Married to the Corpse Bride / Chapter 2: Shadows, Storms, and Secrets
Married to the Corpse Bride

Married to the Corpse Bride

Author: Saanvi Nair


Chapter 2: Shadows, Storms, and Secrets

02

Arjun’s fist was cocked, but Grandpa squeezed through the crush, a shaky smile pasted on. "Arre Arjun, shaadi ka din hai—khoon bahana bura shagun hai, beta."

His voice was gentle but carried the weight of a hundred family squabbles. He adjusted his Gandhi chashma, the gesture enough to calm the room for a heartbeat. From the women’s side, a cousin started whispering Hanuman Chalisa, eyes fixed on the bride.

Arjun grumbled, "Sharma chacha, main toh bas lunch kar raha hoon apno ke saath. Kyon aise logon ko andar aane dete ho? Musibat bulane ki zarurat kya hai?"

He waved his hand in disgust, his kada flashing. It was every host’s nightmare—a stranger bringing bad luck or scandal. The men nodded, muttering their agreement. "Ab toh kuch bada hone wala hai," someone whispered.

Grandpa forced a laugh. "Arre, yeh ladka toh bhala hi hai. Agar sach mein shava dulhan hoti, sab ki bhalai ki baat karta hai."

But his eyes darted to the bride, worry clouding his face. Was there a crack in the rituals? A curse in the curry?

Arjun curled his lip. "Sookhe ka saal nahi hai—shava dulhan ka sawal hi nahi. Yeh toh pakka dhongi hai. Bahar nikaalo isko."

He spat on the sticky floor, where spilled lassi mixed with rainwater, his contempt soaking in. In our town, only the most shameless would spoil a wedding—unless something truly evil had slipped in.

Grandpa nodded, apologetic. "Theek hai, theek hai. Main ise bahar le jaata hoon."

He placed a steady but firm hand on the man’s back, steering him toward the door, hoping to contain the drama. Aunties leaned in, one muttering, "Yeh toh abhi shuru hua hai."

But the man wouldn’t budge, his wild eyes fixed on the bride. The air was heavy with the sharp smell of kerosene from a nearby lamp; the spicy aroma of mutton curry seemed too thick to breathe.

Arjun shoved him hard. "Ek aur baar meri biwi ki taraf dekha toh aankh nikaal dunga!"

The thud of the shove echoed, silencing even the kids. Grandpa shot Arjun a glance, heavy as a father’s warning, telling him to back off.

The man glared back, voice breaking. "Mera compass yahan le aaya. Shava dulhan andar hai. Din dhoop mein kuch kar sakta hoon, raat hote hi, ek bhi zinda nahi bachega."

He pulled out a battered brass compass—the needle spun wild, defying logic. A gasp rippled through the crowd; old Mrs. Lobo crossed herself, murmuring, "Baba re, bhoot!"

Arjun spat. "Dara mat! Agar shava dulhan hai bhi, meri biwi nahi ho sakti. Wo toh ghar se lekar yahan tak sabke beech thi. Kaise ho sakta hai?"

He puffed out his chest, scanning the crowd for approval. Cousins nodded, eager to show their loyalty.

The man snapped, "Shop mein sabko check kiya. Sab zinda—siwai dulhan ke. Woh toh ghunghat mein chhupi hai. Mera yakeen hai, dulhan hi shava dulhan hai. Yantra ki wajah se chup hai. Raat hote hi, sab khatam."

His words hit like stones in a pond. Some elders shivered, half-remembered tales of chudails and pisachinis echoing in their heads. The groom’s mother clutched her mangalsutra, chanting a quiet shloka.

Sab kehte the: shava dulhan aayi, toh khoon peeti hai—sau kos ke andar koi zinda nahi bachta.

That legend was older than the banyan outside the temple. Everyone knew it, whispered in kitchens and in nightmares after summer weddings.

Arjun stomped, voice booming. "Saale! Bakwas band kar, nahi toh maar dalunga!"

He rolled up his sleeves, ready to fight. The air was thick as dahi, and cousins moved to support him.

He lunged, but Grandpa stopped him, gripping Arjun’s arm. "Shant ho ja, Arjun! Shaadi ka din hai, maar peet nahi!"

Grandpa’s grip was iron, his voice brooking no argument. The crowd hesitated; even Arjun knew not to cross Dadaji.

Arjun slammed the table, pointing at the man. "Is gadhe ki wajah se hungama ho raha hai! Dil saaf nahi hai iska."

The plates jumped, a few rasgullas tumbling onto the plastic sheet. The men growled, pride wounded by the outsider’s accusation.

Grandpa turned to the stranger. "Beta, hamare yahan niyam hai—ghunghat bridal room mein hi uthta hai. Aise sabke saamne dekhna beizzati hai."

His eyebrows arched—everyone knew, breaking this rule was worse than any ghost’s curse.

The man protested, "Par raat hote hi der ho jayegi."

Sweat beaded on his brow, mixing with the sticky monsoon air.

Arjun sneered, "Der kis baat ki? Lagta hai tu wohi hai jisse Priya college mein milti thi?"

He squared up, suspicion and wounded pride blazing. Someone at the back let out a low whistle—here comes the scandal.

Priya—our pride, the college girl—had always been away in the city. Rumour was, she’d had a boyfriend. But Arjun wanted her, and her family couldn’t refuse. So Priya was married off. Since the engagement, her eyes had turned dull—sometimes I’d see her hands clench around a brochure from the university, or hear her uncle’s bicycle bell in my dreams.

The man’s face clouded. "Main nahi hoon. Bakwas mat karo."

His words were clipped, his glance at Priya a silent question—was she trapped, or hiding?

Arjun curled his lip, jealousy thick in his tone. "Priya ab meri biwi hai. Bahut log the jo uske peeche the, par sab gayab ho gaye. Tu baharwala hai—nikal ja, warna bura hoga."

A shudder ran through the room. Things everyone thought, but never spoke, now hung in the air.

At that, Mr. Dubey, the panchayat head, barked, "Oye gadhe! Do peg pee ke bakwaas karta hai. Ek aur lafz bola toh thappad padega."

His voice cut through the noise like a slap, the crowd falling silent. "Inko toh shaadi ke din bhi akal nahi aayi," an auntie grumbled. A cousin muttered, "Ab toh kuch bada hone wala hai."

People still whispered about Priya and my younger uncle. They’d planned to go to the same college, but the day before he was to leave, he was found dead on the hill. Seventy stab wounds, privates gone. Some said it was a ghost; others, jealousy. Police came, but no one was caught. The hill was cursed after that.

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