Short Story
My dearest Anushka,
Even to this day, the vivid memories of that particular day remain etched in my mind. The sky, clear as a diamond, stretched above, while a fresh breeze carried the scent of newly plucked grass, its petrichor filling the air. It was a scene he would have cherished, had he still been alive to witness it. His absence hung heavy, and as I stood motionless next to his pyre, my tears had dried, leaving a bittersweet emptiness.
Reflecting on the past, I now consider that perhaps it was for the best. Rajwant Sahib, though not the epitome of an ideal husband, proved to be a devoted family man, consistently prioritizing the well-being of his loved ones. Despite the significant age gap – a young bride of sixteen wed to a man twice her age –, I realize I should have been more appreciative of the life he provided.
Looking back, it becomes evident that Rajwant Sahib’s love manifested differently. He may not have fit the conventional mold of the perfect husband, but his love went beyond public displays of affection, tangled sheets, or whispered flutters of lips. It bestowed upon me something that many esteemed mistresses, courtesans, or lovers of that time never received – a profound sense of respect and affection. Love, my dear, takes on various forms, and in my case, it was a unique and enduring bond that transcended societal expectations.
In 1947, our newly independent country struggled to establish its structural integrity, far from the robust framework we see today. Back then, much like you, I was once a dreamer. I harbored aspirations of becoming a singer, but as life unfolded, I learned that dreams are not easily realized. While you may fret about competition, my concerns back then revolved around the scarcity of opportunities.
Being a Baniya girl, it was uncommon for us to harbor ambitions beyond societal norms. Perhaps my father’s ambitious nature played a role, but everything changed when the British departed, leaving our family in a lurch without fulfilling the promises they made in exchange for my father’s unwavering loyalty. Left stranded, my father faced limited options and, after much struggle, conceded to arrange a marriage that would secure favorable relations.
And so, on a cold, solemn morning, with visible puffs of breath in the chilly air, I embarked on a journey of thirty kilometers to my husband’s house. The man’s name was revealed to me just days before, accompanied by a cautionary note:“He is an important man, a nawab; don’t disrespect him.”
With a heavy heart and an even heavier bag, I embarked on the journey, the trains of imagination running wild in my mind. If he was indeed a nawab, an old royalty that had endured the era of the British, then he must be Dalbadlo. Not that I, coming from a family that was dependent on the British, could comment much on that. As I envisioned him, his name, Ashok Rajwat, twirled on my tongue. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to address him by his name; that would be deemed a crime against him and his lineage.
Throughout the journey, I pondered on how he might appear. Would he sport a grand mustache, or perhaps not? Was he a well-fed, bulky man, or a slender figure? Did he relish hunting, or were books his true passion? Ironically, these thoughts led me into such a reverie that I dozed off and slept through our first meeting. My first chance, gone! I learned later that he had observed me and would only return after a week. Yet, I remained oblivious to the identity of the mysterious figure concealed in the shadows, destined to be my husband.
Reflecting on that moment still fills me with shame. I worried about how I must have appeared, drooling like a fool in front of him. The fear lingered that he might regret marrying me, prompting me to fast for a week. I anticipated his return, anticipating an order to return to my parents, consigned to waste away my prime youth in widowhood. However, the unexpected occurred. On the night of the first week, a thali arrived, filled with dishes from my home. My appetite, rekindled, I devoured the contents with newfound vigor. It later dawned on me that the emotion I experienced that week wasn’t just shame; it was homesickness, coupled with the humiliation it might bring to my parents if they knew. Surprisingly, he understood, as evidenced by the thali – his thoughtful gift, meticulously packed and transported all the way from my home in what they called a portable icebox.
And then, at the crack of dawn, when the birds chipped in with enthusiasm, there he stood tall. His ebony hair lightly fluttered with the breeze, framing his cream skin. Sharp jaws and an even sharper gaze as he precisely aimed his rifle at the target – a shot, and a resounding bang echoed through the woods. The vividness of that moment when he first spoke my name is etched in my memory. His smile was gentle, adorned with that slightly crooked crown of teeth.“Beautiful,”was all I managed to say as his laughter resonated, gently ruffling my soul along with my hair.
He introduced me to his hunting buddies, proudly declaring,“Everyone, this is my wife.”In that moment, I realized – I was his wife!
My days at the Hawelli flowed in a peaceful rhythm, filled with games during the day and nights animated by endless chatter. My closest companion had swiftly become Manju Pratap, the wife of Rajwat’s Sahib friend. Dinners were reserved for Rajwat Sahib and his guests, primarily my friend and her husband, and during the day, that was the only time I would catch a glimpse of him. When I did, my heart would race like a marathon runner’s. I wished for this tranquil existence to continue until one day, Manju took my delicate hands and led me to an unheard corner.
In a hushed tone, she asked,“Does he not visit your bed?”The meaning behind her words eluded me, and my confusion was evident. She merely shook her head and urged me to talk to Rajwat Sahib.
I mustered the courage to approach him, knowing he would be at dinner and engage in late-night drinks with his guests. My bedtime was earlier than his, and I was aware that if I wanted to meet him, it would have to be well into the night. For several days, I resisted the lullaby of sleep until I finally succumbed and found myself standing outside his master bedroom.
With a gentle knock and the hem of my skirt fidgeted with in nervous anticipation, I hated to be an intrusion to his sleep. The handle turned, and I could sense his bafflement as he saw me. For the first time in months, it was just him and me. He urged me in, his voice raspy from the night as he approached the rifle cabinet.“Whatever is the matter? Is there an intrusion in the Haweli?”he asked.
I shook my head, relaying to him what my friend had told me days before. He sat at the edge of his bed, a laugh escaping with his breath. He beckoned me closer until only a thread of space remained between us. My eyes cast downward, and for the first time, I noticed how long a man’s toes could be.“Do you even know what it means to share a bed?”he inquired. My eyes snapped to him, those deep, perfectly framed eyes adorned with thick lashes, as I gently shook my head. It felt reminiscent of my school days, expecting reprimand for a wrong answer, but he didn’t. On that day, I realized he wouldn’t, ever.He ruffled my head once more, taking my palm in his as he whispered,“It is not something for you to worry about; you are too young.”And perhaps I was indeed too young.
After that day, Manju never brought up that topic again. As the biting cold returned to grip the globe, I had been a married woman for a year. When the teeth-clattering winds commenced, Manju had to depart with her husband for a warmer place, as the cold was not conducive to the baby’s well-being. With her absence, I began to miss her presence, and as the days passed, our dinner gatherings grew sparse.
On one of those solitary nights, with just the two of us, I pondered aloud about the joy of having a child. I mused about how the halls wouldn’t feel so empty, and how I would sing my heart out to soothe the child. Rajwat Sahib nearly choked on his food that day.
Worried throughout the night and fretting for his health, I couldn’t shake the fear of the unknown taking away my loved one. However, that fear was short-lived. The next morning, standing proudly in the foyer, was a master of music, accompanied by his players and musicians. From that day onward, my training in music began. All my days, stretching into late nights, were filled with the sparkle of rhythms that harmonized my soul into the living being I aspired to be.
During one of these practices, I observed him, proud, on those days when my melody was even sweeter, enticing him into the melancholy of sinful lust. I could sense him, feel him, smell him all at once when I sang. He seemed to be right next to me, his warmth enveloping my body even when he was miles away on business. Despite this profound connection, I never mustered the courage to express my gratitude. The words “Thank you” felt inadequate for the whirlwind of emotions he had stirred within me. I pondered how I could approach him until I saw his smile – that radiant, beaming smile showcasing his crooked incisor. In that moment, I knew I had delighted him, just as he had delighted my lifelong dream. The dream I thought long lost was the greatest gift he could ever give me.
After months of practice, the time had come for me to perform. Hesitance lingered in my eyes, as such performances were not typical for a high-class woman like me. The day before, I sat on the balcony, watching the birds return from their migration to enjoy the spring. Yet, my heart was not at ease when I heard his sharp footsteps approaching.“Nice evening, ain’t it?”he asked, only to receive a sigh in response. I had never been that rude to Rajwat Sahib, not before and not after. Yet, the turmoil in my heart was evident when he gently took my hand. His soothing caress made me look at him, and those ever-knowing eyes laid my palm on my throat as he whispered,“Go make me proud.”Just four words, but alas, they were enough.
Even today, amidst endless amounts of medals and trophies, there’s only one that I cherish. It still hangs on the center mantle of his study, and I know he feels the same way. The memories of that day remain vivid, as I trembled behind the curtains, aware of the watchful gaze always following me while my guts bellowed. Never before had I seen so many people gathered in one place. However, in a corner, I spotted him – tall and proud, looking at me as he occupied the royal box for viewing.
In an instant, all fear dissipated, and all I could see was him. Next to me, his handsome visage was clear as day, the gleam of his jewels warm against my skin. And I sank, just as I sang for him, forever to come.
Years passed, seasons changed, and the girl who entered the myriad halls blossomed into a vibrant twenty-one. This year was exceptionally special, as my parents were arriving from a far distance. I was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing them after what felt like an eternity. Rajwat Sahib’s orders were precise – decorate the walls as if welcoming the queen and king, for I was the princess of this castle, held delicately in the tangles of his heart.
The entire town adorned itself in gold for my birthday, and my happiness soared. Today, I could finally sing in front of my father, envisioning the pride in his eyes as I eagerly awaited their arrival.
As my father and mother arrived, my mother’s expression turned stern and angry. She took hold of me immediately, pushing me inside my quarters, where her screams shattered my heart.“How could you still be barren? How could you go around the country parading your demure around!”
I didn’t sing that day; I couldn’t muster the strength to go out, as my vocal cords felt like they had been ripped out of my throat. When my refusal became evident to the maids, Rajwat Sahib came personally. In an instant, he was beside me, my sullen state apparent. I told him all that I had heard. My mother’s words might have been cruel, but he was crueler to leave me in such a state. He knew what others gossiped about behind my back—five years of marriage, still untouched, considered barren, a woman who wasted her youth singing.
“You don’t love me, you never did, for I was just a bargain for you!”I screamed at him. Instant regret washed over me as I witnessed the anger and betrayal rise in his eyes. He said nothing and left, for I had broken the man, shattered his heart.
The next day, he came to the chambers, his own lashes swollen and red.“It is true,”he said,“I never loved you. How could I, when you were nothing but a low-born child bride for me? You are an adult, a woman now, and if you wish, you could take whichever lover you wish.”My mother gaped at him in horror, my father fainted, but I felt a pang of piercing pain so cruel that I could neither bawl my heart out nor bury my sorrow in words.
Singing, my medium of freedom, felt like a locked cage that strangled me. Every day, my classes started, only to end more abruptly than the last, leaving Master Ji to give up hope. I felt suffocated, day by day, with spasms of depression taking over my body – although, of course, I didn’t recognize it at that time. Rajwat Sahib and I, though occupying the same space, never crossed paths. The empty hallways echoed with loneliness.
One night, I could bear it no more, feeling as though my end was imminent. For one last time, I wished to see him, to apologize, to sing for him. Maybe he would kick me out, maybe he would hurl curses at me, but I didn’t care as I approached his room. My body shivered when he opened the door, confusion evident and laced with guilt in his eyes. Before he could speak, I poured out everything I had buried in my heart.“You might not love me, for this marriage was nothing more than a compromise for you. And you might hate yourself as much as you wish for putting me through this compromise of yours. But know this, and know it well – I have never hated you, never hated any moment of the last five years that I spent with you! For you, this might not be love, but for me, this is the greatest love I have ever experienced. I do not care if my skin repulses you, and if I remain barren for the rest of my li-”
However, my words were never completed that day; his lips silenced my howls. On that day, I felt revived, happy, and full of vigor. He took me, for he was a liar – the biggest one ever. Although he never spoke the words, I knew what he meant.
In the coming years, our halls echoed with laughter and mischief from your father and his siblings. I was the happiest woman alive, for my love might not be the same as yours, but it was love nonetheless.
Ironically, it wasn’t until I received the will along with a letter and a box that I heard those words from him. His elegant penmanship is still fresh in my memory, his cursive still calling to me. He wrote:
“My dearest Medhavi,
Forgive me for being such a stiff man, forgive me for ever wanting you. Oh, you knew how much I hated myself for ever desiring you. All I wished when I was told of our marriage was to keep you safe, to let you blossom into the lotus you were, and then, like a swallow that soars the skies, to let you free.
Foolish wish of a foolish man, for all I wanted, was to be showered in your gaze, to be lulled by your smile, to be enchanted by your voice.
I might not have been the best husband or the best parent, for I never showcased my feelings, but I hope in your heart, you could forgive me one day.
I have especially left a gift for you, the one I wished I could give you when we married. You deserve the world at your feet. Think of it as a silly prank for me to keep it with me for all this long, but I hope you shall like it. Maybe one day it will sparkle, bringing pride to the beauty of its wearer.
Your husband
And forever in love with you,
Ashok Rajwat.”
And although I know you feel terrible to leave this grandmother of yours on this solitary bed of eventual death, to seek your own happiness, know this: I shall never think ill of you. And just so you know, as you read this letter of mine, your grandfather’s last gift, although, never brought pride to he wished me; it brings me immense happiness that it graced you on your wedding day.
I hope that the man you love and marry shall bring you the same flutter of happiness as mine did, and never forget what your grandmother said,’Their love might be different than yours, but your love is unique to you and no one else.”
With my blessings
Your Loving Grandmother
Medhavi Rajwat
