The Accidental Wife Page 8

  She sobered up. “Can you help me out? Accompany me to my hometown?”

  His interest was piqued. “As what?”

  “As my husband. To meet my family.”

  “But I thought you said you were…” He waited for her to stub her own toe.

  She did so gallantly. “Yes. I am an orphan and…you’ll know the rest soon. Are you coming? Yes or no?”

  He scowled, bristling with indignation. What does she take me for?

  She looked unruffled, prompting him to simmer down and nod without enthusiasm. After all one good turn did deserve another. And he was intrigued enough.

  ***

  ‘You’ll know the rest soon.’ But how soon is that going to be? Rihaan thought passing a wary glance around the bus. Fortune had finally switched sides, or so it appeared for the time being. His arch nemesis, the swarthy owner of the gargantuan moustache, appeared dead to the world, snoring with his cave of a mouth wide open.

  “Hungry?” Naina asked, attempting to deduce his sullen countenance. “Here, try these.” Producing a plastic box from a large cloth bag she’d hauled from home, she snapped the lid open and waved it in front of his nose. It was full of what looked like fresh coconut cookies. “A few bad calories, doctor sahib?”

  He shook his head, looking straight ahead, trying to ignore his hunger.

  “I have plenty for both of us and they are homemade.”

  He hesitated for just a bare moment before digging in. They were scrumptious. “You knew I’d come?”

  A smile danced across her lips. “I chanced a wild guess.”

  Wild guess? Like hell! Who was she kidding? She knew from the very moment she sent the message that I’d come. There wasn’t any way I could refuse. Though I’m still at a loss as how she persuaded me to board this ramshackle cross-country bus.

  ***

  Soon after he’d reluctantly agreed to her proposal, Naina had hurried him out of her apartment to a waiting taxi. The man took off before Rihaan could slam the door shut.

  “Sorry you had to wait. My husband is a very hardworking doctor, sometimes he has trouble getting up in the mornings,” Naina said to the cabbie while passing a contrite smile to Rihaan, but her eyes said otherwise.

  He fumed, but kept his silence until they were deposited on the outskirts of what looked like a bustling fish market. It turned out to be a bus station. “Why are we here? What happened to the trains?”

  She smiled, enunciating slowly as if talking to a small child, “I inquired. They are all overbooked.”

  Rihaan surveyed the surroundings. All his life, he’d harbored an extreme distaste for crowds, and the land he stood on now bragged a populace of greater than a million. He regarded with trepidation a vehicle, whose rooftop appeared entirely taken by some of his more agile cousins; the upcoming trek promised to supply the climax to his ongoing nightmare.

  “How about hiring a cab?” he said, reaching into the back pocket of his denims. “I’m sure it’ll get us to your place in half the time. Money isn’t a problem. I think I should have enough.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Naina had snatched his wallet and dumped it into her satchel before he could flip it open.

  “Hey that’s mine!”

  “I know, and I’m trying to keep it safe.” She regarded him as if he was some kind of halfwit. “Haven’t you noticed something? Your phirangi accent and looks make you stand out like a sore thumb and now you wish to kiss all your worldly possessions goodbye? Besides, there’s no way in hell I’ll submit to being cooped up in a stuffy cab for any number of hours. I’d rather die instead. Now stop acting grumpy and be an obedient husband and get on the bus! I assure you it’s going to be a lot of fun!”

  ***

  That’s how he’d landed on this hell on wheels, bulldozed and bullied by a wife with a fondness for hyperbole, so he could get his organs rearranged every few minutes. The heat and dust didn’t even figure in the equation.

  At least there’s a constant supply of good nourishment, he thought, munching on savory fenugreek rotis that set his taste buds on fire—a source of considerable amusement to his wife. He glowered at her. She smiled serenely, and then to his surprise, doled out some tempering cucumber and mint yogurt dip. He was tempted to believe it was her way of showing concern for his delicate constitution, even though she pretended to act otherwise.

  Mom is sure going to miss out on a lot, he thought. And how about you, Rihaan, sneaked in a faint but clear voice. He chose to ignore it because he was having the time of his life!

  As she’d promised, the journey smoothed out. He began to unwind and relax, enjoy the moment, play a tourist in his own country. These were his people—a peculiar and fascinating collection of mankind he’d only heard mentioned in anecdotal references but never experienced firsthand until now (most of prior visits to the homeland having been expended in sterilized air conditioned environs). The thick rainbow turbans, the luxurious facial hair, the beedis, even a fakir with dreadlocks that his wannabe hippie buddies would kill for. All in all, a sight like no other.

  His face must have shown it, because his companion asked with a perplexed frown, “You like it?”

  “I love it! Its enthralling just like you.”

  She looked away, but not before he saw heat rise to her cheeks. He grinned. This jaunt was turning out way better than expected.

  And then, just as the warm afternoon breeze mingled with the effects of a gratified stomach lulled Rihaan into a pleasant siesta, the bus came to a screeching halt causing him to lurch to the left, in the process pin his ‘in-name-only-wife’ under his weight.

  It was a strikingly delightful experience; one which left him pleasantly benumbed. Do all witches come loaded with such sultriness? How was he to know, this being his first encounter. And she was positively steaming!

  Sun-kissed cheeks stained a deep pink and those magnificent eyes widened some more, sucking him in, so he couldn’t breathe… Dead, dead sea. “What’s up?”

  For chrissakes! “Ah… I’m sorry.” He straightened himself while his eyes flitted around the small space. “Where the hell are we?”

  The bus was leaning alarmingly on its side, on the unpaved shoulder of an abandoned stretch of highway. And he was treated to a sight that his untrained eye could only equate with a biblical exodus. “Are we under siege?” (Bandit Queen being his favorite childhood flick.) “Get down!” he warned, meanwhile attempting to manhandle his unwilling spouse under the seat.

  “Stop fantasizing! It’s a piss halt. To take a leak. Pee.” She gesticulated with her little finger.

  Gosh! He despised it when someone reminded him of his bladder.

  She made it worse. “You may want to make use of the opportunity. And no, we don’t have rest areas here.”

  “What if I get bitten by a cobra?” Rihaan asked.

  “There are certain times in life when you have to take chances.”

  Was she laughing at him? He didn’t pause to reflect, instead jumped out and after considerable exploration found relief within a grove of acacia trees.

  As his fellow passengers were none too keen in resuming the journey, he chose the moment to stretch his legs and lungs and listen to the quiet—the crunch of dry leaves underfoot along with the plaintive song of the Koel and let his mind relax.

  But it wouldn’t. Bitter memories were ever on standby.

  Memories like of his mother monitoring his bladder habits, to establish a routine. She had not only controlled his bladder, she had controlled everything—his clothes, what he ate, where he went, whom he played with—everything! His whole life had been planned out, developed and designed as per the dictates of Mrs. Shashank Mehta. And he would have continued in the role of a clueless campaigner, hadn’t it been for that one fateful day, when as a freshman, he’d found her snooping in the school grounds—she being worried that
her innocent son would fall for the wiles of some chaloo white girls. It was a miracle he hadn’t made a break from home. It was then he’d pledged never to bow to the will of a woman ever again.

  “Rihaanji!” Naina called. “You better hurry, unless you wish to spend the rest of the day sharpening your snake charming skills.”

  Women!

  Discoveries

  A gentle prod on the shoulder. “Time to deplane, sir.”

  Rihaan let out a muffled groan as he jerked awake and worked on uncrumpling his stiff frame. His body ached all over, his limbs were like dead stumps of wood and his gravelly tongue appeared stuck solid to his palate. Even his neck was horribly askew. Yet he didn’t grumble. Instead, he hobbled to the exit and stumbled out only to be walloped by a blast of searing hot air.

  With difficulty, he braced himself and ventured forward to peruse the vicinity. In a mere few hours, the entire landscape had undergone a drastic transition. Lush, verdant fields of maize, barley and jowar had given way to a brown arid expanse of scrub and brush. There were no tall dense groves of banyan and peepal to provide welcome shade; just an occasional thorny acacia trying to make its presence felt. Yet there was plenty of something else—dunes, loads and loads of them, rolling out in all directions as far as the eye could see. He had landed in the middle of a desert, hostile and downright deadly.

  “Where in hell is this?” he seethed, seeking the slim figure of his reluctant spouse.

  “We are in my hometown,” she responded, suddenly popping into his line of vision. “Rathods—Rajasthan… Get it?” Her lips twisted into a smile.

  “Doctor Sahib! This won’t do at all! You look like a desiccated vadi!” She clucked in disapproval. “This place comes with a few but very basic rules.” She thrust a bottle of water at him. “Hydrate and cover your cranium.” Her tone rang with dry ridicule.

  But before he could rally around and deliver a sound whack on her behind, she had disappeared leaving only the resonance of cheeky laughter in her wake. He felt like a henpecked husband already. I can’t tolerate this!

  “Get back here, right now! I command you!” he shouted.

  But she didn’t obey. His words were inaudible, lost in the parched realms of his throat. Damn!

  Then all of a sudden, he became aware of a strange sensation. He was being watched. The locals were eyeing him with curiosity and of what could only be interpreted as amused sympathy—another desi kid straying off the beaten path in search of eternal moksha, instead discovering (too late) that he had seriously miscalculated his bearings.

  I have to pull myself up and get my act together or I’m surely done for, Rihaan thought ruefully.

  He emptied the bottle in one big gulp, feeling a sliver of revival rush through his core. Armed with a renewed sense of purpose, he embarked on the dusty road, steering toward a profusion of tiny shops, and stepped into what appeared to be the main bazaar. The partial shade provided by the gaily decorated awnings supplied instant succor. His eyes, so far narrowed down to tiny slits, snapped ajar. What he saw were narrow alleys of packed mud, crammed with vendors on either side, branching out in diverse directions—a situation he found most confounding. And as if that wasn’t enough, he also had to endure a relentless wave of humans, seemingly bent on uprooting and evicting him from their midst. But tenacity was a trait he had been born with. He remained dogged in his quest. Fortunately it didn’t last long—pagris were quite a popular commodity.

  Toning down his accent the best he could, he haggled with a stone-faced stall owner and arrived at what he presumed to be a bargain—a bright orange and green turban for a mere 2500 rupees!

  “1500! They cheat you mister!” a voice said beside him.

  “Huh?”

  He watched bemused as his unsolicited champion plunged into a heated exchange with the merchant. It ended just as abruptly, with him being presented with his purchase, at a paltry Rs.250 savings and much worse for wear. Gingerly Rihaan placed it on his head and assessed his reflection in a foggy mirror.

  “Ahh! You look just like a Rajput prince! Shandaar! All you need is a mustache!”

  Despite himself, Rihaan found it hard to suppress a smile. He turned to his rescuer and proffered a couple of 100 rupee notes. They were pocketed promptly.

  “You need help? I speak English very good! You American? Me Rafiq.” An eager hand was extended.

  Though barely reaching above Rihaan’s midriff, Rafiq was a grown man, somewhere in his mid-thirties. Dressed in clean yet threadbare clothing with worn out leather sandals on his feet, topped by a pair of cheap shades, he looked like what he was—a seasoned veteran of the hapless tourist trade.

  “Me Rihaan, and yes, I’m from America.” Rihaan solemnly shook the man’s weathered hand. “And no, I don’t need help.”

  But the hint was forsaken. The little man redoubled his pitch while trying to keep pace with the much taller Rihaan who took off down a thin lane in search of Naina.

  “You need guide? Me very good guide. I show you lake, bird sanctuary, Rathod palace. Just $100.00. I have car, very nice and AC.” He pointed to a beat up Ford that could have put many junkyard rejects to shame.

  Rihaan regarded him warily. The fellow had probably a very good view of his bulging wallet—Naina’s warning still lurked fresh in his mind. He patted his rear to assure himself of its presence and observed Rafiq’s eyes following the movement. “No, thanks! I’m not a tourist.” He muttered it dismissively while frantically scouring the vicinity for a particular bright green and blue sari. It was a tough task—the whole place was a virtual impressionist palette.

  “There you are! Here’s my biwi. My wife!” With a broad grin of discovery, he pulled the baffled Naina (whom he’d found at a stall struggling with some ridiculously tiny green bangles) firmly around by the shoulders and positioned her in front of Rafiq who, after surveying them both skeptically for several moments, reluctantly slinked away.

  Sighing with relief, Rihaan turned to her. “Why did you disappear and leave me to fend for myself? In any case, why do you need these bangles?”

  It took her but a few seconds to recover and disengage herself from his grip. Kohl-lined eyes with mile long lashes fluttered, quickly taking in his headgear. They appeared to approve which infused him with a sense of immense content for no apparent reason. “I can’t go home without bangles on my arms. I wouldn’t be considered married,” she explained.

  “Is sahib your marad?” Interjected the shopkeeper, claiming Rihaan’s attention for the first time. The shopkeeper happened to be a pint-sized old woman with a lined, leathery face, bright beady eyes and a toothless smile.

  “Yes, I am her marad. We just got married,” he affirmed, nudging Naina who reluctantly dipped her head.

  “Then he must make you wear these bangles, the smaller the better, so you’ll have a wonderful honeymoon!” the crone cackled, her shriveled frame convulsing with delight.

  “Might as well comply. I happen to be very superstitious in some ways,” he muttered softly, proceeding to manipulate the baubles of colored plastic around Naina’s dainty hand with distinct glee. Her features screwed up in distress but she didn’t utter a whimper.

  What the heck’s gotten into me? He checked himself, tossing aside what he had and replaced them with a larger size. Then after arraying his new bride’s arm with an abundance of color, he paid for the purchase, failing to notice the gleam of regard in her eyes. “Give us your blessings, they are worth a lot more than fake superstitions.” He told the old woman who was clearly taken aback by his generous tip.

  Then turning to Naina, he asked, “What now wife?”

  She colored, appearing markedly disconcerted and made toward the auto-rickshaw stand.

  He yanked her back. “No, that’s not what I had in mind.”

  A few minutes later they were on their way.

  “Are you sure you’re
okay?” Naina looked at Rihaan, concerned.

  “I’m perfectly fine. Couldn’t have asked for anything better.” He let out a contented sigh, allowing his head to sink back into a pillow of fresh straw, and his worn out body to stretch along the length of the traditional tanga. With eyes closed, he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with a mixture of the sweet hay and horse dung. The jerking rhythm, the clip clop of horse’s hooves, punctuated by the shrill cries of the tangawallah as they made their way through the busy thoroughfare was strangely comforting.

  ***

  “This is bliss, pure bliss,” he said.

  Naina smiled, shaking her head as she turned her attention to the outside. The streets of her hometown were still the same—little had changed in this relatively remote outreach of the Hindi heartland. True, technology hadn’t spared anybody; even the lowly chaiwallah and the maid conducted their business on cell phones. Television had brought the world to every doorstep and the light bulb had swapped places with the customary lantern. Yet the attitudes of the populace remained constant; they continued to exist in perpetual darkness.

  Her morose contemplation was abruptly interrupted when a young boy caught her eye. He stood in the middle of the street, waving to her vigorously while pointing upward, sporting a carefree grin on his nut brown face.

  She followed the directive without much interest and found herself catching her breath. The cloudless blue sky had metamorphosed into a canvass of dazzling art. Myriad kites in all colors of the rainbow frolicked high above, tethered to invisible hands. They played an innocent game, vying for prominence in a battle of superiority and skill.

  Craning her head, she watched a bright red and yellow kite climb higher and higher; it’s progress seemingly unstoppable, when suddenly a roar erupted from the crowd—the kite had been snagged. She saw it drop like a wounded bird in mid-flight and gasped.