Page 52 of Mrs. Pandey
The crimson, heavy saree lay on the bed, an intimidating heap of fabric. I stared at it, a knot tightening in my stomach. "How am I supposed to wear this?" The thought echoed Priya's cruel words: Don't embarrass us in front of our village people. The fear was a cold prickle. What if I did embarrass them? Prashant would hate me even more. But then, why did I even care? I was here for his help, though he still had no clue about my secret agenda.
My phone buzzed relentlessly - fifty-four missed calls, twenty-three unread texts. Mom knew where I was, knew it was my wedding day, but they had no idea I was already married.
I opened Dad's message. "At least tell us you're safe, Ira. This behavior? Never expected it from you. You're just great, giving us a damn surprise, aren't you, sweetheart? I just pray to God that next birth I will never get a daughter like you. You're just a shame on our family, a taint. I wish I would have killed you the day I found out I was having a daughter." Each word was a stone, dropping heavy into my chest. "I'm disowning you! From now on we have no relationship, Ira."
I called, but his phone was off. Mom answered on the first ring. "Ira, are you okay?"
"Yes... yes, Mom." My lip trembled. "Dad... he texted me..."
"Calm down, I'm trying to talk to your father, but that bastard Amish Patel filled your father's head with dirt. He's not ready to listen to me..." Mom paused, her voice hushed. "Ira, listen, I really need to hang up. Your dad is coming. Please take care of yourself, sweetheart."
"Mom, please take care of your..." Before I could finish, she hung up. I collapsed onto the bed, hands clamped over my mouth, stifling a sob.
"You still not ready yet?" Prashant's voice, sharp and laced with irritation, cut through my despair. I shot up, eyes wide, as he strode into the room. He was in a long-sleeved burgundy shirt and light pants, his hair slicked back, a faint stubble on his jawline making him look older, more mature. He looked physically striking, a handsome husband, but emotionally, he was a closed book.
I shook my head, glancing at the saree, a silent accusation on the bed. "I don't know how to wear a saree," I said, my fingers fiddling with a loose thread on my dress.
Prashant let out a heavy sigh, his gaze piercing. He held it for a few moments, then strode towards the bed, grabbing the saree. He unfolded it, examined it like a complex diagram, then pulled out his phone. His thumb scrolled, his eyes fixed on the screen, saree tutorials, no doubt.
After a few minutes, he had the fabric in hand, looking like a battle plan. "Stand up," he commanded, his voice as flat and unyielding as a school principal's. I instantly obeyed. "You need to remove your clothes..."
I bit my lower lip, a nervous nod escaping me. Slowly, I peeled off my dress, then slipped into the red blouse. My fingers fumbled, trying to reach the hooks at the back, but they were just out of reach. Then, I felt Prashant's strong, masculine hand on my bare skin. A sharp gasp escaped me as his fingers expertly fastened the hooks, his touch impersonal, almost clinical. Theair crackled with an unspoken tension, but his expression remained a mask of polite indifference.
"Now, the petticoat," he stated, his voice devoid of any warmth. He held out a drawstring skirt, not looking at me as I took it. I pulled it on, feeling clumsy and exposed. "Alright, listen carefully." He picked up the saree again, his movements precise, almost mechanical. "The key is the pleats. Get them right, and the rest is manageable." He started folding, his eyes on the fabric, not on me. His fingers, surprisingly adept, created neat, even pleats. He held them out, a silent instruction for me to tuck them into the petticoat. His hands brushed mine as I took the fabric, a brief, fleeting contact that sent a shiver down my spine, though he seemed oblivious.
"Next, the pallu," he continued, his voice flat, like he was reciting from a manual. He draped the decorated end over my shoulder, adjusting it with a practiced hand. "Make sure it falls cleanly. No wrinkles." He stepped back, a critical eye scanning my reflection in the mirror. He reached out, tugging at a fold near my waist, correcting it with a stern, impersonal touch. "There. You're... ready." He didn't offer a compliment, no reassuring smile. Just a cold assessment. He then turned, grabbing his phone, already scrolling, as if the entire interaction was just another chore checked off his list. I stood there, wrapped in the heavy, unfamiliar fabric, feeling more alone than ever I felt before.
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Chapter 24
IRA
The echo of voices from outside the room was like a slow, steady beat against the delicate silence inside. My heart, already restless, was picking up its pace. Prashant, lost in his own world after completing his training on how to wear a saree, was now lost in his phone, completely oblivious to the war going on inside me. I straightened the heavy pallu of the saree, the red fabric suddenly feeling like a lead blanket. That was it. The moment of truth.
"Ready?" Prashant's voice was a flat question, not an invitation. He didn't wait for my response, just opened the door and stepped out. I took in a shuddering breath, the scent of fresh cow dung and wet mud mingling with the distinctive smell of the village. This was not the air-conditioned banquet hall I had always imagined for my wedding reception.
As I stepped into the courtyard, silence descended on the villagers gathered there. Hundreds of sharp, assessing eyes were fixed on me. It felt like I was thrust into a spotlight, every insecurity amplified. I tried to make eye contact with them, but my eyes kept squaring off. Whispers began, a low, buzzing stream that soon turned into a disjointed murmur.
"Look at her," a woman whispered loud enough for me to hear. "She trapped our Prashant. Broke his marriage and forced him into this marriage."
Another voice, a man's, echoed, "What a shame. Our boy deserved better than that city girl who probably ran away from her own family and got herself pregnant with a bastard."
My cheeks burned as they called me names, judging me with that look like I was some sort of witch who came into their village. It was easy for them but it was difficult when they put themselves in my shoes. The most beautiful thing in the world is people and the ugliest thing in the world is also people. They could make you worth and worthless at the same time. It was just time that changed. And my time was not favouring me at that moment.
My eyes caught a woman. Prashant's mother, standing a little away from the other women, her face a mask of disapproval. Her narrowed, cold eyes pierced right at me. There was no welcome, no warmth, just an icy disdain that mirrored my father's recent anger. She hadn't even looked at me since I arrived, and now, her gaze felt like a physical blow on my face.
Next to them, Prashant's twin sisters, Priya and Pari, stood like two perfectly poised statues, their faces mirroring their mother's hatred, perhaps even amplifying it. Priya, who had already given me a good scolding, smiled, a sense of triumph dancing in her eyes. Pari, who was usually quiet, just stared, her silence more condemning than any insult. Their gazes converged, a powerful current of dislike aimed straight at me.
I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. Every whispered comment, every critical glance, every scornful glance felt like a brick hitting me. I could feel Prashant's presence next to me, solid and unwavering, but it felt as if he was millions of miles away. He didn't acknowledge the taunts, didn't even offer a reassuring look, didn't even flinch. He just stood there, like a silent, motionless pillar, letting me face this onslaught alone. Itwas clear: I was alone in this village, an outsider who had dared to disturb their balance. And Prashant, my husband, was doing absolutely nothing to protect me from their venom.
The air was becoming thick with unspoken accusations, with the weight of their collective disapproval. How would I survive this? How would I survive here, amid the constant scrutiny and outright dislike of an entire village, led by the very family I was now a part of? The red saree, once a symbol of a new beginning, now seemed like a scarlet letter, declaring me an unwanted intruder.
"Bahu!" Prashant's mom's voice was like a jump-scare in a Bollywood horror flick, sudden, loud, and enough to make me leap out of my skin. My head snapped around, and there she was, a vision in traditional wear, slim and elegant, but with a gaze that could curdle milk. Seriously, I'm not usually one to back down, especially from other women, but her scrutiny made me feel like a five-year-old caught with her hand in the cookie jar. And let's be real, I'd pretty much resigned myself to the fact that no woman, especially a mother-in-law, was ever going to be my fan. Trying to impress her felt like trying to teach a cat to fetch, utterly pointless.
"She's calling you," Prashant whispered, his voice a low hum next to my ear. "Bahu means daughter-in-law, don't you know?"
"I know, but honestly, looking at your mom's face makes me feel like I need a bathroom break, pronto," I mumbled back. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, the kind that makes you want to hit rewind and watch it again before it vanished, replaced by his usual stone-cold expression. Damn, I really wanted to see those dimples again.
