Swara got off the car, aided by one of her distant cousins who was summoned for the very duty of sticking by her till the d-day. It was the season of weddings, and if it were not for the impeccable detailing from the event managers, getting a booking -- either for bridal fittings, or hair straightening or with the jewelers, would be a mammoth ask. She belonged to one of the wealthiest families in Bhubaneshwar, and it was made sure that none of her classmates had a wedding planned anywhere around her wedding week.
She was getting used to being referred to as 'the bride' already.
The moon had just come out, taking the shape of a nail, finely bit out. Her friend Chetana had once given this analogy. She got off her car and went in. The whitening of teeth session concluded well at the dentist's. She was finally permitted to drink tonight, or have sweets. The first batch of nalen gur rasgulla had come in from Kolkata. Her cousin, Vivek had sent in a bottle of Grey Goose congratulating her when the wedding dates were finalised. Tonight she would open it. She had initially called in some of her friends, but eventually cancelled it, wishing to have a night to herself.
The Grey Goose started making its cackle after the first peg itself. Swara had taken it in before her dinner and quick. The curtains of her room, opening to the balcony, were fluttering in and out, a soft breeze playing with them. The dark of the night was disturbed and took her back to her childhood. Her parents had named her lovingly, for the melody she had, even when she squealed, or cried. She grew up fast and loved, matter-of-fact in her little ambition and lesser finesse across matters pertaining to the heart. She did have one long desire though. To be able to stay true to her name.
The best of the music teachers had failed to make her practice sound better. Her efforts were in vain, she was just a natural at not striking the right chords. She went down to the kitchen. The helps were taken aback to see the would-be bride there, attending to her immediately. 'What do you want, Didi?'
'Where are the rasgullas? From Kolkata?' she asked and took four of them in a crystal bowl to her room.
She swallowed one down thinking of how her mother had once tried to explain to her that if she takes to the stage, lest she were not good enough, which, clearly she was not, she would be a black spot to the 'Pradhan' surname. She had imagined herself, like a bug, on her surname, across letterheads and name stickers and Papa's bank cheques. She shuddered thinking people would shoo her off not knowing the black spot was her.
By the next two rasgullas, she was laughing to herself thinking of all those evenings she had spent miming along songs from hindi films. She imagined herself as a saree-clad actress in sleeveless blouse on the Alps, winning the Filmfare for 'Best Actress'. Finally, she poured some vodka in the bowl into the last remaining rasgulla. Having soaked it satisfyingly, she had it. The curtains seemed to have stopped swaying. She could hear faint calls for dinner. Niraj Patnaik had made it to becoming the chosen one. Having graduated from IIM, Kozhikode, he returned to set up his family business in an e-wing. It was already flying high.
Swara felt like dying. It was sudden. And she was scared, it was nothing like she had ever felt in her life. She believed it was the vodka. Oh no, I had sweets. Four. Chetana had warned me against it. Life is so unfair. If I die tonight, will I ever be as popular as Ma, Papa? She laughed and started conniving of means to get it done. I should just end the bottle. She took to the bed, and started sipping off the Grey Goose, and paid attention to their cackling, like a baby, crucial to the unknown voices. The room was dissolving. I am dying. A bride is dying. What will be his status? Widowed? Estranged? Lost? Will he mourn? I am dying. The bride is dying.
The next morning, she woke up to panicking door knocks. Her face had swollen and the headache was getting steadier. Her mother stormed in. 'What do you think you are doing? Look at your face! Wasting all the money on what went behind it! When will you behave like the bride? Bloody hell, Swara, you are the centre of attraction!'
Swara did not care to listen to the rest of it. She went inside her bathroom and put on the garb of the bride. The journey has begun. Let's sing what they want to hear. That is all you wanted to do, Swara. Sing! Make them dance to your tunes. This is your chance. She came out of the bathroom, looked her mother straight into her eyes and said, 'I am off to the bridal fittings after the menu-tasting. If you want to come along, stop screaming. I can't have you become the centre of attraction.'
As she sat at the table, ordering for breakfast with an air of royalty, born out of the blue, she could not help but thank all kinds of death that took to give her this life. Mediocrity lay slayed. Arrogance had taken over. Innocence lurked stealthily, somewhere beneath it all. The bride was in charge.
The moon had just come out, taking the shape of a nail, finely bit out. Her friend Chetana had once given this analogy. She got off her car and went in. The whitening of teeth session concluded well at the dentist's. She was finally permitted to drink tonight, or have sweets. The first batch of nalen gur rasgulla had come in from Kolkata. Her cousin, Vivek had sent in a bottle of Grey Goose congratulating her when the wedding dates were finalised. Tonight she would open it. She had initially called in some of her friends, but eventually cancelled it, wishing to have a night to herself.
The Grey Goose started making its cackle after the first peg itself. Swara had taken it in before her dinner and quick. The curtains of her room, opening to the balcony, were fluttering in and out, a soft breeze playing with them. The dark of the night was disturbed and took her back to her childhood. Her parents had named her lovingly, for the melody she had, even when she squealed, or cried. She grew up fast and loved, matter-of-fact in her little ambition and lesser finesse across matters pertaining to the heart. She did have one long desire though. To be able to stay true to her name.
The best of the music teachers had failed to make her practice sound better. Her efforts were in vain, she was just a natural at not striking the right chords. She went down to the kitchen. The helps were taken aback to see the would-be bride there, attending to her immediately. 'What do you want, Didi?'
'Where are the rasgullas? From Kolkata?' she asked and took four of them in a crystal bowl to her room.
She swallowed one down thinking of how her mother had once tried to explain to her that if she takes to the stage, lest she were not good enough, which, clearly she was not, she would be a black spot to the 'Pradhan' surname. She had imagined herself, like a bug, on her surname, across letterheads and name stickers and Papa's bank cheques. She shuddered thinking people would shoo her off not knowing the black spot was her.
By the next two rasgullas, she was laughing to herself thinking of all those evenings she had spent miming along songs from hindi films. She imagined herself as a saree-clad actress in sleeveless blouse on the Alps, winning the Filmfare for 'Best Actress'. Finally, she poured some vodka in the bowl into the last remaining rasgulla. Having soaked it satisfyingly, she had it. The curtains seemed to have stopped swaying. She could hear faint calls for dinner. Niraj Patnaik had made it to becoming the chosen one. Having graduated from IIM, Kozhikode, he returned to set up his family business in an e-wing. It was already flying high.
Swara felt like dying. It was sudden. And she was scared, it was nothing like she had ever felt in her life. She believed it was the vodka. Oh no, I had sweets. Four. Chetana had warned me against it. Life is so unfair. If I die tonight, will I ever be as popular as Ma, Papa? She laughed and started conniving of means to get it done. I should just end the bottle. She took to the bed, and started sipping off the Grey Goose, and paid attention to their cackling, like a baby, crucial to the unknown voices. The room was dissolving. I am dying. A bride is dying. What will be his status? Widowed? Estranged? Lost? Will he mourn? I am dying. The bride is dying.
The next morning, she woke up to panicking door knocks. Her face had swollen and the headache was getting steadier. Her mother stormed in. 'What do you think you are doing? Look at your face! Wasting all the money on what went behind it! When will you behave like the bride? Bloody hell, Swara, you are the centre of attraction!'
Swara did not care to listen to the rest of it. She went inside her bathroom and put on the garb of the bride. The journey has begun. Let's sing what they want to hear. That is all you wanted to do, Swara. Sing! Make them dance to your tunes. This is your chance. She came out of the bathroom, looked her mother straight into her eyes and said, 'I am off to the bridal fittings after the menu-tasting. If you want to come along, stop screaming. I can't have you become the centre of attraction.'
As she sat at the table, ordering for breakfast with an air of royalty, born out of the blue, she could not help but thank all kinds of death that took to give her this life. Mediocrity lay slayed. Arrogance had taken over. Innocence lurked stealthily, somewhere beneath it all. The bride was in charge.
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