Arranged Marriage

When her mom had thrust that picture in her hand casually asking, “What
do you think of him?” she had no clue it would become the most important face
in her life. “He’s okay”, she had said matching her mum’s tone even though her
heartbeat had climbed up a notch. Then that weekend she met him for coffee.
Even in that short hour she had felt at ease because he had seemed completely at ease despite the whole ‘arranged
marriage’ rigmarole.
Yes she liked him, she had told her mum. She really did.
A month later after a few phone calls and dinners with him she’d
found herself engaged. And another few months later here she was.. Married. A
Married Woman! She vaguely remembered reading a book by that name, a book that
didn’t have nice things to say about marriage. Quickly she banished those
thoughts.
That’s what she’d done since the day of her engagement- banished all thought of what marriage would be like. Mercifully she barely had had much time
what with completing the shopping and finishing her work assignments before she
went on leave.

She sat in her new home while her new husband pottered around in the kitchen. He had offered to make tea while she refreshed herself after the long road journey. All those feelings, long suppressed, seemed to have woken up now and were
clamouring to be recognised. Nervousness, excitement, happiness,… and DREAD. A wave of homesickness
hit her.. Hard. And the dread!
How did I get myself into this? An educated, independent
girl like me.. in an arranged marriage? For godsake who goes in for an arranged
marriage these days? How much do I really know this man? She asked herself.
What if he turns out to be an alcoholic, a wife beater or worse?.. she was alone.. all alone with this stranger.
Jerkily she got up from the sofa upsetting the bottle of water at
the side table. Crash!!!! The bottle went crashing down taking with it a bunch
of knick knacks. “Are you okay?” he called out from the kitchen. “Yes”, she managed to
croak, her words stuck in her throat.
She bent down to pick up the bottle and there under the bed sat a
carton full of books.
Playboys! OMG he’s into porn! she thought. Shaking guiltily, she pulled out the
carton. And there, in neat rows, she discovered…. her own bookshelf.
All her favourites..
Love story, Man Woman and Child.. He was a romantic! Jonathan
Livingstone Seagull-
a rebel and a perfectionist, Bill Bryson – So he liked
travel and he liked humour. Then Joseph Heller, Ayn Rand.. Oh she did like him.
Her eyes glistened with tears of relief.
Chai garam.. he sang
out from the doorway. She looked up hastily to find him balancing the tea tray
in one hand while three boxes of biscuits were piled up in the other supported
by his chin. “I didn’t know which ones you’d like so I brought all,” he said
with a boyish grin.
“You okay?” he asked as he saw the look on her face.
“Yes, I’m fine,” said she smiling shyly as she moved to help
him with the tray. She knew she would be fine.

Day 3 ‘The Write Tribe Festival of Words’ (8th – 14th December 2013) prompt is Books. For some mindblowing entries from super talented Write Tribers go here.

A pair of wings

Picture Credit: Morgue File (http://mrg.bz/jnYWqY)

“That’s enough now,” said Ma. Chhotu moved away from the tiny mirror where he’d been admiring himself. The mirror was too small to fit his entire frame, tiny as it was. He had to be satisfied seeing himself in bits. His face, scrubbed till it shined, smiled back at him, his uniform was crisp and clean, his shoes – so shiny they reflected the sparkle in his eyes. Lovingly he ran his hand over his brand new bag full of books his mother had stayed up late last night covering with newspaper.

Chhotu had wanted to go to school ever since he could remember. He had watched the boys of the big house by the tree with awe and admiration as they’d left each morning. “One can learn everything at school,” Ma had told him – exciting things about strange places, far away people, secrets of the sea and land, why the sun set and how it rose unfailingly each morning, why earthquakes happen even the one that took away his baba and all his hopes of ever going to school. He had often wanted to talk to those children. But, “Keep your distance”, his mother had cautioned not wanting to upset the lady of the house who had given her work and a small room to stay in.

Then one day the lady spoke to Ma. They talked abut how the Government had said every child had the right to go to school. Chhotu decided he liked the Government people even though Ma never had a kind word to say about them. Ma said they hadn’t helped at all when Baba had died in the earthquake. Maybe they were trying to make up by sending him to school, Chhotu thought.

However, to his absolute dismay Ma refused. He had shouted till he was hoarse, cried till his eyes were sore, sobbed till his little body had slumped, tired and frustrated. At night as he lay with his head on Ma’s lap sobbing quietly, she had explained, “The permission doesn’t help Chhotu. The school will give you admission but they won’t allow you without a uniform and books. Where will we find money for that? Besides, you will have to sit with children much younger than you, since you’ve never gone to school. Will you like that?”

I wouldn’t care where I sat as long as I was in school, Chhotu wanted to say. But the desperate look on Ma’s face shut him up and he fell asleep still sobbing.
Next morning the lady came again. She said she’d be his ‘sponsor’. Chhotu didn’t understand much except that a miracle had happened. The lady had heard him crying last night and had decided to help… just like that!! She would get him the books and the uniform and she would help him with his lessons so he could catch up with kids his age. Chhotu had pinched himself till his arm was blue. He thought sponsor people were even better than the government people.
So this was happening. Truly truly happening. He was going to school. The same school that those boys went to.
The morning had finally arrived. Ma was crying as she hugged him. Impatiently he hugged her back and ran out with his bag. Oh he was in a hurry, the world was out there waiting to be discovered. He wanted to run.. No.. fly … for today he had wings.

Linking to Write Tribe..

for the picture prompt (above). For more amazing stories on the prompt click here.

A bit of background, only if you’re interested…
In 2010 The Government of India launched the RTE Act ie. the Right to Eduction Act which provides free and compulsory education for all children between the ages of six and fourteen. Government Schools would provide books, uniforms and mid-day meals too. However since there aren’t just enough Government Schools, 25% seats in all private schools were also reserved for children under the RTE Act. While admissions here are free kids from underprivileged sectors are unable to meet the other demands of the school. That’s where the idea of the story came from. Sarthak Foundation, a Lucknow based organisation is working towards generating money to help these kids. If you want to help out go here.

Or better still look for a Chhotu around you and lend him a hand. It really isn’t tough to make a miracle.

Ah! The smell

“Bye papa”, said she valiantly trying to control her tears.

“Bye beta. We’ll call,” said her dad releasing her reluctantly from his hug.

She watched him leave with a sinking feeling. ‘Why oh why did I come here!’, she wondered trying to dig out a sliver of enthusiasm that had carried her all the way from her small sleepy hometown to big bad Mumbai. She had job offers back home but she had wanted to test new waters, to work where her writing would speak for itself. How sure of herself had she been. How arrogant!

And look where she’d landed — in an alien land, alone.

She walked back to her room and sat down by the solitary window that overlooked the road. The hostel was silent with the eerie silence of a place normally bustling with activity. She wished she had come on a weekend when the other girls were around.

Other girls! What would they be like? Would they accept her? ‘Will I ever fit in?…’ she wondered, ‘..in this lonely desert full of people?’ The melancholy threatened to overpower her. ‘This is what you wanted,’ she reminded herself sternly, giving herself a quick mental shake.

‘I should unpack,’ she thought, before the melancholy could turn into a full blown panic attack.

She pulled at one of the cartons with uncharacteristic impatience. It fell apart and her books spilled out in a heap. She remembered how she and her sister had bickered about the ones she should bring with her. ‘That one’s my favourite.’ ‘No, you can’t take that one either, you gave it to me’.. ‘..this one’s only mine’. How difficult it had been to segregate shared possessions.

Idly she flipped open a book. ‘This book belongs to me (and not to my sister)‘ she’d written on the first page. A smile tugged at her lips as she hugged it, inhaling its scent. Ah the smell of old books! The smell of home.

She reached out for another one. ‘May life never leave you disgruntled. May you always remain gruntled’. This, from a Wodehouse fan. Her smile widened. The smell of laughter!

Then a third one — ‘May the magic never end,’ said the Harry Potter and was followed by a list of names that spilled onto the next page. Her entire class had pooled in to get her the set. This one smelt of friendship.

Smiling now, she reached out eagerly for another one and almost laughed. ‘Here’s your copy now may I have mine back?‘ it said. She remembered how she’d shamelessly clung to this one wanting to read it over and over till her friend had gifted her a copy. The smell of shared love.

And then another — ‘To the most fantastic Singleton, from all of us Smug Marrieds’. She remembered this one so wella gift from her senior colleagues when she’d wrapped up her summer internship. She’d spent the month running a hundred meaningless errands. All the while she’d plied them with her articles hoping, yet never believing they’d even read them, till one day she’d seen her byline. Her first ever!  Ah the smell of hope and acceptance and love.

Gently, she picked up the books returning them to the carton. No longer was she lonely. She was home with the smell of her books.

A revival

Her hands full of soap suds she worked her way through the pile of vessels in the sink. Her mind wandered off to other piles that need attention. The pile of clothes to go in the machine, the pile of ironing to be put away, another pile yet to be ironed, the pile of books that needed sorting, the pile of toys to be cleared up, …  Then there were her ‘happy’ piles – the piles of books to be read, the piles of half finished crafts to be completed, the piles of cookery books needing to be explored.

NO, don’t even go there, she told herself, sternly. Don’t think any of it . Not now, Not just yet. It could all wait. It had to.

There was something else, something far more important, that needed attention. Someone was dying and she had to do something, fast. After all it was she who had brought her into this world. Now, it was only she who could save her. She was special. Boy! was she special… a friend.. nope.. not just a friend.. best friend, confidante, counsellor. Just thinking of her made her smile. She hadn’t seen her friend in weeks… it seemed like ages. And now she was dying. She had to rush to her friend. Everything else could wait.. work, kids, Husband.

She put away the last plate, rinsed and dried her hands. Then she walked off to her study, switched on the computer and started typing. She had to save her blog from dying.