Cheating Lagna

I have always believed marriage to be a particularly cruel trick of civilisation. It is the sort of institution invented by men who were too lazy to chase after women but too possessive to let them run free.

It is, if you ask me, a gilded cage.

It remains a confinement regardless of how expensive the bars are, how many seasonal flowers decorate the periphery, or how many carefully curated happily-ever-after photographs dominate my social media feeds.

A trap is a trap, and I had spent the better part of my thirty-two years running from it.

I am not the sort of woman who makes a convincing songbird. More of a hawk, if I am being perfectly honest, though admittedly one with a distinct weakness for truffle fries, vintage Chanel, and outrageously expensive candles that smell faintly of cedarwood and poor financial decisions.

Fortunately, my royalties as a novelist ensured I could afford all three without having to ask a man for permission or a pocketbook.

My family in Nepal would faint if they heard me say any of that aloud. Actually, my mother already has, figuratively speaking at least, during one of our spectacular arguments about matrimony.

Fortunately for me, my parents live in Kathmandu while I live in London, which is roughly 4,500 miles away, and even for the nosiest aunty with binoculars, that is a blessed distance.

I live in Kensington now, in a narrow cream townhouse with heritage windows that trap heat in summer and release it enthusiastically in winter. Estate agents describe it as being full of historic character. Which is polite British shorthand for bloody old and ruinously expensive.

My neighbours are either Russian oligarchs who never seem to emerge during daylight hours or aristocrats so ancient they look faintly embalmed.

One elderly woman across the street peers at me through lace curtains every morning whilst watering plants that appear to have died sometime during the Thatcher administration.

You might reasonably imagine that all this material comfort, this hard-won stability, would have softened my views over time.

You might think I would look around this empty but beautifully styled house and long for a husband with whom to share the mortgage. Or perhaps someone to hold my champagne flute at literary receptions.

But that is not how I feel.

In fact, becoming successful has made me even more doubtful about marriage and less interested in it.

However, my mother has a completely different opinion and believes marriage is the natural conclusion to a woman's life. I believe it is an optional extra, much like heated car seats or decorative cushions.

Neither of us has ever succeeded in convincing the other.

As though summoned by the very thought of her, my phone began vibrating across the marble kitchen island.

I stared at the illuminated screen. It informed me that my mother was calling.

I considered ignoring it, letting it ring out while I pretended to be deep in the throes of literary creation. Instead, I swiped the green icon, revealing the extravagantly expensive sitting room.

It was a space so aggressively draped in silk and gold trim that it always gave me a mild headache. Before she even spoke, she adjusted her camera angle to ensure that a massive, glittering diamond necklace on her collarbone occupied the exact centre of the frame.

"Veda, my chori," she began, her voice carrying that specific, performative sweetness that usually signalled an impending emotional ambush. She paused, her eyes narrowing as she inspected my complexion through the lens.

"How are you keeping? You look a bit pale through the camera. Are you eating properly in that cold city?"

"I am perfectly well, Aama," I replied, leaning back against the marble island. I picked up a linen dishcloth, scrubbing at a non-existent water spot on the stone just to avoid her gaze. "And I assure you, London has excellent grocery stores."

She ignored the remark completely, switching smoothly to her usual interrogation.

"What is the weather?" she demanded, her tone sharpening. She sounded thoroughly unconvinced that a civilised society could exist outside the subcontinent.

"Grey," I murmured, keeping my eyes fixed on the cloth in my hand.

"And yesterday?" she pressed, continuing her cross-examination. She adjusted her heavy gold bangles, leaning closer to the screen.

"Grey," I repeated, turning a tea cup upside down on the drying rack with a sharp clink.

"And tomorrow?" she asked, a note of triumph creeping into her voice as she closed the trap.

"Almost certainly grey," I admitted with a faint sigh, finally looking up to concede the meteorological point.

She sighed dramatically in return, her voice crackling over the miles with practiced sorrow. "Such a miserable country," she declared, managing to sound both deeply disappointed and entirely vindicated by my report.

I looked out through the kitchen windows at the drizzle sliding down the glass. She wasn't entirely wrong, but London suited me.

The city minded its own business. Nobody here cared whether I was married, unmarried, divorced, widowed, spiritually enlightened or spiritually confused.

The city simply continued around you with a kind of cold indifference that I find deeply comforting.

In Kathmandu, everyone knows your relationship status before breakfast. In London, my next-door neighbour once forgot my name for three consecutive years; despite borrowing my hedge trimmer twice.

"What is the occasion for the heavy artillery around your neck?" I inquired, gesturing vaguely toward my own collarbone to mirror her reflection.

She patted the diamonds lovingly, her heavy gold bangles clinking with rhythmic precision. "The Shrestha family engagement was beautiful... three thousand guests."

Only in Nepal could a guest list of three thousand people be described casually.

"The bride looked lovely," she went on, sharpening the blade with a delicate clink of her teacup. "Everyone was asking when our Veda would finally settle down."

I closed my eyes, enduring the inevitable transition. Every conversation with my mother eventually became a hostage situation involving marriage.

Last month, I called to inform her that I had been nominated for a prestigious literary award, but before congratulating me she inquired if there would be any eligible men present at the ceremony.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Aama, please. I am a successful author. I am not a tragic social case," I muttered, feeling the familiar prickle of irritation.

"Success is nothing without a family," she snapped, her maternal patience instantly evaporating as she abandoned the sweet tone for her natural, commanding authority.

She leaned forward, her gaze intensifying through the digital divide. "Have you considered freezing your eggs?"

The word hit me with an unexpected, physical thud. My hand slipped, knocking the teaspoon off the counter. It clattered loudly against the tiled floor.

"Aama," I groaned, bending down to retrieve it just to hide the sudden, uncharacteristic lapse in my composure.

"I read about a clinic in Harley Street," she continued, her gaze dropping to my midsection as if she could jumpstart the process through the screen.

"I do not wish to discuss my ovaries before breakfast," I said, managing to keep my voice smooth as I stood back up and rinsed the spoon under a stream of scalding water, intentionally ignoring the sting where the splash hit my thumb.

As usual, she collapsed dramatically onto her velvet sofa, a hand pressed elegantly against her forehead. It was one of her greatest talents; alongside guilt-tripping and selecting jewellery capable of blinding people at weddings.

"You are breaking my heart, chori. Your father and I only want to see you settled. Is a good, respectable husband such a terrible thing to ask for?" she wept, looking up at the ceiling as though appealing to a higher power.

"For me? Yes," I said firmly, setting the spoon down with a sharp, definitive tap.

"I spoke to a very special Jyotshini at the engagement. She came highly recommended by Mrs Shrestha."

My fingers tightened around the edge of the marble counter. "Aama, please. If this is another thinly veiled conversation about suitable matches—"

"Just listen to me first," she snapped, cutting me off with a sharp wave of her hand. The theatrical tears vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, unshakeable focus.

"This woman is famous across the country. Even government ministers and film stars consult her. She read your birth chart, Veda."

"Brilliant," I sighed, though my sarcastic drawl felt slightly more forced now as I took a sip of my freshly brewed Darjeeling tea, instantly burning the tip of my tongue. I swallowed past the pain, refusing to wince on camera.

"And what terrible, cosmic fate awaits me this time? Total financial ruin? Premature baldness? A sudden, tragic allergy to Chanel?"

"She said you are destined to marry before this year ends."

Silence fell over the kitchen. The rain tapped softly, rhythmically against the glass of the heritage windows.

Then, I laughed. It wasn't a polite chuckle; it was a loud, sharp, hysterical bark of a laugh that echoed off the kitchen tiles.

"Oh, is that all or shall I expect a bolt of lightning next? Perhaps a visit from the Queen?"

"Veda." My mother's voice sharpened into a tone that was dangerously cold. "Do not mock these sacred things. The stars do not lie."

"I absolutely will mock these things. It's the twenty-first century."

"She said you cannot run from your path anymore. You have spent ten years dodging your duties, but the planetary alignment has shifted."

There was something unsettling in her delivery then. It wasn't her usual manipulative guilt-tripping or her standard theatrical sighing; it was a flat, unshakeable conviction.

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling, trying to shake off the strange, cold chill that was suddenly crawling up my spine. "I have successfully run from it for over a decade. I am quite good at running."

"Yes, because your chart allowed it. But you have entered a new phase now. The astromancer was very clear: a wedding is fixed in your destiny before the winter solstice. It is already written."

"Well, my personal destiny also includes an upcoming literary award and a fabulous new pair of knee-high leather boots; neither of which require a marriage licence."

"You only joke because you are secretly frightened."

"I am not frightened of marriage," I said, my voice hardening as I dumped the wet dishcloth into the sink. "I am fundamentally allergic to it."

My mother exhaled heavily down the line. I could literally see her pacing through the grand sitting room of our Kathmandu home; walking beneath the crystal chandeliers while she wrung her hands.

"If you find yourself a respectable Nepali man who treats you well, your father and I will gladly accept him into our family without hesitation," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, chilling ultimatum.

She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle over the distance. "We will not interfere. But if you do not produce a suitable man before the year is out, then enough is enough. Your father and I have already drawn up a shortlist with the family matchmaker. We will arrange it ourselves."

I sat bolt upright in my chair, my tea entirely forgotten.

"Aama... you're serious?"

"Very."

"I am thirty-two, not a prize heifer to be auctioned off at market!"

"You are our daughter first and foremost."

"I live in a completely different country! I am a successful figure!"

"And yet," she said, delivering the final, crushing blow with absolute precision, "you are still entirely unmarried. In our community, that is a lingering shame."

There it was. The ultimate family tragedy. The great, unspoken stain on the family ledger.

Unmarried.

They spoke the word as though I were suffering from a highly contagious, socially debilitating tropical disease.

"You cannot avoid the reality of life forever," she continued, her tone softening just enough to imply a deep, maternal pity. "A woman needs companionship. A woman needs a husband to anchor her."

"A woman needs equal pay, structural autonomy, and decent medical-grade skincare."

"This is not a joke, Veda."

"No," I agreed, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs. "Actually, it is incredibly terrifying."

But beneath my quick-fire sarcasm, something immensely uncomfortable was twisting in my stomach. Because for the very first time in my adult life, my mother sounded serious in a way that bypassed her usual dramatics; she didn't sound hopeful, she didn't sound persuasive. She sounded utterly, terrifyingly certain.

"I mean what I say," she concluded quietly. "Either you find a man yourself this year... or we will choose one for you. Get your house in order."

The line went dead with a soft click shortly afterward, but her words lingered in the quiet air of my kitchen long after the screen of my phone had gone dark.

Outside, the city of London moved on with its usual, sublime indifference beneath the silver misty rain. Black cabs rolled smoothly past the end of my street. A sea of umbrellas bloomed across the pavements of Kensington High Street. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang out the hour.

And for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure distance would be enough.

I felt utterly cornered. Not by the cosmic alignment of the stars, of course. Certainly not by the predictions of a celebrity Jyotshini in Nepal.

I was cornered by my family, by generations of crushing expectation.

By the terrifying, very real possibility that they might actually find a way to drag me back into the conventional, suffocating world I had spent my entire adult life escaping.

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