Chapter 4: The Wedding of Spectacles

On the day of the wedding, I expected the guest list to be thinner than my patience.

Who would want to be seen at a wedding blessed by the government only as a formality, not affection? The club crowd had made their position clear with their sideways glances and half-heard whispers over whisky.

Who would have thought—the Chief Minister himself would arrive, all power and perfume, trailed by every senior officer in Lucknow! He’d said in our youth, while we played cards and swapped war stories, that if ever I married, he would personally attend and be my witness—so the world would know we were like brothers. True to his word, he came, and my wheelchair was rolled before him, every eye in the room boring into me.

"I hear there’s a local custom of shooting three clay pots. Since I’ve come personally to offer my congratulations, I wonder if Colonel Arjun could give us a demonstration?" he announced, voice dripping with challenge. Instantly, a liveried servant tossed a bow at my feet, the thud echoing off the marble floors.

It was not congratulations but humiliation, served in full view of every big name in uniform. He knew my hands were stiff and my back was twisted from injury—I couldn’t draw a bow if my life depended on it. And yet he wanted to see me fail, see me become a spectacle.

I stared at the colourful pots hoisted high on bamboo poles, every eye in the durbar fixed on me. The officers stood behind their boss, a solid wall of silence—no one even dared to cough.

Suddenly, a voice rang out, clear as temple bells, lively and sharp: "Accha, so this is why we haven’t done the pheras yet—how lively everyone is outside!"

Whispers broke out—shocked, scandalized: "Why has the bride come out on her own?" "And she’s lifted her veil—Arrey Ram!" "Such boldness!"

Even the air seemed to stand still, as Ananya, radiant in her deep red lehenga, her eyes fearless, walked forward. She bowed low to the Chief Minister, both respectful and cheeky: "Sir, the auspicious hour is passing. Why not let me shoot the pots instead?"

A beat of tension shivered through the hall: officers exchanged glances, an aunty whispered behind her pallu, someone’s phone vibrated on silent. The social pressure pressed down, heavy as a monsoon sky—until the Chief Minister laughed, the sound rumbling through the crowd.

The officers scoffed, their voices a poisonous drizzle: "What a joke." "This girl is too much!" "A woman shooting at targets—what next?"

Yet, perhaps because he was amused, or perhaps to see how far this spectacle would go, the Chief Minister agreed, laughter rumbling in his chest.

Ananya smiled, picked up the bow with steady hands, as if the mocking voices around her were the chirping of sparrows she could flick away.

"First wish: May husband and wife live in harmony, and wealth flow in like the Ganga!" she announced, sending the arrow flying. It smashed the first pot, releasing a shower of coloured paper that twirled in the sunlight.

A gasp rippled through the hall. Even the old pandit paused mid-chant, eyebrows raised.

For a moment, the laughter faded, curiosity overtaking contempt. The Chief Minister’s eyes flickered in surprise. Ananya jumped in excitement, nocking the second arrow: "Second wish: May you always be healthy, blessed and peaceful."

The arrow whistled through the air, breaking the second pot—another rain of colour. Now the whole hall was silent, the air thick with disbelief. She beamed, about to pick up the third arrow, when I gently held her hand.

She looked up at me, her face confused, lips parted in question. I drew my small crossbow from the wheelchair’s armrest, aimed at the final pot: "Third wish: May Ananya’s life be smooth, and everything go as she wishes!"

With a twang, the last pot exploded, and coloured paper drifted down like blessings from the gods. The faces of the officers and the Chief Minister were more colourful than the fluttering paper. No one had ever seen a wedding quite like this—no one knew whether to clap or scold.

Among all those powerful guests, not one had truly come to bless us—they were there for the spectacle, for their own position. Only Madam, sharp and blazing, had pierced through the falseness of the occasion.

As the coloured paper rained down, Ananya’s cheeks glowed, her laughter ringing out. She clapped and grabbed my wheelchair, saying with a grin, "Chalo, Colonel, pheras ka time ho gaya!"