He struck the match and brought the flame to the tobacco. Pipesmoke waterfalled past sapless lips eternally quivering from agitation. It was a syrupy, violent summer, and Ajitesh Pokhrel was getting married in thirty minutes. He was thirty-three—quite the late bloomer, his neighbors murmured—and had an upset stomach when it came to publicity. Crossing and uncrossing his long legs, he passed the pipe to his secretary, tracing a thin finger along the corner of his mouth. The secretary opened the door of the bedroom and closed it behind her. The brief burst of coolness from the corridor dissipated back into hot, listless air. A cheap Kollywood track trickled from the radio on the windowsill, and he gazed at the Rolex watch gifted from his dead father on his wrist before a knock roused him from his reverie.
“Hey, Lord Vishnu,” his younger brother Birenda greeted him through the bars of the window with a grin, “what’s the matter with you? Don’t brood inside. Everybody’s out here, waiting for you.”
He even declined the option of the popular luxury car on the way there—the last thing he wanted was his mysterious bride to think he was conceited.
The mayor of the town mopped the gleaming sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, and rose unsteadily, hoping that he could feign a heart attack during the trip to his bride’s neighborhood. The procession was determined to be twenty minutes on foot, a treacherous pilgrimage at nine in the morning. His manager offered a ghodi, as how the Indians did it, but Atijesh thought he would look ridiculous on a white horse high above his constituents. He even declined the option of the popular luxury car on the way there—the last thing he wanted was his mysterious bride to think he was conceited. As he stepped into the narrow alley bordered by green-gated houses, there was no space spared by family and townspeople. The atmosphere was so convivial that he shuddered at the thought of seeing the gloomy, unhappy faces of his in-laws.
For twenty minutes she sang, and for twenty minutes, he fought the urge to throttle her.
Birenda signaled to the musicians, and with a swell of drum-and-flute, the janti lurched forward into the main road. Fresh flowers danced in the breeze, and citizens flocked to wave at their favorite politician. Atijesh waved back with his best, confident smile. His stomach was doing odd flips, and he lacked any feeling in his feet, but his little brother kept a firm grasp on his forearm, preventing him from fleeing like a startled bird. Behind them, his mother, in her widow’s weeds, kept pace with the drummers, warbling a folksong from their ancestral village in Pokhara. Atijesh felt a fit of shame wash over him. For twenty minutes she sang, and for twenty minutes, he fought the urge to throttle her. Right when he was about to lose his mind, his brother mercifully pointed ahead to a thatched roof sticking above a small stonegate.
Beyond the gate was his blushing bride. The young woman stood like a mannequin amongst her relatives, draped in a rich vermillion sari. Gold bangles jangled on her brown arms, decorated with mehndi. A pall of sheer scarlet tulle obscured her face. Atijesh struggled to recall her name. Harsha, he eventually remembered the lami, her uncle, telling him during an event in Kathmandu. Because she was finishing college in Butwal, it would be a long-distance arrangement for some time. Atijesh struck while the iron was still hot—a married life where a wife did not meddle in his politics was a relief.
“Namaste, Harsha,” he spoke gently to her.
Harsha shifted her bejeweled foot and made no reply. Poor thing, he thought with faint stirrings of pity in his breast. Brides were always shy and saddened by their departure from their maitighar; they would have plenty to talk about tonight, in their wedding-bed.
That was always the worst part about weddings: he felt like a criminal, purloining their daughter as if she were a precious gemstone.
After the couple had tied the itchy green garlands on each other and circled the fire seven times, a jubilant bedlam marked his foray into matrimony. Atijesh, dazed, looked at the stranger that was his wife. Unsticking his undershirt from his chest, he hoped he did not smell. He pressed his hands together in gratitude as insistent groomsmen pushed the newlyweds to the marital car, ready to haul them back to his house, while her womenfolk howled and wept. That was always the worst part about weddings: he felt like a criminal, purloining their daughter as if she were a precious gemstone.
Still, the interior was cool and crisp, and any anxieties vanished with the wonderful prospect of going home to sleep. The driver was listening to the radio about the recent skirmish in the jungles; the Maoist rebels had grown more bold—but Atijesh could not care less as he helped his wife clamber inside the car. Once the door shut, the car sped off, and the driver rolled up the partition for the sake of their privacy. They were, at last, alone. Atijesh fingered his beloved Rolex watch awkwardly, searching for what to say. Something masculine and reassuring, of course. “Kanchi, how are you feeling?”
To his surprise, she raised her willowy wrists, the bangles clanking loudly down to her elbows, and tossed back her veil in a blur of gold-and-red. Harsha was gorgeous: large lotus eyes, thick coal-colored eyelashes, high cheekbones, and a small, rosebud mouth; jhumkas dangled from her delicious pink earlobes. The golden jewel and chain of the nath sparkled merrily in her nose. Atijesh was poleaxed by her beauty. “Hajur?” she replied, voice low and raspy—not at all elegant.
Her cheeks dimpled when he continued to stare incredulously; she leaned over and patted his wrist with a soft-smelling palm, thumb digging under the silver watch and into his jumping pulse. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Did you like the festivities?” A safe start, he figured; there was no harm in small talk.
“It was alright.” Harsha lifted her chin and peered around the car. “Say, do you like limousines, sir?”
“What?” Atijesh’s tongue was heavy like a paperweight. “I’m sorry?”
“Nevermind.” An air of bored aloofness stole over her apsara-like face. “Do you have an aircon at your house, sir? I’m assuming not, that old woman next to you looked like she’d die if I got a second piercing. In any case, I’ll install one.”
He was speechless; she was leaving her girlhood home and she was focused on housework already? “That old woman is your mother-in-law,” he revealed stiffly, and feeling rather dazed, added, “I’m sure you must be upset.”
Harsha raised her dark eyebrows. “Upset? There isn’t any reason to be. I live only five minutes away by car. But honestly, I was so bored that when you came, I was trying not to laugh in your face. You looked very silly, you know, sir, with your armpits all wet.” Her cheeks dimpled when he continued to stare incredulously; she leaned over and patted his wrist with a soft-smelling palm, thumb digging under the silver watch and into his jumping pulse. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?”
“That you were scared. After all, I’m a politician’s wife now, aren’t I?”
Ajitesh did not speak until the couple arrived back to his place in the chilly evening, and the rest of his relatives arrived to formally introduce their new daughter-in-law into the household. After the festivities, Harsha coyly excused herself to the bedroom; those batting eyelashes, he now knew, were false. Suddenly, he noticed that his arm felt lighter, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. “She’ll be such an obedient girl,” his mother sighed dreamily.
“Amma, this isn’t some movie,” Birenda warned their mother as his elder brother removed his chintz-colored hat and began to feel around in his pockets. “What are you looking for, Dai?”
Ajitesh looked at his naked wrist, where the strip of skin was white as bone. His Rolex watch had vanished.
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Cultural Notes:
‘Resham Firiri’ is a Nepali folk song from the villages of Pokhara recorded in the 1960s that roughly translates to ‘silk flying in the wind’. Kollywood is Nepali Hollywood. Atijesh is a moniker for Lord Vishnu, the Hindu god of preservation (hence the joke).
Birenda is named after the second-to-last king of Nepal before he was murdered in 2001. A ghodi is a white horse that Indian grooms use for their arrival at the wedding. Some Nepali grooms like to use them too, but usually luxury cars are employed instead.
A janti is a wedding procession, where the groom and his family travel to the bride’s house to get married and then bring her to her new marital home. A narsingha is a large, curved trumpet used in weddings. A nath is a large nose-ring that is chained to the ear. A ‘lami’ means a middleman, someone who arranges a match, usually a relative or family-friend. ‘Maitighar’ means ‘maternal home’; it refers to a bride’s girlhood home.
Brides have to weep or be solemn at weddings in order to show grief at separating from their family: this is an historical tradition that stems from when marriages were against the bride’s will.
The Maoists refer to the Nepali Civil War, when royalists and Maoists fought against one another with guerilla warfare from 1996 to 2006 in the rural countryside. ‘Kanchi’ usually refers to a young woman or the youngest daughter in the family. ‘Hajur’ is a respectful address. An apsara is a cloud nymph in Hindu mythology. ‘Dai’ means ‘older brother’.
The style of this story is supposed to replicate Nepali stories written in the 1950s and 1960s.
