Page 30 of Mrs. Pandey
“Not good, Ira,” Mom complained, her voice laced with a familiar exasperation. “You forgot what I’ve been asking for one month. You still haven’t answered me.”
My mother was hell-bent on arranging my marriage, a relentless pursuit that had consumed her for weeks. She’d sent me numerous images of guys from different fields: engineers, doctors, and corporate executives. I hadn’t even bothered to check the pictures of them twice.
If they weren’t from the army, they would be utterly boring to me.
I’d told her, repeatedly, with increasing frustration, “None of them belong to the military, Mom.” My preference was clear and unwavering.
“Ira, listen,” her voice took on a desperate, worried tone that sent shivers down my spine. “Your father is fixing your marriage with the same doctor Mr. Patel told us about, but I want you to marry the person of your choice. So please make a decision within twenty-four hours. You’re aware of your father’s temper. He won’t listen to anyone if he fixes your marriage with that doctor.”
I squeezed my phone in my hand, the plastic digging into my palm, as I exhaled sharply. “Why is he so desperate to marry me off?”
The question hung in the air, rhetorical and heavy with unspoken resentment.
“When Aryan called off your marriage, people talked dirty about you, Ira. They think you’re a characterless, spoiled brat who slept with numerous guys in your base. It just embarrasses your father, and you’re well aware of your father’s heart condition, aren’t you? Please, Ira, listen to your father. Please, honey.” Her voice pleaded, tugging at the guilt she knew I carried.
“Mom, I can’t decide in just twenty-four hours, right? You’re asking me to choose a man I want to spend my whole life with. How am I supposed to make a decision in just one day?” My voice rose, a desperate edge creeping in.
“I have given you one month, in case you’ve forgotten. But you’re too adamant not to marry.” Her voice became colder and sharper, a stark contrast to her earlier desperation. “Listen, Ira. Choose, or we’ll choose for you. We want you to get married before your father suffers another heart attack.”
The implied threat was clear. A familiar weapon in their arsenal.
“Mom…” I started, but she cut me off.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said abruptly, and then the line went dead.
Shocked, I stared at the blank screen, hoping she would call me again and tell me that she wasn’t serious. But she didn’t.
My mother never truly tried to support me over my father; she always did what he told her to do. I was the only one who dared to speak against him, to challenge his authority. That was why he wanted to get rid of me, handing me over to another family like a burden to be shed.
I checked my body temperature. I was feeling a little better than last night; the lingering fever finally receded. Maybe the medicine had worked perfectly, or perhaps it was Prashant’s body massage that had brought some unexpected relief.
I glanced at the clock.
It was six in the morning, and I still had a couple of hours before I needed to leave for the office. With a sigh, I decided to look through the pictures of the guys my mother had been sending for the past month.
“This is a lot,” I groaned, the task feeling impossibly heavy.
I began swiping through the images one after another, my finger moving with a reluctant rhythm.
None of them were my type. Some were too old, their smiles strained and distant; some were too young. Some were toosimple, their expressions bland, while others were too dashing, their posed confidence grating on my nerves.
None of them, not a single one looked like Prashant or Aryan. There was no spark, no hint of the raw, untamed energy that drew me in.
“I hate them all!” I hissed, my irritation finally boiling over.
With a frustrated cry, I tossed my phone onto the bed. “I don’t want to get married.”
The words echoed in the quiet room, a desperate plea to an unseen audience.
The familiar ache in my jaw intensified as I chewed the inside of my cheek, a physical manifestation of the anger simmering beneath my skin. My mother's ultimatum to make a life-altering decision in mere hours was still stung.
I tried calling her again, but the call was promptly rejected. She just wanted to listen, "Hey, Mom, I just chose one of the guys and I am ready to get married to him." The words, even in my mind, felt foreign and absurd.
What the hell. I couldn't and wouldn’t marry a stranger. The thought was laughable. I envisioned my future, and it was with a man I knew, a man I could trust implicitly. I wanted my partner to be my friend first, someone like Aryan.
With him, I was so comfortable I could even share the intimate details of my body, like how sore I was during my periods, the heaviness of my flow. He would listen patiently, never cringing, and would even bring me chocolate when I needed it. Aryan hadalways been husband material, a truly good man, but I knew he deserved better than me. And besides, he was happily married, enjoying his life with his wife.
A familiar voice drifted in through the open window, pulling me from my thoughts. It was Prashant.
