Chapter 5: A New Bride

Old Madam Sharma kept her word.

She prepared a respectable dowry for me—silk sarees folded with camphor, a silver lota, a pair of gold jhumkas, and a small packet of turmeric and kumkum, as tradition demands. The neighbourhood aunties eyed the parcels, whispering about my luck as if I’d won a lottery.

Madam specifically chose a day when the young master was away on business to send me off. The house was quiet, the only sound the distant ring of the temple bell as I was led out, my feet bare as is custom for brides.

She pressed my contract into my hand, saying guiltily: 'Arjun ka toh... bas, woh mardana taaqat nahi hai. At least, beta, tu bachche ka dard toh nahi jhelegi.'

'Don’t worry, men who are lacking in that area are often especially talented in other ways.' She winked, a trace of the old conspiratorial smile flickering on her lips.

Actually, I hadn’t thought about such things at all—this was just a change of homes to me. My hands trembled as I held the contract, the future a blur beyond the gates.

When the wedding car arrived, the matchmaker carried me into the Sharma bungalow. The scent of marigold and incense clung to my saree, and someone had drawn rangoli at the entrance, the colours already smudged by so many feet.

Colonel Arjun was unwell, so I bowed to his sword in his stead at the wedding. The priest’s shlokas mingled with the smell of ghee lamps and the sharp tang of marigold petals crushed underfoot. I touched the cold steel, my heart heavy with prayers only the gods could hear.

On the wedding night, other brides would sit on the bed waiting for their husband to lift the red dupatta.

But when I opened the door, my husband, dressed in a red kurta, was already half-lying on the bed. He looked so different from the war hero in stories—vulnerable, his eyes clouded with pain.

'Colonel,' I called softly, afraid my voice would be too loud for his frail state.

He turned. His face was extremely handsome, but completely bloodless. His jaw, set with a soldier’s resolve, softened as he regarded me.

'I had no intention of marrying. If you don’t mind, let’s call each other brother and sister.' He pointed to the divan beside him. 'To avoid worrying my mother tonight, please make do over there. Tomorrow, you can move to the guest room.' His words were polite but distant, as if reciting orders from parade ground.

'Alright.'

He arranged everything thoroughly, not at all as I had imagined. For a second, I stared at the floor, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Was this relief or just another kind of loneliness?

When I left home, a matron had secretly advised me: 'Bahu, pati-patni sab kuch kar sakte hain... woh jagah na sahi, aur bhi tareeke hain. Samjhi?' She had leaned in, the spice of paan heavy on her breath, eyes twinkling with forbidden knowledge.

'What?'

She furtively pressed a little booklet into my hand. It was worn at the edges, the pages dog-eared and secretive.

When I opened it, my face flushed and my heart pounded. The images and words, far bolder than anything in my world, made my breath catch, my hands tremble.

'Are you feeling hot?' Arjun’s clear eyes stared straight at me. His gaze, calm but searching, pinned me in place.

I panicked. 'M-maybe the wedding saree is too thick. It’s a bit hot.' I fiddled with my bangles, hoping he wouldn’t notice my embarrassment.

'Then wash up and rest early. I’ll sleep first.'

He pulled the quilt over himself and lay down to sleep. I watched the slow rise and fall of his breath, his face turned away, still and resolute.

Perhaps he was tired—soon, I heard his gentle, steady breathing. The silence pressed in, broken only by the occasional creak of the old ceiling fan.

I went to the dressing table, took off the maang tikka, and undressed piece by piece in front of the mirror, leaving only a thin petticoat. My reflection startled me—a woman on the cusp of something unknown, her eyes bright, her body trembling.

Looking at myself in the mirror, my chest was full, my waist slender, lips red and arms pale, eyes shimmering with moisture.

Madam often said that women who looked like this were too seductive, and told me to always cover up tightly. I heard her voice in my head, chiding me for every stray lock of hair, every inch of skin exposed.

Suddenly, I turned and entered the bathroom behind the curtain.

I met a pair of hungry eyes.

The old tube light flickered above, throwing both our shadows against the wall—his breath caught, my heart thudding like a tabla. Arjun’s face was even redder than before, his chest rising and falling, Adam’s apple bobbing. His knuckles whitened on the armrest, his gaze refusing to leave me.

I grabbed my dupatta from the floor to cover my chest, flustered. 'Co-Colonel, weren’t you asleep?' My voice barely a whisper, shame and confusion warring inside me.

After a moment, his voice came, restrained and low: 'I can sleep a little later too.'