house already–he lived here all his life until last month!

Well, it is finally time to face my demons.

*****

Whoever is trespassing my property is, clearly, doing it late in the night. Tonight, armed with a pepper spray and a metal rod, I am hiding behind a sofa where I am able to look at both the far door and the main door without being seen. I am scared witless, and my palms are sweating like crazy. While I am 99 percent sure it is Franc and that I have nothing to fear, it is the remaining one percent that is making my entire body shake.

It is nearly midnight, and I am getting drowsy. There is a light clicking noise, something I would have missed in my bedroom. I look at the front door, sure that Franc has opened the lock—nothing there! Shaking apprehensively, I turn to look at the far door. The huge copper lock has unlocked itself and is now hanging in the air, slowly descending to the floor without a sound. The metal latch slides open quietly.

Very slowly, thick, fat, gnarled, grey fingers appear on the side of the far door, slowly pushing it open.

Author’s note: To be continued…

Let me know if you wish to read the next part, or you can simply download the free PDF version of the book from here: Books by Shaily

Original photo by Casey Lovegrove on Unsplash (with minor edits based on the story)

Posted in Random Thoughts

The Far Door: Part 2

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is second installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and other short stories. You can find the other parts here: The Far Door: Part 1, The Far Door: Part 3 and The Far Door: Part 4.

**Wednesday**

**Thursday**

**Friday**

For three days, I have avoided looking at the door. The absence of a metal latch and lock on the far door is putting me on the edge. The wooden latch just didn’t cut it. I keep reminding myself that the rooms are probably just full of old furniture. On weekdays, it is easier; I am out for work all day, returning only to eat and sleep. But on the Friday morning, I hear whispered voices on the other side of the door. Not sure what are they saying, but there are many.

Franc’s warning comes to my mind, “Just don’t open the latch to the door.” Does he know about the voices too?

I haven’t made up my mind about selling or sharing the key, but I have to make this place safe while I am here. So, I call a locksmith that evening to fit the new metal latch—a thick copper one to match the interiors, of course. He pulls out the wooden bolts holding the wooden latch and replaces the set with copper latch and bolts. He pushes and pulls at the door several times in the process, which should have opened the door and broken my promise to Franc. But the door doesn’t budge. It seems to be locked from the inside as well. How is that even possible if no one is on the other side?

Pushing aside the thought, I pay the locksmith. And then, I hang a huge copper lock from the new latch. Technically, I haven’t done anything wrong since I haven’t opened the door.

I can finally breathe easy. No one can force their way in now, or so I hope.

**Saturday**

I don my apron and wash the vegetables to prepare breakfast. I am about to sit down to cut them, but I can’t find my knife. The knife I had brought with me isn’t in the copper stand in the kitchen; neither is it in the sink nor dustbin. In fact, all the stainless‑steel cutlery I had brought with me is missing. I look at the far door accusingly; the metal latch and lock are still in place. I will have to go to market to buy a cutlery set today. How can an entire cutlery set go missing overnight? The thought is unsettling. It is even more difficult to sleep that night.

**Sunday**

Some of the silverware my grandmother bequeathed me is missing. I rummage the place—the drawers, wardrobes, the space under the sink…

Something on the floor glints back at me; a silver spoon…

…or what is left of it! Someone has bitten off half the head. I can see the toothmark on the bitten edge.

The far door is still locked.

I am hyperventilating now. I run down the stairs and out in the yard. It feels better to be out in the sunlight. A couple of old women stand there, smiling and talking. Deciding some small talk will sooth my nerves, I approach them. One of them looks up and her eyes turn hostile, daring me to speak. I want to turn back and leave but the other lady smiles, “Hi! You must be our new neighbour! How are you finding the place?”

I want to tell the truth, but politeness takes over, “It’s nice.”

“Have you met Franc yet? He said that he will speak to you about buying your portion.”

“Yes. I’m still considering the offer.”

The hostile lady hisses from between clenched teeth, “You would have taken the offer and run with it if you knew what’s good for you. That poor lad has enough on his plate already—His senile grandpa who sleepwalks and two little kids, while his wife dumped them all for another man. He just went to Gorgon for a month to bury his parents, and you locked him out of his house! Now his grandpa is stuck inside a room for the fear of making a spectacle of himself and his children can’t go to school because we are unable to look after his grandpa. Franc can’t cook for them since he has no kitchen, and he can’t return from office until late in the night because he can’t be seen f—,” She bites her lower lip as if she had gone a little too far.

I am too horrified to dwell over that, “Are you implying his family was living here when I moved in; that he was out just for a month? The agent never told me!”

Her voice softens a bit, “Well, you wouldn’t have bought the house then, would you? I bet, he must have given you a really low price too.”

The other lady pitches in, “Franc’s grandpa is a co‑owner along with Marc. It is Marc’s portion you have bought. They were childhood friends, and their families lived together. Since Marc and Lily had no children, he had intended to bequeath the rest of the house to Franc. But before he could create the will, he died in a car crash along with Franc’s parents. While Franc went to Gorgon to bury them all, Lily’s nephew who had received Marc’s estate asked an agent to sell everything. He never cared enough to come here and look at the place where his uncle and aunt spent their entire lives. And why would he? Lily’s family never accepted her marriage with Marc. They were ashamed of him being a g—” She too stops mid‑sentence, probably realising she is offering me Franc’s personal information.

“That’s horrible! I kicked his entire family out without even knowing it. Can you please ask Franc to come home and meet me this evening?”

*****

I can barely wait for Franc, sitting as close to the main door as possible in case I have to run out again…

In case the monster returns…

Author’s note: To be continued…

Let me know if you wish to read the next part, or you can simply download the free PDF version of the book from here: Books by Shaily

Original photo by Casey Lovegrove on Unsplash (with minor edits based on the story)

Posted in Random Thoughts

Family that sneezes together

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

If you go looking for the meaning of the word “Joint Family”, you will probably find phrases like, a group of blood-related families that live together 🏠, eat together 🥘 and pray together 🙏. But trust me, a joint family is the one that sneezes together 🤧.

India has an abundance of joint families and not nearly big enough houses.

Even if the house is big enough, no one is content to stay in their portion. They must all converge in one or the other rooms and share gossip 🗨️. The fact that they eat together is not enough. They often have stuff 🔨 strewn 🔧 around 🥻 the 👕 house–with so much of borrowing that just one cellophane tape can do several complete circles of the house, visiting every room on its way, before the actual owner goes and buys another 💵, rather than trying to track 🐾 it down.

And then, there are the kids 👧👦. They are everywhere ⛹️, playing in every room 🤸, strewing their stuff ⚽ in everyone’s 🎾 space 🥍with precise division ⚾, so no one feels left out. They run around the floor 🤾 without shoes and jump on every bed 🛏️.

At night, there is no space 🥎 big ⚽ enough 🏐 where 🏓 you 🏀 wouldn’t 🏈 step ⚾ on a toy 🏉 that doesn’t belong to your own child. So one careless nightly trip from bedroom to bathroom can make you owe all the kids in the house a new toy each.

If you are brave enough to piggyback one, there is an entire line waiting for their turn, regardless of the age and weight.

And when one nose runs…

You can’t keep them away from each other. They will find an excuse to break all the rules you set out about quarantine, go meet their sick cousin and kiss him on the cheek to comfort him. And then you will have your hands full with a whole bunch of kids, all down with fever at the same time. All the while, all the elders will be down with fever too, because who can resist kissing a child who is unwell? Especially if he has walked in every room telling everyone he is unwell and sneezing as a proof.

So, if a joint family is really joint, it is the one that sneezes together.

I would know. I live in just such a family who is sneezing together at the moment. And I wouldn’t trade it for all the gold in the world! 😊

Posted in Fiction

The Face in the Mirror

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I touch the bedroom mirror groggily, more out of habit than hope. Suddenly, the mirror lights up green with magic, and I can see him. Across the open door of his bathroom, I see him sitting on a couch, reading a book. Which one is it this time—The Edge of Physics? Cosmos? I sigh! But then, I return to my senses and start shouting at him to get his attention. Nothing! Quickly, I turn to my right and grab the placard with my phone number that has been sitting on my bedside table for two months now and turn back to face the mirror again.

All I see is myself reflecting back in the mirror. The connection is already broken. Again…

All I want, all I hope for, all I desire in life has shrunk down into that mirror and that man who doesn’t know I exist.

I really shouldn’t have cooked that dumb cake! Why would anyone want to see their soulmate if they would still have to wait for them anyway? It is so painful to see the man destined to marry me one day go on with his life like I don’t exist.

Cooking a dumb cake on Halloween night is an ancient practice. It was also my last attempt to find my soulmate. With all the potential suitors hiding in the plain sight, it is too difficult to find a male witch now a days. It’s not that we are hiding because people might burn us at stake. It’s just that magic and witches are obsolete. Nobody needs our magical services when weather apps predict weather, daily horoscope apps tell the future, social media finds people, banks hold all the existing treasures, old recordings help commemorate dead people and fertility clinics are go‑to places for begetting children.

Technology has thrown us out of our conventional jobs. Hence, we have reinvented ourselves. Witches now use their superior intellect to secure higher education and obscene amount of salary. But we have to hide the reason for our abnormal level of talent, lest people accuse us of cheating, like sportspersons on drugs.

But because of all the hiding, our chances of meeting another witch are rather dim. Every single male witch I know is already either engaged or married to a prettier witch, while I, being a plain and nerdy scientist, am still single at the age of thirty-five. My family had set me up on dates with several men they know through family connections, but all of them seemed more interested in women with long legs and miniskirts than a woman with brains and an opinion. After I had run through what felt like all the eligible bachelors known to them, my family members stopped badgering me about my non‑existent love life.

But it is becoming difficult to attend family dinners—my brother and cousins bring their spouses and children. You’d think it would be crowded, but my heart never felt so empty before. All I need, if nothing else, is a hope that there is someone for me in the future.

Knowing this, my bestie and flatmate, Bree, keeps throwing around names of eligible bachelors,

“Why don’t you come with me to the party? There is this guy called Hans you would love to meet. He is an engineer.”

“Did you see the hot guy on the fifth floor? He’s a chef!”

“You know, Henry, our new neighbour? He was asking about you—saw you in one of my Facetime pics… Should I tell him you live right next door?”

My first response to all her suggestions is, “Is he a witch?”

I don’t mind marrying a regular guy, but honestly, will a regular guy want to marry a witch? And they will find out soon enough—we may have shunned magic, but magic hasn’t shunned us. We have magic of nature, and it runs in our veins with our blood, making them green. Closer to our heart, we are too green to ignore. We hide it with turtlenecks and dresses with sleeves. The only person outside my family who knows my secret is Bree because I wear tank tops at night.

I’m not ashamed of my colouring. But if a guy sees it, he will take flight. My bestie feels people don’t care anymore but I don’t want the issue to come up later, once I am in too deep.

So, rather than taking a 10 percent chance with a non‑magical person, I resorted to a dumb cake, which was a sure shot in finding a future husband. It is a family tradition that my great‑grandmother had used to meet my great‑grandfather for the first time, just like her mother and grandmother before her.

If a non‑magical woman makes a dumb cake, she dreams about her spouse, but she can’t speak to him. To make the Halloween magic strong enough to make contact at that moment, you require a certain amount of magic yourself—something that witches possess and practice. It felt like a really dumb idea at first but, with nothing to lose, I decided to take the drastic measure.

Well, it wasn’t really drastic, just desperate…

What’s the worst that could happen? Nothing. With no practice in magic whatsoever, there were pretty high chances of me seeing nothing. So, I reminded myself not to put any hopes on a cake even though I was giving it a shot.

On All Hallows eve, when Bree went to the Halloween party in the society’s club house, I cooked the dumb cake. She wanted me to come to meet Henry, but I lied about a headache. She left looking suspicious as if I was hiding a boyfriend in my closet. I wish!

The basic instruction of making a dumb cake is that I must work in complete silence standing on something no one ever stood on before. Well, I am no baking pro, so I asked Alexa for step‑by‑step instructions. As it droned in the background, I worked in complete silence while standing on something no one had ever stood on—my brand new, super‑pricey sofa. As I wobbled in the softness, I was scared I would burn holes in the material. I ground the flour, prepared the batter, shaped the cake, pricked my initials on the top and put it inside my microwave oven. Ideally, it should have been a fireplace instead. But, like witches, fireplaces are obsolete too.

Once the cake was ready, I pulled it out of the oven, trying to balance myself on the sofa. As I continued wobbling, it occurred to me that I could have simply bought a new rug to stand on instead. Stupid me! Then, I took a single bite from the cake, tried to chew it (a painful process) and walked backwards to my room, slid the rest of the cake under my bedding and tried to sleep on the now lumpy bed.

After this whole exercise, a regular girl would dream of her future spouse. She wouldn’t be able to communicate with him though. So, she would still have to wait until this certain person would meet her. Being a witch, my situation could be better. In theory, when I would rise from my bed at midnight, touch the mirror closest to me and chant the magic words, I should seen my future spouse who, of course, would be a male witch. Because who else would want to marry a witch? Then, I would leave a message with him. In theory, at least…

In practice, most witches waking at midnight are so confused that they can barely concentrate on the mirror, let alone remember the magic words to create the highly advanced magic for leaving a message for an unknown entity whose whereabouts are also unknown. With no practice in magic, I knew I was doomed from the moment I started.

So, I woke up at midnight (Phone Alarm), and walked to my bedside mirror, touched it and incantated the magic words (Google Notes). For a minute, nothing happened. So, I tried again, and yet again, willing to reach someone, anyone…

I never realised until that moment how much I wanted this whole thing to work; to have a chance at love just once in my life.

Suddenly, the screen lit up with a green light and there he was, standing in front of the mirror, looking dishevelled, like he had just returned from a party. His eyes were wide in surprise, and I think mine must be too. I fidgeted in my old tank top and shorts, knowing they weren’t really appropriate for the first meeting. I should probably have worn something fancier. Also, I should say something so he would know why we were here but before I could recover, the connection broke and the mirror started reflecting me again.

He was gone, taking with him my only chance at love. He probably mistook me for a trick of light, an alcohol‑induced hallucination or a ghost. But I knew I had seen a ghost—one that would haunt me for the rest of my life. After seeing him, knowing he was meant to be mine someday, I would never be able to love another. Because love it was—at first sight.

He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had an intelligent and likable face—someone you could strike a conversation with on the subway and exchange numbers with, just to stay in contact. He was a little chubby and he wasn’t hiding six‑pack abs under his shirt for sure, but the crow’s feet around his brown eyes showed his love for laughter. There were marks on his nose where his glasses must have rested on his face, and his cheeks and chin had a one‑day stubble. He was real. And now that I had seen him, I could not un‑see him.

Anxious, I touched the mirror, and it lit up again. But he wasn’t there anymore. I wasn’t sure if my voice will go through, but I gave it a try anyway. “Hello! Anyone there? Hellooooo!” But nothing stirred on his side. I tried several times, but with each subsequent try, I felt increasingly more stupid—because every time I said those words, Alexa asked me what I needed, while rephrasing the question in a different way every time.

When I started feeling like an utter moron, I looked in the room, trying to get a clue regarding his whereabouts. He could be anywhere in the world. I realised I was looking inside his bathroom. The door to the next room was open and its lightest yellow wall was eerily like mine. From what I could see through the opening, the wall on the other side was adorned with a huge wooden shelf decorated with cute little things and sections of it were overflowing with books. Beneath it, a couple of comfortable couches sat behind a small coffee table. The room was meant for quite comfort in books and company.

I looked for something that would clue me in regarding his country. The decoration was regular stuff providing no clue. The lighting seemed low and artificial. And he had looked sleepy, so it was probably night where he was too. So, around the same longitude. Good! That left around one billion people to search from!

Running out of ideas, I wrote my phone number on a huge placard in an overly large handwriting and placed it in front of the screen, hoping he would read it when he returns to the mirror. At that moment, the light in the mirror dimmed and started reflecting me again.

After that, I tried many times, but the screen didn’t light up. I had a restless night, leading to a restless day.

The next few days, Bree kept talking about the Halloween party I had missed, bringing up different guys over and over, “You missed a blast, you know. And there was this very handsome guy who was dressed as a vampire. His canine teeth were so real! By the way, are vampires real?”

“You should have seen Henry’s face when he realised you weren’t coming. He didn’t even dance or drink. In fact, he left before the midnight blast. I really wanted to tell him that he could find you next door!”

“The party anchor was pretty brainy, and he seemed interested in beauty with brains too. Do you want me to set up a ‘chance meeting’ with him?”

But I was only half listening, my mind still on the face in the mirror.

For the coming weeks, I kept touching the mirror every now and then but only succeeded a few times. Once, he was touching the mirror too, looking lost, and twice, he was just fixing his tie. Once, he had looked into the screen with an intensity that gave me hope that he was looking at me. And during these few seconds of contact, I was surprised and unprepared, and before I could gather my wits and try sharing my contact number, the connection broke.

And then, a couple of times, I saw him sitting on his couch reading something. He read The Universe in a Nutshell with a smile that wanted me to tell him that it was my favourite book too. Looking closely, his shelf also had The Theory of Everything and loads of other books about science and stars…

They say you can judge a man by the book he reads. A man who seeks quiet comfort in stars and science on a Saturday is a match made in heaven for me. I can see us sharing books one day or sitting on those couches discussing them or even just sitting together over coffee…

The thought of the future comforts me. I just stand there looking at him, willing him to see me, waiting for him to acknowledge that I exist. But I can never make a contact.

When I finally spoke to my mother about it, needing advice for the first time ever since I moved out, I was sure she would be thrilled that I finally found the man I would love for the rest of my life. But all she said was, “Dumb cake? Well, you probably saw a neighbour.”

“What?”

“When the magic isn’t strong enough and you are desperate to see someone, you end up seeing a neighbour. I once saw Mrs. Briggs flossing her teeth; and on another occasion, Father Mathews washing his hands; and once I even saw somebody’s cat swatting at her reflection in the mirror.”

I hung up feeling crushed. Why would my mother not believe me. I had finally fallen in love, and all my mother had to say is that it is not my soulmate but a clueless neighbour! While I was never a people watcher anyway, I am actively avoiding looking around at my neighbours now, afraid I would see him and know that my mother was right.

Once, Bree cornered me, “Henry was asking about you again. At least let me give him your number…”

She has been talking about this guy non-stop for the past few days. I nearly blurt out to go date him herself. But deep down inside, I know I am being unkind and unreasonable because I am itching to go back to the mirror. “I’m not interested.”

“Look, he doesn’t care if you are a witch.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I told him because I know it is the only thing holding you back. He said he didn’t care as long as you would have him.” Well, at least she is looking properly ashamed.

“He will care once he sees me in a V-neck dress. It is not easy to accept the alienness of our colouring.”

“Is that the only reason here? You have been acting a little odd lately—too lost and too quiet. Is there something you are not telling me?”

Not sure how much I can tell her, I decide on a half‑truth, “I’m seeing someone, but it is too early to talk about it.” It is technically true, but my conscience pricks me. It is as much a lie as anything else. But it makes her happy.

“Is he someone from work? When can I meet him? At least show me a picture.”

“As I said, it is too early to talk about it. But once I am ready, I promise you’ll be the first one to know.”

In the coming month, I wouldn’t go out except for work. And when I do go out, I am not paying attention. I just itch to go back to my mirror. Mom and Dad even tried a locator spell, but the locater kept coming back to our building confirming my mother’s theory. Or maybe, their magic is not strong enough too. At least that is what I am rooting for…

Noticing my absent‑mindedness, my manager has reminded me a couple of times that I have to up my game at work. But I am too obsessed to concede defeat. My life had come to a standstill the day I fell in love with that man who still doesn’t know I exist.

It is weekend and I am home yet again, touching the mirror at regular intervals. Bree is out, trying to give me space, thinking I have a boyfriend I am chatting with. Suddenly, she sends me a text, “I just had a really weird chat. Help me make sense.” There is a screenshot of the conversation.

Henry: Hey! We need to speak.

Bestie: For the nth time, she is seeing someone!

Henry: I know. Can you just tell her that, sometimes, I see her in the mirror too?

Mom was right! I had seen my next‑door neighbour! It was all just an accident! He is not my true love or spouse, just a clueless neighbour.

We were not fated to be together…

All my hopes and dreams had been for nothing…

My mind is reeling. I had been holding on that last straw so tightly that now I am drowning with it. Someone is squeezing my chest! It is difficult to breathe…

I need air…

I walk dazedly out of the door and down the building corridor. Tears are blinding me. I can’t see the next door open and slam into someone’s chest.

“Hey, are you alright?” A familiar face gazes at me with concern; his expressions quickly turning into recognition and then delight. “It’s you! Bree just told me where to find you!”

I am both too glad and too sad to find him. While my skin still tingles where I slammed into him, I know it is just stupid, misdirected magic. “Henry…Uh…You are Henry, right? I need to apologize. I had cooked a Halloween cake, you know, to see my future spouse in the mirror…and something went wrong. We are not fated together,” I finish lamely.

There is a stunned silence at his end while he processes what he heard. When I am sure he would turn around and walk away from my life, he just smiles, “And how would you know that until you give us a chance?”

His eyes are understanding, but they also hold something close to adoration. I’m speechless. “At least, let me take you out on a couple of dates before you reject me?” He smiles and his eyes crinkle the way I love.

He still wants to go out with me, and I have to turn him down, “I’m a witch.”

“I know. Saw your green skin in the mirror the first time. It looks cool on you. Can you turn me into a frog?”

“What? No!” I choke out, horrified that he would think so.

“Good. In that case, are you free for dinner tonight?” He gives me a sunny smile and hope returns to the world.

Author’s note: This story comes from my new short stories collection, The Bracelet and other short stories (available for free on the Free Books page: https://fishinthetrees.home.blog/free-books/)

Picture credits: Photo by Julia on Unsplash

Posted in Random Thoughts

I do: The Indian Way (Part 3)

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Pun intended

If you are intending to go through the madness, I would say, do it thoroughly: Visit the first two parts I do: The Indian Way (Part 1) and I do: The Indian Way (Part 2). It will help you understand the whole song and dance sequence that ensued before we reached this point in an Indian “arranged marriage” where everyone knows everything about the “boy” and the “girl” except the boy and the girl themselves. For the unversed, “arranged marriage” is a complex process to simplify the process of finding a man for every girl and a girl for every man” ((henceforth incorrectly called “the boy” though he is probably in his late twenties or early thirties).

In the previous two posts, we have already covered the first twelve steps of the process.

The boy and the girl are now engaged and are totally unaware of each other, except that their relationship is now official. Infact, if the event wasn’t photographed, you could swap the girl with a cousin and the boy will probably not notice because they met only for 10 minutes, and she was wearing so much make up, he can’t tell her from Lady Gaga. The girl would also not notice swapping the boy because, in all probability, she never saw his face—she was supposed to behave shy and look at her feet all the time.

The family is beside itself with sheer relief that the “whole thing was finally done”—a mistaken belief that is soon broken by the grandmother’s proclamation that they must perform the marriage within three months. “You must not keep a marriage waiting, else something will go wrong!” By ‘something’, she obviously means that the boy will find out about the girl’s motorbiking aspirations and her lack of culinary skills! So, the madness begins afresh.

Step 13: Pandit ji’s approval again

The father, brother and everybody else interested runs to Pandit ji (the priest) and requests him to check the star-chart and decide a date that is within the next three months. 7 times out of 10, there is none. So, they ask him to look more carefully—there has to be something! Rather reluctantly, he then quotes a couple of dates when marriage is possible. The time, for some reason, is always at some ungodly hour of night (or early morning if it is after 3.30 am).

The date is shared with the middleman, who then shares it with the boy’s family. They had been through the same scenario with their own grandmother and had been consulting their own Pandit ji, who had given three totally different dates instead.

To-and-fro ensues between the two parties, both pulling to make sure their own Pandit ji wins. Eventually the boy’s party wins because they are the ladkewala (boy’s party) and cannot be reasoned with.

Author’s note: Unbeknown to the parties, the difference in the number of dates provided to them is due to the availability of the two Pandit jis on the said dates.

You see, the astrological arrangements (which most of us don’t understand) are such that there are only 7-8 auspicious dates every month. Now, you can’t get married in December or January because it is too cold and women have to wear sweaters, unable to show-off the embroidery on their dresses. You can’t get married from April till September because it is too hot and the make-up becomes runny and clothes sweaty. Apparently, there is no water-proof make-up invented yet that can deal with the Indian summer.

So, if a family ever daringly ventures into a marriage in the other inhospitable months, it is forever remembered as a family with bad choices, bad living arrangements, not enough ACs, coolers and water geysers, thoughtless of other people’s inconvenience, supplier of hot drinking water in summers/cold bathing water in winters and, in general, harbinger of bad news. It is a reputation the family is never able to live down and is looked upon suspiciously in all the upcoming marriages in the family.

So, you must get married in Feb, March, October or November. So, there are around 30 suitable marriage dates per year. At least one Pandit ji must preside on the event. Considering that there are millions of marriages every year in India, the competition to book Pandit ji is crazy.

Step 14: The guesthouse owner’s approval

Now the fight for an open venue begins. While the boy’s party is looking for a guest house big enough to house their entire extended family and close friends (150+ guests) for 3-4 days of the various ceremonies. Cramped though they are, all these 150+ people will stay in the same place—inspite of having to share rooms—and not separately at hotels because where is the fun in that?

Rest of the 500+ people are local and will attend the ceremonies directly. The girl’s family is looking for a venue big enough to house the same size of family and close friends for 3-4 days as well. They must also look for a place big enough to allow around 1500 people to mill around, sit, eat and not step on each-other’s shoes. The place must look grand and have good lighting due to the ungodly hours of the marriage.

Unfortunately, many other parties have the same date and hence, such a place is either not available at all or not available on the set dates. So, now they start looking for accommodation for all the five dates from both Pandit jis, never being able find something that fits the date requirements of both parties.

And hence the date with an available marriage venue and guest houses wins. Both Pandit jis give in and agree to the date, even though it wasn’t “half as good as what they had suggested”.

Step 15: The caterer’s, tent supplier’s, flower arranger’s, beautician’s, tailor’s, jeweller’s and other approvals

I will not get into the details of a marriage preparation because I love my audience and would like them to be awake by the time this post ends. So, I would just briefly say that now the entire clan of the girl begins hunting for a halwai (cook), tent-chair-bedding supplier, flower arranger, jeweller, beauty parlour, furniture-maker (for dowry), electric appliance supplier (for dowry), tailor, cars and drivers.

There are many layers of arrangements within each piece. Tempers start running high and quarrels break out at the drop of a pin…or a plate…Someone shouts, someone else shouts back. In the end, someone starts crying (“What did I do wrong to end up with this man?”). While venturing to marry someone, many other marriages are put to test.

Step 16: The groom’s brother-in-law’s approval

The boy has, so far, been sulking in silence. In spite of being promised to marry a certain girl, he hasn’t seen her or talked to her and would be totally lost if he is asked to pick her out of the throng of lehenga-clad girls in his own marriage. So, he approaches his brother-in-law to intercept.

So far, the boy’s brother-in-law has been in the background sulking as well since he was informed but not consulted as much as he would like. It hurts his self-esteem. This is his opportunity to shine. So, he concocts this grand scheme.

His wife (boy’s sister, of course) calls the girl’s family and asks for the girl’s phone number to “get her measurements” for dresses to be gifted. They, of course, know such tactics already along with the evils of bride talking to groom, which can lead to uncomfortable discoveries. So, they give her the measurements they already have ready and let her know that the girl doesn’t own a mobile phone.

The brother-in-law rises up to the challenge. He takes his wife to meet the girl in person and “see how she is faring”. And while the girl’s mother is in the kitchen, they slip her a new mobile phone (with unlimited talk-time and on vibration mode). The girl, naturally, hides it, knowing well from her previous experiences (with various non-existent boyfriends) that any mobile phone will be confiscated immediately upon detection.

The brother-in-law, thus satisfied, gives his blessings to the couple.

Step 17: The groom and bride’s true approval

Exactly five minutes after the brother-in-law leaves, the phone rings.

Then onwards, the boy and girl spend a lot of time hiding on the roof, in the bathroom and inside rajai (superheavy cotton-filled blankets meant for weightlifting), talking to each other. By the third day, they are usually familiar enough to plan the honeymoon spot and make bookings. They are extremely excited, though they haven’t seen each other, at least they can tell each other how to spot them.

“I will be in the fuchsia lehenga.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Magenta colour, you know…”

“ummmm…”

“Dark pink, you dork! And make sure your floral veil has magenta roses to match my lehenga.”

Now that they are better acquainted and colour-coordinated, there is only the wedding day to dread.

Step 18: Pre-marriage days

A week before the marriage, the house begins filling with relatives who must be escorted from bus stand, railway station and airport. Soon, it is too full, and people are moved to the guest house where they are happy to “adjust” and live in dorm-like arrangements. No one is ready to go to any hotel rooms booked in hopes that someone will be wise enough.

Mehendi ceremony

The festivities begin with Mehendi ceremony (Henna ceremony where all women of the family get mehendi tattoos done) when someone realises that no one remembered to book a Mehendi artist. The brother-in-law shines again with the proposal to arrange one through his “contacts”. The Halwai decides this moment to drop the bomb and announce that he had forgotten more than half the grocery items and got the quantity of the rest wrong, sending the brothers in a flurry of activity around the city, making you feel truly sorry for them.

The bedding supplier is either late or the beddings are either not enough or smelly. The happy bride has put on weight, and someone must go to the tailor to resize her lehenga-top and all the other dresses that she is wearing in the coming days. Meanwhile, some of the hopefuls have lost weight and someone must get their lehenga-top adjusted as well. Meanwhile, the tailor hasn’t come back with the bride’s wardrobe yet, so someone needs to sit in his shop all day to force him to act quickly.

Someone needs to repack the gift-wrapped dresses for the groom, his father, mother, brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents, granduncles and grandaunts because they look just so plain! So, someone needs to get the decoration supplies.

Not to mention that dresses for each occasion need accessories which women have dutifully forgotten at home. The children need diapers of various sizes and do not want to eat what Halwai has to offer. Mothers have started yelling at the top of their lungs as children are ruining their new dresses at the speed of lightening.

The “girl” need to go to the beauty parlour (She has four sessions starting a month before the day, then a week before the day, then three days before the day and the day itself.) Someone needs to drive her to and fro.

The brothers and brothers-in-law are running around, playing chauffeur, food arranger, child-handler, delivery man and escort, while uncles are discussing politics and dowry rates while keeping an eye on the Halwai and helpers.

Tilak ceremony

The next day, the girl’s family (except the girl, her mother and the elderly with knee pain) must go for Tilak ceremony at the guest house where boy’s family has arranged a big party. The same routine is followed with increased giggling, yelling and running around. Mothers are now in hysterics since some of the children are nowhere to be found (hiding in the cupboard, playing hard to get). They are finally found, dusted with firm hands (“You dare hide in a cupboard again and you will pray you were never born!”) and changed in fresh dresses again.

The transport is late, as usual, or less spacious than expected. It is also not clean enough and “would certainly ruin the lehengas” of all the hopefuls travelling to the groom’s guesthouse. So, bride’s brothers are cleaning it while grumbling about useless people and bad arrangements while all women are smugly looking at them while holding up their lehengas as an excuse for not helping. The children are held tightly so they are not left behind. As people board bus, someone suggests a game of Antakshari.

People start singing in non-matching voices. Hard to find the rhythm but it is a perfect opportunity for friends of bride’s brothers. They are now making musical passes at bride’s female cousins. The said cousins are now making passes back at these guys discretely, knowing well that there will be more opportunities where they were going.

The journey goes uneventfully, unless it is long enough for a loo break. If it is long enough, people lose several children on the way to loo. They are often found (after a lot of chaos) hiding in their bus. After they have been “dusted” well by weeping mothers [“You dare step out of my sight and I am going to shut you up in a kothari (a small and dark room, which is forever the bane of all Indian children who are never told or shown where this kothari is, keeping it’s terror alive till they become parents themselves)”], the journey is continued. Depending on the number of loo breaks required in the journey, fathers need to step in to stop their wives from entering full-cry mode (thereby ruining their make up and delaying the journey further).

The boy’s family must not see the confusion though, so as soon as the bus enters the premises, everyone becomes a sea of calm.

Some of the female cousins, decked up in their best finery, begin taking pictures of the groom to send them to the bride on her mobile phone. The brothers of the groom edge closer to them, offering food and drinks and trying to get their attention. But the girls are protected by the unyielding wall of male cousins and their friends who, impressed by their earlier passes, now consider them under their protection. So, the brothers of the groom decide to try again on the coming day when these men will be occupied in arranging the marriage.

Sangeet and Ratjaga ceremonies

The same night after the party has returned home, Sangeet (music) and Ratjaga (staying awake all night) ceremonies take place.

Someone realises there is no dholak (Indian drums) and after half an hour of calling all contacts, they give up. Not that they knew how to play a dholak anyway. Someone tries to sing; others join in the chorus. Half an hour later, someone smuggles in the stereo and starts Bollywood songs and that is the end of awful singing. Everyone gets up and dances while the bride sits quietly wondering if they would remember to beg her to dance at all…

By midnight, everyone is too exhausted but must stay awake all night for Ratjaga. People quietly start disappearing on various premises–important phone calls, children needing to lie down, back pain, head ache, call of nature…

Soon, all but the sturdiest stay awake till the sun rises. Of course, all the friends of the bride’s brothers and her female cousins stay awake looking for an opportunity to pass phone numbers. But the elderly mothers and grandmothers with their penetrating gaze and “weak knees” keep them busy.

The D-day–Haldi and Gaurpuja ceremonies

The day of marriage begins really early with Haldi (Turmeric) ceremony. Earlier, turmeric products were used to beautify the brides all month long but now it is a horror show for the brides who have spent a pretty dime on four rounds of facials, pedicure, manicure and probably body polishing as well. The thought of turmeric recolouring their skin or sticking to their fresh perm can lead to a full-scale panic attack.

But it has to be done, so the mother, aunts and especially all bhabhis are conscious to not touch the face and only apply it on the dress for minimal damage. Once the ceremony is over, the bride quickly runs to the bath to take it all off just in case some of the colour has penetrated the clothes.

Gaurpuja (Goddess worship) is next on the list where the entire family offers pre-declared gifts (including pricey ornaments and dresses) to the now-washed girl. The girl is supposed to be fasting (“supposed” being the operative word here) and she is treated as mother goddess. It is an event full of open weeping and downright crying. Because there will be no more opportunity later. The girl is about to set off to the beauty parlour and when she returns with her bridal make-up on, she is not supposed to cry until the time for Vidai (Send-off). (At Vidai, she is supposed to cry in the earnest, else there will raised eyebrows… But that is a story for another day.)

The gifts are then quickly packed by the stylish bhabhi along with other dowry and under custody of the grandmothers and grandaunts, ready to be driven to the venue with the elderly whho can’t move around anyway so will be “willing to stay-put and be useful”.

Meanwhile all the brothers, uncles and male cousins are either at the wedding venue or driving people around or bringing more flowers for the flower arranger or arranging seating. Grandparents and granduncles are together discussing the wasteful and showy marriages now a days and comparing them with their own simpler times…all the while tasting food and arguing with the food caterer about food quantity or quality.

So, now close to the last leg of the Indian Wedding fiasco, the bride boards her car–driven by a male cousin who has been playing driver all day–and realises she has to take 10 tag-alongs with her. But there isn’t enough space for all of them and they will cramp her style. So, there is a lot of negotiations at the door, a lot of crying and name calling. In the end, the stylish bhabhi saunters in, offering her services to the girls who stay back. The offer is readily accepted by those who see no other hope. The car moves towards beauty parlour with the bride and four others (who will likely cramp her style but she can’t shake them off).

There is anticipation in the air that will only be relieved when the marriage is over and approved by the entire guest list.

To be continued if I survive to write the rest of the process. Considering that it has taken me more than 3 months to finish this post, my hopes are not too high. Let me know if you survive it and dare to know more.

Disclaimer: No part of this story is fiction, may be a little exaggerated but, in spirit, is accurate. I have seen it happen to most of my cousins. Lately, I played the part of clueless bhabhi in my brother-in-law’s marriage as well as engagement of one of my husband’s cousin and marriage of another, while my daughter was adding to the general crazydom. These experiences made me believe that no matter the religion, we Indians are united in our love for arranged marriages. The experiences also added finer details to the post.

Posted in Blogging, Random Thoughts

New excuses: Marriage(s)

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

The best part about my blog posts is how I come up with innovative excuses for not posting anything. I think half of my planning time (I get around 20 minutes a day to plan and create posts, if any) goes in thinking of excuses for not posting this time and the rest of the time goes in typing it. Like today. My latest excuse is marriages… that is, in plural.

Not mine, of course. I got married nearly 10 years back…Gosh! 10 years!? And have no intention of repeating the experience of an Indian wedding. To know my thoughts about an Indian wedding, you can go through my previous posts (I do: Part 1 and I do: Part 2). To say that part 3 and 4 are still being written says volumes about the amount of time and energy that goes in describing an Indian marriage. For an immersive experience, you can watch the movie Hum Apke Hain Kaun. If you survive till the end, you can tell me what you think of it 🤣

Getting back to the point, everyone around me is suddenly getting married. For 10 years, I had been cocooned in a false sense of safety which was suddenly torn away from me when one of my husband’s cousin got engaged in August. Considering we are Indians, obviously everyone was involved. I played the clueless bhabhi (brother’s wife), and played it well. So, people decided to take it up a notch and another close cousin got engaged, then my own brother-in-law and then one of my older nieces. And since, it is inauspicious (and potentially unsafe) to keep a marriage waiting for more than three months (lest the bride or groom decide to elope–alone, of course), the marriages had to happen soon.

Ramadan is anyway a busy time but with three weddings–one in each weekend after Ramadan (one of them being my brother-in-law’s)–we were cleaning up, shopping, hosting guests, shopping, hosting guests, booking, hosting guests, attending marriage, attending guests, cleaning up, attending guests, cooking, hosting guests… hosting more guests until we couldn’t stand and couldn’t walk. Ultimately, I decided not to visit the third marriage. (I still need to talk to my aunt and apologize for bailing. I hope she forgives me.)

And did I forget to mention, I had to look nice…perfect…immaculate…polished to shiny perfection…

Especially me, because I am the eldest bhabhi of the clan. I had the duty to look like someone who was holding herself together perfectly well while all I wanted to do was whine about having to run up and down the stairs all day. I had to put on face packs while cooking and apply make up while attending guests who were filling the house to seams. I would apply blush on one cheek and go meet someone, apply shadow on half an eye and go help someone, apply lipstick on half a lip and deal with my daughter. And then I would apply mascara. And spread on different spots of my face. Then I would wash it and start over.

Sometimes I think that make up brushes are equipment of modern torture. They can’t beat you anymore so they tell you to apply make up– there are brushes for everything blush, highlighter, powder, liner, eye shadow application, shadow mixing, mascara, eyebrow… And they always poke you in the eye. You apply eye shadow–it throws powder in your eyes. You put on liner–it is more inside the eyes than out. You clean it and put on just mascara and it pokes you in the eye until you drop the brush (on your cheeks, of course) and howl in pain and swear to god’s that you would never do it again. Then you wash your face and do it again!

Not sure if I got the order correct. I never got the order correct so I got a Color Correction (CC) cream to avoid primer, foundation, concealer, highlighter… It didn’t do anything but it made it look like I was trying, so no one commented. My pathetic attempts to make up were lauded as “Well tried!” “Look at you, you have actually put on make up!”

As far as I am concerned, I looked like a pink-faced monkey. Well at least, I wasn’t looking like a silver-faced monkey like nine years back when my sister-in-law tried to do my makeup. That experience was what drove me to do my own makeup. Of course, I could have got a professional help. But I didn’t have the time in the many days of festivities.

So, I just trudged on. I would say, I did well.

Honestly, in retrospect, it wasn’t so bad. I met a lot of nice people I couldn’t recognise (because of make up, of course) but it was nice to see smiling faces and spend time with my sister-in-law who lives far away. We had a housefull of kids and loads of drama going on that it part of every Indian marriage, but it was fun.

Now, I still have laundry to deal with, which is a remnant of the marriages that started three weeks back. So, goodbye for now. I hope I have given an excuse good enough that you will excuse me for not posting for another few days! 🤣🤣🤣

Posted in Random Thoughts

I do: The Indian Way (Part 2)

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Pun intended

Before jumping into this article, I would advise you to visit the original post I do: The Indian Way (Part 1) so that you can understand the beginning of the madness that we Indians lovingly refer to as “arranged marriage”, which is a complex process to simplify the process of finding a man for every girl and a girl for every man (usually 5-10 years older than the girl, henceforth incorrectly termed as the “the boy”). Had the process been in place in England and USA, books like Pride and Prejudice and Little Women 2 would have not existed in the first place.

In the original post, we have already covered the first seven steps of the process.

Step 8: The meeting preparation and the approval of the bhabhi

So far, the stage is all set for the big reveal. The girl (probably in early twenties) and the boy (probably in his thirties) are about to meet for the grand finale. The entire khandan (extended family big enough to fill a football stadium) is either already there or waiting on Zoom and Whatsapp to hear the good news.

The house is in a general state of disarray with cousin’s running around, children crying, father and uncles on phone, grandfather and granduncles pacing around, mothers, grandmothers and aunts cooking and discussing the various scenarios that can possibly unfold–What if one of them is diabetic? Do we have something for them? Do we have green tea? What if they want more dowry? What if they see one of the prettier cousins and choose her instead?

The dining table is creaking under the combined weight of fruits, various types of sweets, pakodas, samosas, namkeens (various salt savories), lemonade, cold drinks and the best possible crockery loaned from concerned neighbours and relatives to serve it in. The kitchen is busy with lunch/dinner preparations high on matar-paneer, daal makkhani, dahi-bade and dhaniya ke aaloo to be served with puris, an assortment of sauces, pickles and fried papad.

A stylish bhabhi (brother’s/cousin’s wife) has draped the girl’s sari so all her curves are visible to lure the boy in while the skin is covered so as not to provoke the boy’s parents. Every bit of the girl’s face is covered with 9 -10 layers of cosmetics, each one smelling of different flowers, making her feel like a walking flower shop with no visible flowers. Her blood pressure is increasing with each make-up application and the friendly advise:

  • Don’t rub your eyes. You’ll smear the mascara.
  • Why didn’t you tell me what shade of Fushia your sari was. Now I got a lipstick three tones lighter!
  • Don’t move your lips. You’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Don’t eat. You’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Only drink the cold drink I will set in front of you. It will have a straw.
  • Don’t speak, you’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Don’t laugh. Indian brides don’t laugh. Besides, it puts wrinkles on the makeup.
  • Don’t sweat, you’ll mess up the makeup.
  • Act shy. Don’t look at anyone straight in the eyes.
  • Don’t ask too many questions.
  • Don’t ask about his girlfriends.
  • Don’t tell him about your boyfriends.
  • If he asks your hobbies, say that you like cooking. Don’t tell him you play football and ride a motorbike.
  • Just stay quiet. We will manage the rest…

By this time, a low growl can be heard starting from the bottom of the girl’s throat, which is bhabhi‘s cue to take her baby for a diaper change. We will not discuss the case she doesn’t take the cue, because this is not an article about mass murder.

The blood pressure is at all-time high when the cousin who was posted at the gate comes running inside and stage-whispers through the door, “They are here!”

Step 9: The joint approval of khandan and neighbours

All the noise stops suddenly. Even the children who had been throwing a tantrum a second back suck in a breath and wait with abated breath as the boy’s party approaches the gates. Father, uncles, grandfather and granduncles wipe their brows and run towards the gates to greet the party at the gates and smile with hands folded in “Namaste”. After this, their hands are forever folded in their laps as they stand around obediently taking orders from the in-laws.

As the boy’s party along with the middleman is ushered in, the mother, aunts, grandmother and grandaunts greet them indoors and show them where to sit. The stylish bhabhi, together with a party of well-trained cousins, brings in water and beverages. Someone quietly clicks the picture of “the boy” and posts it on family group on Whatsapp for the rest of the relatives to approve. The bride, who is also part of the group, looks at the picture and is petrified, for the said “boy” is at least 7-8 years older than the picture shared by the middleman.

The parents seem unaffected. They probably expected the situation and have already decided to fill the receding hairline with extra zeroes in his salary. The boy is now the new animal in the zoo, inspected by the girl’s younger giggly cousins and accosted by the younger children of the house who want to climb on his back, try on his glasses and check if he knows how to give a piggy-back ride. One of them has already pulled out his uber expensive pen from his shirt pocket while he is trying to explain to another child why he cannot play on his iPhone.

And he is bearing it all with gritted teeth and a smile that shows he would rather be at office drinking horrible coffee. His parents are trying to pick children off him one by one on the pretext of asking their names before the boy runs out shrieking bloody murder (He too has been through a grooming experience mirroring the bride, except the makeup part, but we will not talk about that. It is not his story).

The neighbours are now beginning to show up under various pretext following the trail of the variety of food fragrances, knowing well exactly what it could mean. They all express curiosity that goes beyond the girl’s parents and ask questions missed during the earlier interrogation, including growth opportunities in the boy’s line of job, frequency of salary hikes and where they see themselves in 10-years time (hopefully, in Canada). Once the khandan and neighbours have expressed their satisfaction at the responses they have received, a cousin is sent to “bring the girl in”.

Step 10: The big reveal and boy’s and girl’s approval…sort of…

Now that everybody else in the known universe has agreed to the match, the girl “is brought into the room” by the aforementioned bhabhi. The boy is more interested in the bhabhi who is curvaceous and confident. He is looking at her with an interest but when he realises all eyes are on him, he moves his eyes towards the girl (because he is supposed to). The girl is a bundle of nerves and shivering as she “is settled” in front of the boy so that he cannot touch her. He is scared witless and trying to act confident but his parents beat him to it–they begin talking to the girl, who keeps her answers monosyllabic, as instructed by bhabhi to keep the make-up intact. His parents assume it to be shyness. The girl’s parents assume it to be nerves. Only the bhabhi really knows as she places the cold drink with straw strategically in front of the girl.

The discussion is generally about education and interests, which is mostly loads of lies.

Then someone suggests that the boy and girl should be left alone to talk! And everyone moves out of the room. Everyone, except the said bhabhi and the bhaiya (elder brother/cousin) standing close enough to the door to eavesdrop and remain faintly in sight so that the boy doesn’t gets any ideas.

Now, the sudden retreat of the people leaves the girl and the boy conscious and tongue-tied and it take a couple of minutes to gather their wits, another couple of minutes to get through the basic introductions and they are still discussing education when everybody decides to return to their posts in the room. And someone mentions lunch/dinner.

Immediately, the girl is whisked away to her previous hideout since obviously she can’t eat without ruining her make-up.

During the lunch/dinner, the bhabhi in girl’s room is dropping hints about how a well-paid boy with medium looks is the best proposition because he is more willing to keep the girl happy and has the means to fulfil her dreams. (What those dreams are is never discussed since it could be riding a motorbike to the highest mountain pass in Leh-Ladakh.)

The girl, having no opportunity for a real conversation with the boy, relies totally on her family’s opinion. Already overwhelmed with all the attention and performance pressure in front of the entire family and neighbours, she nods her head with exhaustion. Right at that moment, the bhabhi relays the news to the mother, who is overheard by the grandmother, who calls her husband aside and reiterates it to him, who instructs the girl’s father. The girl’s mother, meanwhile, congratulates the girl for her perfect choice and hugs her, and the girl’s fate is sealed.

Someone sends a message on Whatsapp and everybody expresses their opinion of how rushed things were but how happy they were that everything came out so well.

Step 11: The boy’s party’s approval

The girl’s father immediately starts dropping hints about their willingness in front of the boy’s family. The boy’s family is already prepared for engagement ceremony. But they still state that they need time to think this over (because they really can’t show that they came prepared for the ceremony and lose their bargaining power). They go to the middleman’s house after the lunch/dinner while the girl’s family is chewing their nails.

On the way, they talk to the boy about the virtues of marrying in a well-to-do family and praise the girl for being homely and shy; and that living on outside food is bad for health; and that it is high time he is married so he has someone who can cook a proper meal for him wherever he lives. The boy, having no opportunity for a real conversation with the girl, relies totally on his family’s opinion. He is dealing with similar family pressure where his own khandan is waiting on Whatsapp for the good news, nods his head (he still doesn’t know about the football and motorbike).

The boy’s family take another couple of hours until the girl’s party calls them to ask for their verdict again. They reply in a long-suffering tone that they are okay with the match and would need to prepare for the ceremony. They sit around doing nothing on the pretext of preparing for the “roka ceremony“, second guessing if they had been too rash or whether they should have delayed a bit longer. They make a move to leave the middleman’s home at least an hour later than promised.

Step 12: The approval of the girl’ side of the world

The boy’s party reaches the girl’s the house famously late, where the entire house is crazier than before and, yet, stands to attention at their arrival. Suddenly, hands are being wrung, the boy is crushed under the hugs of all of girl’s male cousins (including those who had been earlier waiting on Whatsapp). The female cousins are looking down from the roof or waiting at the threshold giggling and whispering and adding to the general conundrum. The boy’s own cousins are back in his city, so he is alone to deal with the attention.

The house is filled to gills with people, ready to burst at seams. Cousins are pouring in and pouring out (for arrangements). A photographer, arranged to create proof of the ceremony, is busily arranging lights. A bunch of cousins are busily spreading chandani (white silky cloth) on hired beddings across the floor to arrange enough sitting space for all the invited (and uninvited) gentry. People keep getting in each other’s way apologizing with smiles, and trying not to get irritated with the way sweat drips from their forehead because no number of hired fans is enough to kill the heat generated by breathing of so many people.

The boy’s party produces a basket of fruits and a large box of sweets arranged on the way to the venue.

The girl is being prepared again by the same bhabhi along with the instructions along the same lines–don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t speak, don’t breathe… The girl has given in and is not growling anymore, so the bhabhi shows her exactly how to eat baby-sized bites without smearing her lipstick and drinking with a straw (because she had smeared her lipstick the last time). The heat is making the make-up runny and the women in the house are suggesting all the possible ways to make it steady…none of which is possible anymore since the make-up is already done.

Someone comments that they should have hired a bridal artist rather than a novice, at which the bhabhi helpfully reminds them that they are free to bring one in if they think so which effectively shuts everyone up. The girl’s hair is done in elegant curls and has more make-up than she had earlier that day and she shivers at the woman she sees in the mirror. But everyone is telling how wonderful she looks and she trusts them because that is all she can do. The girl is then “taken” (you would think she can’t walk on her own) to the room where everyone is sitting.

The boy’s eyes zeroes down on the bhabhi (wearing a magenta sari that shows all her curves and plenty of skin) holding the shivering girl (shivering from nerves being close to nervous breakdown). Then again, he realises the photographer is shooting his reaction and slides his eyes to look at the girl. The girl “is sat” next to the boy this time (where he can touch her if he dares to take on an entire family of feral brothers). The girl sits as delicately as possibly for the fear of causing a tear in her silk sari. The boy’s party think of it as shyness. The girl’s party thinks of it as nerves. Only the bhabhi knows the truth as she carefully arranges the pallu of the girl’s sari.

The mother-in-law remarks how lucky her son is to have bagged her, while also reminding her that her son was her best bet and that matches are made in heavens. She then produces a heavily embroided sari she had already bought in her own city but wrapped in a wrapping sheet to hide the fact that they had come prepared. She also presents a gold ring (that she had carried in her purse for three years in the hope of getting her son married) and the said box of sweets. The other women in the boy’s family who had come with the party present cash envelops (or if they were also prepared–silver ornaments).

Each action is followed by the photographer’s blinding flash and clicks of photos on various mobile phones. Someone is live streaming the event on the Whatsapp group.

The girl’s father does similar stuff for the boy, presenting clothes, a ring and sweets. The considerably larger family on the girl’s side ensures that by the time the ceremony is done, the boy is considerably richer than what he came in with. And this is only the beginning of a lifelong supply of goodies, as long as the girl is happy with him.

Note that the girl and boy had no real opportunity to talk yet. They are playing blind. By the time they realise their mistake, it will be too late, and they will live erringly happy ever after!

To be continued if I see people showing interest in the rest of the process. Let me know if you survive it and dare to know more.

Disclaimer: No part of this story is fiction, may be a little exaggerated but, in spirit, accurate. I have seen it happen to most of my cousins, even played the giggly cousin part quite a few times. I have been the internal messenger, salad arranger, dahi (yogurt) whisker, chutney (sauce) maker and the uninvited cousin in several such events. Not all these events come to an agreeable ending, and sometimes the boy and the girl might have to go through several such experiences before the said roka ceremony, but each one is just as crazy.