By Sujatha Balasubramanian

Indira hummed a tune softly, almost to herself, as she slowly came down the stairs. The early sun threw a shaft of light across the hall and brought out the bright colours of the draperies. The foot-high bronze statue of Nararaja gleamed against the polished wood of the side-board. A small table was set for breakfast by the side of the window. All these things she took in at a glance, the things she had seen every morning for years. But today there was a difference! There was a subtle brightness around her. It was as if she was viewing things for the first time.

“Ten days,” she whispered to herself. There was excitement, anticipation, joy in those words. “Just ten days more and I will be a bride! I will be married to the man I love.” She smiled softly at the thought of Mohan. She had first met him at college. He had been in the final year when she joined but their common interest in literature had spanned the years and brought them together. Quite soon she had found that Mohan was a gay and carefree companion who shared many of her likes and dislikes. Friendship had grown into something more – a deeper understanding. It was not long before Mohan had proposed to her. Indira had been gloriously happy and had accepted. And now the wedding was just ten days away…

“I didn’t hear you come down” said her mother as she emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee. “Why are you up so early.” She smiled at her daughter. “Of course you are too excited and happy to sleep. Come and have some breakfast.” she said as she led Indira to the table.

“Oh, Mother, it feels so strange to think that I will be going away from here to a house of my own soon” cried Indira. “Tell me,” she said taking her mother’s hands in her own, “tell me, have you ever been in love. I mean like me – had you ever been in love before you got married?”

Sushila laughed as she gently withdrew her hands. “What a question you ask me! It our days what did we know about love and all that sort of thing? We married the men that our parents chose for us.” There was a strange light in her eyes and her thoughts flew back through the years…

“Mother, there is something,” Indira cried. “You are trying to keep something back! I can see it in your face. Please tell me, you must!” she insisted.

“Well,” Sushila began “there are kinds and kinds of love…”

Sushila had got up early that morning. An air of suppressed excitement surrounded the house. The floors had been already swept and wiped clean and everything was polished and dusted. A rich aroma of sweetmeats had floated out from the kitchen mingling with the fragrance of fresh coffee.

“Sushila, come here and give me a hand with these raisins and nuts” her mother had called. “I have a thousand things to attend to and it is already seven o’clock. Be sure to get ready by eight, the boy’s people are expected to be here by that time,” she had cautioned Sushila and bustled out summoning the servants. Sushila had sighed as she chopped the nuts for the halva. This was not the first time that a ‘boy’ had come to see her. There had been two more before. But somehow nothing had come through – the problem of dowry or horoscope coming in the way. Fortunately this match seemed to be almost settled. Her father had liked the bridegroom’s people very much and even though they were not very rich, the boy had a fairly good job in Delhi.

They had arrived a little after eight and the usual formalities were gone through.

“Sushila, will you bring some coffee for our guests?” her father had called out and she had stepped into the hall bearing cups full of steaming coffee. She had laid them before the visitors and prostrated herself in front of an aged man who appeared to be the bridegroom’s father. As she rose her glance had strayed towards the young mad at his side. She had taken in his calm face with deep-set eyes, the wavy black hair brushed sleekly back, the dignified bearing, all in a second. Their eyes had met for an instant and then she had lowered her head, pulled the sari closer around her shoulders and walked away.

“The boy’s father says that the horoscopes agree.” Sushila’s father had said later to her mother. “But you know, I would no dream of doing anything without consulting our astrologer from Tiruvaiyer. I am writing to him today about this matter. You remember the boy from years ago who came to see our Shushila two months ago. Those people are also willing to arrange the match any time so I am sending both horoscopes to Tiruvaiyer. Of course, whichever our astrologer prefers must be chosen. After all, he has always been infallible…”

Sushila had gone out into the garden with a song on her lips and within a second her dreams had taken tangible shape. The face she had seen this morning had made an indelible impression on her and she had known she had met the right person for her and with the hope and joys of youth had built her castles around him.

The letter to the astrologer had been duly dispatched and a reply was eagerly awaited. Time had dragged by as a week passed and no reply came. Each day Sushila had run to the gate at the postman’s knock only to return disappointed. The tenth day it had arrived. Sushila’s father had gone out and her mother had been in the kitchen talking to a neighbour. Sushila had rushed to meet the postman and had taken the postcard from him eagerly. Her eyes had fallen upon the lines written there…

“Dear Sir,

I have compared the two horoscopes you sent with that of your daughter. Accordingly, I find that the first one (the boy from Mysore) is passably good and there can be no objection to the alliance. But the other one which you have enclosed, that of the boy from Delhi, is out of the question. Upon calculation, I find that your daughter’s horoscope does not agree with it on major points. There is a grave danger of widowhood within the first year so you should not even contemplate the match.

Shankara Josyar.”

Sushila’s hands trembled as she read the message. Her heart had beat faster with fear and disappointment.

“How can I bear it” she had thought, “how can I marry another man.”

Voices from the kitchen had broken in on their thoughts. Her mother was discussing Sushila’s marriage with a neighbour…

“Yes, we expect the wedding to take place soon. But my husband will never lift a finger without consulting our family astrologer. Shankara Josyar is really a remarkable man. I had yet to see one of his predictions proved wrong. Why, ten years ago you know what happened. We had just shown him the horoscope of my sister’s child who was hardly a year old. Josyar did not say anything to my sister but he called me aside and said, ‘Amma, there is a big flaw in this horoscope. In the fourth year of the boy’s life there will be a crisis. I fear for his life.’ The child was fair and healthy, pretty as an ivory doll of Krishna and I kept this thing to myself. But just as Josyar predicted, shortly after his third birthday the child fell sick and within four days all was over…” Sushila’s mother had sighed reminiscently but had brightened up soon. “But when my first daughter was married last year the same Shankara Josyar predicted that the boy would get a big promotion within six months of his company. My husband has implicit faith in our astrologer and is waiting to hear from him about the horoscopes…” the voice had rumbled on but Sushila had not waited to hear any more. Clutching the postcard in her hand she had fled to the garden,

For a long time she had sat there staring into space. “Are all my hopes and dreams to crumble to dust so soon.” her heart had cried. “I belong to him and only to him. It is almost as if we had already been married that day. Life without him would be a mere farce.” Tears had streamed down her cheeks and she had wiped them away with the edge of her sari. The price she would have to pay was too much. A horrifying vision of white-hooded figures with shaven heads had risen in front of her. Sushila had realized only too well what widowhood signified. It was a sort of penal servitude for life!

“But even if I can be his wife for just one day, even if I have to live with just a memory for the rest of my life I would not mind. I would willingly give my whole life to be with the one I love” she had thought fiercely. She had looked at the postcard again and then deliberately torn it into little pieces and thrown them into the rosebush. When she had entered the house again her heart had been light. “Why,” she had smiled to herself, “I do not even know the name of the man I love!”