image: Tirza Van Dijk on Unsplash
Diya looked through the grimy steel bars of the bus window. Crows were perched on cows that dotted the green fields. The bus was rumbling down a dirt road, kicking dust up in the air. The woman next to her was peeling green peas in a large wicker basket and the man in front of her was snoring, his head tilted up to the sky. The whole thing was almost musical - but her ears were ringing already, anticipating the less-than-warm welcome that would be waiting for her at home. She wiped her forehead with her kalamkari-patterned dupatta, sighing softly. Every part of her body ached - she had been travelling for two days straight. Her heart was the biggest casualty - weighing down heavy with emptiness. But it would be over soon - she was going back home and, she hoped, back to who she used to be.
----
“Go. Back. Home.” Her father stated plainly. She saw the tears in his eyes that he held back with a dam of anger.
“I am home, Appa.” she said, setting her bag down gently on the mud floor. “I cannot go back.” She felt the eyes of the entire village fixed on her like this was all an elaborate performance. The blazing sun was beating down on her like their collective anger and confusion. Her mother stood just a little behind her father, her eyebrows furrowed in a knot. Her little sister, Sasi, would be at school. She longed to hold her in her arms and feel the warmth of her unconditional love. She was the only one who would bestow it willingly, given the circumstances.
“This is not your home.” her father grunted, and she thought she heard his voice crack just a little bit. “Leave.”
“Amma, please?” she pleaded, folding her palms together in desperation. Her mother touched her father’s shoulder and opened her lips to say something but he shook her off like a pesky housefly.
“Are you deaf? Get out,” he yelled, shaking his hands dramatically.
She shook like a dry leaf in a sudden gust of wind.
“Where will I go?” she asked.
“To your house. To your husband.” Just hearing that word made her insides turn. She winced, involuntarily.
“He doesn’t want me. You don’t want me. What can I --”
“What is happening here?” An elderly man with a snow-white beard and a staff stepped forward.
“This girl, she..she has come back and we are telling her, we..” her father stuttered in frustration,
“This is a family matter, Raghu. Talk about it inside your house, then we will see.”
“But..”
“8 pm at the Banyan Tree,” he said, sternly. Then turning to the congregation of villagers, he dismissed them. “Now go...everybody, go.”
------
Everyone had different theories about what had happened. Some said he had run away with someone else, some said that she was infertile, and others said it was a case of domestic violence. She heard all of it - as her mother spoke with neighbours, in the casual murmurs in the vegetable shop, questions of concerned co-passengers on the bus. Only one person’s opinion mattered to her. She didn’t know what he thought. She wanted him to know. But how? She rode a rickety rickshaw all the way to the factory and stood at the gate, hoping for him to show up. After six days, one cool October morning, he rolled up in a sleek black Honda City. She was sitting in their spot - under the big umbrella of a tamarind tree, peeling tamarind. Their eyes met and she felt the electricity course through her body - like all her cells had been switched off for years and now finally, someone had turned on the switch. She stood up and watched his head swivel as the car passed through the big black gates. She sat down again and waited patiently. Something stirred in her stomach and like an old familiar recipe, she knew what would happen next. A few minutes later, he emerged from the bushes just behind the tree, his hair tousled slightly. She smiled - he was the same young boy she had adored but his chest was broader and his face had acquired a few wrinkles. She studied his expression carefully and was delighted to see that her own joy was mirrored perfectly in his eyes. There were times in the past nine years that she would try to remember his face - to redraw it in her head and it worried her terribly when she felt like she had forgotten. She looked at him now and felt a sense of urgency to memorize every feature.
“Hi,” she whispered as if she were afraid that this was a dream that she would be awoken from. She wrapped her forefinger in the thin fabric of her dupatta and twirled it around nervously. “Hey,” he replied, running his fingers through his hair. “You look old,” she said. “Old?” he asked, laughing. “I mean, you’ve grown so much.” He threw his head back and laughed. The sound was exhilarating - like hearing the rushing waves of an ocean. “You look exactly like I remember.” She blushed, like the young schoolgirl she once was. They stood staring at each other like no time had passed at all, until he finally asked, “Filter coffee?” She nodded, and they walked down an old familiar road, one that hopefully would lead to something more promising than the last time.
--------------
“The panchayat decided I could stay for a few days. They want me to go back and work on my marriage,” she said, between sips of coffee. If he was surprised to learn that she had a husband, he didn’t show it.
“What do you want to do?” he asked her, pointedly, and she saw a flicker of worry rush across his pale forehead.
“I tried,” she said, and she felt tired just thinking about her life in Chennai. “He had a whole other family, and I didn’t know about it,” she said, twirling the hibiscus flower from the centrepiece in her hands, examining the various hues of red fading into a crisp white.
“Why do they want you to go back to someone who doesn’t love you?” he asked, with a hint of anger and protectiveness.
“I’m a liability. Thirty years old, nearly divorced. Appa always said ‘this girl is stubborn’ - always has to get what she wants. I used to be proud of that, you know? I thought it was a compliment.”
He nodded, understandingly. He was always a good listener, she remembered.
“Now I know he means it as an insult.”
“There’s a better word for that,” he said, kindly.
“What?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Feisty,” he said, with a smile. “It’s a compliment, believe me.”
“Feisty” she repeated, trying it on for size. “I like it.”
“Anyway, Sasi has to get married. So I need to disappear until that happens. Amma says ‘after that, we will see’. Until then, I need to go to my husband. But I can’t. And he doesn’t want me. He has a new family. I can’t fight that - I really have tried everything. ”
“I know you have,” he said, patiently. “Because you’re feisty,” he said, winking at her.
She wasn’t amused.
“I was so stupid. I kept saying to myself that it would be okay, that I would learn to be better, that he may come back to me. I was so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, you trusted him,” he replied, taking the hibiscus flower gently from between her fingers and tucking it behind her ear. “It looks good on you.”
Her heart soared, but questions that she had shelved pressed against her lips angrily.
She pushed his hand away.
“You never called me.”
“Dee, I...”
“I wrote and wrote to you. And you..you left and never looked back.”
“I couldn’t, Dee.”
“Why? How could you leave me to deal with everything?” her voice was becoming shrill, and people were starting to look. She didn’t care.
“You don’t know my family! They are cruel.”
“Your small family is cruel? I had to endure the lashings of the entire village!”
“Don’t cry, Dee, please.” she was crying so hard now; she could barely see him.
“How could you do that? You never loved me.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, evenly.
“If you did, you wouldn’t have left,” she continued, “If you really cared, you..”
“I left because I did,” he said, standing up, sending his chair backwards and filling the tense air with the loud screeching of metal on the concrete floor.
“They would have killed you.”
She continued weeping, and he reached for her hand under the table, rubbing her fingers gently.
“I had to go, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to, but I had to.”
“Shh...I’m here now,” he reassured her. “I’m sorry, sorry.” He patted her hair gently and gave her a kiss on the top of her head, as a stray tear escaped him. After she had calmed down, she pulled away slowly.
“You’re here now,” she repeated, registering it. This was a dream come true - one that she didn’t even dare to hope for.
“ Now and always,” he said.
“Always,” she repeated again, like an obedient child.
He stood up suddenly.
“What happened?” she asked, confused.
His face was creased with a mix of emotions, and she watched him closely, trying hard to decipher his strange reaction.
“What?” she asked again.
“Nothing, uh..” he was pacing up and down nervously near their table.
“Just tell me. It’s nothing we can’t handle.”
“Actually, the thing is..”
She nodded patiently.
“I’m getting married in two days.” he blurted out.
--------------
The big white house was straight out of a movie, decked with sparkling strands of lights and plump orange flowers. The music was blaring from speakers mounted on trees and poles. There was the smell of mutton gravy and biryani in the air. People flitted about the courtyard like glamorous birds, each one adorned in rich colour. Upstairs, the groom stood in front of a long mirror, sweating in his airconditioned room. A photographer was clicking his camera incessantly while another make-up artist applied powder to his face.
“Please, just stop, please.”
They both paused.
“But sir,...”
“Go. I need 5 minutes.”
They stood transfixed.
“Go,” he yelled and they scurried out like rodents, shutting the door behind them.
He turned to the window and surveyed the courtyard, people were carrying glistening plates of fruits, garlands, and gifts. They were hugging, dancing and laughing. He banged on the wall with a clenched fist.
He couldn’t do this. He opened the door and shouted down the long corridor, “Mohannnnnnnnnn.” A few seconds later, a young man in a white lungi and a bright pink patterned shirt appeared. “Come in and shut the door!”
“Anna, you look like a hero!” Mohan remarked, holding his fingers up to make the superb sign.
“Get me out of here.”
“Huh?” he asked, immediately turning around to check that nobody was around.
“You heard what I said. I have to get to Diya.”
“Diya? She is back here?” he asked, trying to assemble all the facts.
“Never mind all that. Just get me out.”
“Ok, ok. Everyone is at the front of the house, meet me at the back, I’ll have the bike ready and waiting.”
“Tell Anjali akka to go fetch Diya.”
“Who is Anjali akka?”
“She’s the one who is weaving the flowers under that tree.”
Mohan turned around, preparing to go.
“You know what will happen if anyone finds out, anna? You remember the last time.”
“I can’t lose her again, Mohan,” he said. “Not again.”
Mohan nodded. “See you in 5 minutes, anna.”
----------
The past week had been a blur. Diya remembered being beckoned by one of the village ladies as she was outside her mud hut early one morning, applying a greenish-brown paste of cow dung to the walls. Anjali akka had then asked her to pack a few saris and some gold and get on her cycle. She was taken to the nearest bus station and boarded a bus to Bangalore. It had started to move and she very nearly got off just as Aditya hopped on board. He looked as handsome as ever in a silk dhoti. She sat down again and he took the empty seat next to her.
“Adi, what are we doing,” she whispered to him, her stomach fluttering with a million butterflies.
“What we should have done nine years ago,” he replied.
By the time they had reached Bangalore, chaos had erupted back in the village. When all searching for them had proven unsuccessful, Aditya’s irate father organized a funeral for him, setting both the pyre and Diya’s hut on fire, forcing her family to flee the village for good.
As Aditya and Diya found their foothold in a foreign city, their past lives had gone up in ashes.
---------
Late that evening, Aditya sold his watch, rings and gold chain while Diya sold two thin gold bangles and her old thaali so that they could afford a decent meal and find a place to stay. They were exhausted as they walked into a little cafe for dinner. They looked as different as chalk and cheese - her feet crossed over on the chair, her hair in a wild bun and her chocolate brown fingers dipping in and out of the wet rice as she chewed loudly. Meanwhile, Aditya sat upright, using his fork and knife to delicately cut and devour a leg of chicken. They stayed at a local inn right near the slums. Aditya had friends in the city, but they didn’t want to be found so he didn’t ask for their help and instead sought employment at a retail store as a salesboy while Diya began to work at a tailor’s shop.
In a few months, they had made enough money to rent a small 1BHK room on top of an old couple’s house along the outskirts of the city. The lady was a regular client at the tailoring shop and loved how prompt and meticulous Diya was with her work. She insisted that Diya and Aditya marry before she allowed them to come and stay, taking great pleasure in buying them clothes for the occasion and serving as their witnesses at the registered marriage.
One evening, Diya was sitting with Uncle and Auntie, having dinner after work. They often dined together a couple of times a week. Aditya arrived later than usual - at around 7:30 that evening.
“Adi, the food is still hot, come?” she called out to him, as she saw him enter through the iron gate.
“Not hungry,” he mumbled and walked up the stairs along the side of the house.
“Not hungry? Arey that never happens!” said Uncle, puzzled.
Diya shrugged, then pushed her plate away from her and stood up. “I’ll just go check,” she said. As she walked up the stairs, she noticed that the air was cool and comforting. She thought of the sticky heat that used to give her migraines in Chennai and sent up a quick prayer for her new life here.
“What happened, Adi?” she asked, as she saw him changing out of his work uniform upstairs.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” he said, dismissively, loosening his tie.
She embraced him, whispering into his back. “Tell me. I’m here.”
“That’s the problem,” he spat.
“What?” she asked, retreating with hurt. “What happened? What did I do?”
“That’s why I’m stuck at this useless job. I had to hide from a customer I thought I recognised. Customers insult me all day long. I know everything about textiles, you hear me? I should OWN this showroom. Instead, I am standing outside waiting rooms getting yelled at because I don’t know WHAT SIZE to recommend!? This is unfair!.”
“It’s just a bad day, Adi.”
“But every day is a bad day. I am tired. This is not the life I imagined. I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Adi, what about us together - isn’t that the life you imagined?”
“We can’t live on love.”
“I know, I know. It’ll get better, I promise.”
“Will it, Dee?” he asked, sincerely. “Or are we going to be stuck in this cardboard box of a room forever?” He threw up his hands as he looked toward the ceiling and shut his eyes.
“No, we are going to be just fine, wait and see. I just know it,” Diya replied, calmly.
“It’s too difficult. I have to act like a servant when I know more than the store manager. It is frustrating!”
“I’m sorry. One day you will be the manager, you will own the store. You will, Adi. I promise.” She touched his arm and squeezed it gently.
“I wish we could go back.”
“Me too, Adi. Me too.” He rubbed her palm that was resting on his shoulder.
“But we have each other,” she said, quietly.
“Now and always.”
“Always.”
------
Two years later, Aditya and Diya broke coconuts outside the new tailoring store that they had opened together. Diya wore her wedding sari and Aditya wore his dhoti. It was the nicest pair of clothes they owned. People would be arriving soon. Now that they were a little better off financially and a decent amount of time had passed, Aditya had sent an invite to his family, hoping they would come. Diya had tried calling her mother, but they were still angry and refused to speak with her. “One day at a time,” Aditya had comforted her. “They will come around.” The opening went off without a hitch and for the first time in years, Aditya and Diya celebrated the life they had built together from nothing. As they drove back home on their scooter beside the lake, Diya sighed deeply with gratitude, hugging him close.
“How far we have come, Adi,” she said.
“How many bridges we’ve had to cross, eh?” he said, turning his face slightly to the right, to catch a glimpse of her. As he turned back to the road, he saw a black car driving towards them.
“One day, we’ll get one of these,” he said.
“What?”
“This car, Dee.”
“What is it?”
“A Honda City. I had one just like it, remember?”
As the car drew closer, he remarked, “In fact, I had the same model, I think, now that it is closer...” he peered at it, trying to get a better look; it was still a short distance away.
“And the number plate…”
“Diya!”
“Adi?”
The black car raced straight toward them and as Aditya swerved to the left to avoid the car, their scooter plummeted into the deep, murky green lake. The car came to a screeching halt blocking the road and kicking up a mist of mud. A thin man with a ferocious moustache stepped out into the cloud of dust, his feet heavy on the tire-streaked soil. He dialled a number on his phone as he rubbed his chin in a contemplative manner.
Looking at the lake, and watching the disturbed water slowly settle into a state of calm, he spoke into the phone, “Maama, it’s done.”
-----
The author submitted this work to a screenwriting company as a test piece, inspired by the Bollywood movie Dhadak. On rejection, the author writes, 'I enjoyed creating this work and despite it not finding a home with the screenwriting company, I am glad it can live on somewhere on the internet as a testament to the fact that I tried.'
Comentários