I loomed behind my mother like a duckling, watching over her shoulder as she hurriedly dropped balls of chickpeas batter in the sizzling oil. The oil splattered and she stepped back, causing me to stagger back and hit the cabinet behind me. Her head alarmingly whipped towards me and beads of sweat gathered between the wrinkles of her furrowed eyebrows. With her free hand, she began shoving me away like I was a piece of heavy luggage that needed to be put into place. "Why are you standing here? Go away, it's so hot! Go and change before they come. You look like an orphan in those clothes."

"It wouldn't be terrible to buy me pyjamas instead of giving me Pavitra's old clothes," I said in a low voice so she couldn't hear, knowing that if she heard, I would be legit shipped off to an orphanage.

"Did you hear what she said, Aai?" emerged Pavitra in her pyjamas with a derisive, twisted smile that I wanted to erase from that aggravating face.

"What?" My mother's eyes landed on her eldest daughter whose fate would be decided today. The smirk on my sister's face wavered slightly at the look of pure wrath on my mother's face. "What? You didn't have a bath yet! What are you doing? What if they come now and see you like this?"

"Then divorce is final." I had to scurry to my room after I blurted that out since my mother's tolerance for dark jokes was less than a politician's tolerance for criticism. On my way, I managed to pick up a carrot which was flaccid like a penis and I bit it, watching the vehicles glide down the street. I was in a fairly good mood today since I didn't get many intrusive thoughts about Lila after writing that letter. I was comforted by the belief that one day we would meet and then I could worry all about her. For now, I had to focus on whatever was left of my life.

I was mentally battling the little devilish thought about deluding myself from being free from Lila's thoughts, so when the bell rang, I rushed to open it without another thought about who were the visitors. The sombre faces of my sister's husband's family peered at me, the me who was caught off-guard, the me was wearing my sister's old t-shirt and floral shorts (the material and pattern of cotton underwear). With the carrot in between my lips like a cigarette, I unlatched the door and let them in with an apologetic smile. I was sorry for their eyes.

Suddenly, I felt the tenacious grip of a mother who had to suffer the humiliation of her daughter and she pushed me behind her, welcoming them with a forced light-heartedness.

"Come in, come in. Please have a seat here. I'm almost done with preparing dinner. Just give me two minutes---"

"Oh, you didn't have to make anything for us," came the usual refusal from Pavitra's mother-in-law, a woman in her late fifties with a kind face and a soft voice. Her husband resembled her in features and speech and both of them had marshmallow hair, white and puffed out. Pavitra's husband and his brother, Dev, sat next to each other, hands on their thighs. While Dev looked up at my mother with mild interest, his brother stared resolutely at the tiled floor. From his hard expression, I knew that it would take a long while to undo his decision for a divorce.

"Go in," I heard the sharp command of my mother, so close to my ear, it seemed obvious to anyone that I was getting scolded. I returned to my room as indifferently as I could with the half-chewed carrot in my hand, feeling the wedgie of my cotton shorts all the way back. I prayed that nobody noticed me or that I appeared better than I imagined. Once in, I adjusted my shorts and heard Pavitra snicker.

"I wouldn't wear that even if I was a beggar." She had the audacity to comment when she hadn't changed into the churidar that my mother had carefully laid on the bed to avoid it from wrinkling. I was about to fire back that the t-shirt was hers, but my mother had entered and the tension in the air thickened to dark clouds on the verge of thundering. At the sight of her, Pavitra got up with deliberate insouciance and wordlessly carried the churidar to the bathroom. She made it a point to convey that whatever efforts she was putting in now, was all a goodwill to my parents. My mother glanced at the one left in the room, me, and let out an exasperated breath.

I offered, "I'll change after her. Do you want help in the kitchen?"

She sighed again and shaking her head (not as a response to my question, more so at what she had given birth to), shut the door. Obediently, I wore an embroidered yellow kurti with blue jeans underneath. Pavitra too emerged out in a stiff yellow and green churidar, looking like a colourful, crispy capsicum. She was not pleased with it at all and I could see how aggressively she rummaged through her drawers for a missing pair of earrings that she later accused me of stealing. Sure, death was certain, but something more certain than death was her ability to brand me as a thief every time one of her belongings were lost.

I didn't react to her, taking satisfaction in seeing the scene unfold before me. My mother cajoled her to put on a bindi, gajra and a gold necklace, but the entertainment didn't end there. Her face was dipped in Ponds powder such that there were traces of powder on her neck and forehead, a sharp, white contrast against her brown skin. Without allowing her to look in the mirror, she was led into the living room and made to sit still on the chair like a doll. Her husband didn't spare a glance at her, he was steadily gazing at the floor as if the mysteries of the universe unveiled right there. The rest of his family were smiling awkwardly at my father who was engaged in a conversation with the wall about a scripted Whatsapp video (which was supposed to be funny) that was being circulated in my extended family group.

Nobody understood the joke that he was trying desperately to convey like a salesman who didn't know the product that he was selling, so he removed his phone and opened a video. It was the wrong video just like the next one and the next one too. I couldn't watch the disappointment grow in his eyes behind those thick spectacles, so I found the video for him. He praised me as an intelligent daughter, patted my head and showed the video eagerly to Pavitra's in-laws. Then he played it once again for Dev who smiled out of amusement at my father, unlike his parents who had smiled out of courtesy.

"Not that video again," I heard my mother mutter behind me as she entered with a tray of samosas, bhajis and chutneys, setting them on the dining table. Dinner began early, but since we didn't have enough chairs to accommodate all eight of us, I ate in my room after helping my mother serve. All sorts of trivial topics were exchanged over rotis, rice and curries, topics from politics to the wayward ways of this generation. I was relieved to be excluded and not be made fun of my clothing, food preferences or career choice (or the lack of it). I could catch bits and pieces of Pavitra's in-laws talking about their sons, but nothing was humiliating, all words were dripping of adoration and love.

It was after dinner as I stood leaning against the wall and watched the old men dab their lips with their old men handkerchiefs, it was after their burps and quiet sighs that the elephant in the room came to the spotlight. Pavitra's father-in-law's words floated in the air for anyone courageous to seize it, "So . . . "

"The children are still so young," my mother had seized that opportunity in a hurry and my father was afraid of her blurting anything out in a fit of maternal passion, so he dusted his handkerchief in front of everyone like an old maid hanging clothes by the pegs, looking ridiculous. However, my mother took no notice of his attention-drawing stunt. She continued in the same persuading tone, "Mistakes have occurred on both sides. I apologize if my daughter did anything out of the ordinary. You know how kids these days are . . . But that doesn't mean we should forget how we have been living all this while. The correct way." 

"Oh no, no, no. Pavitra was an excellent daughter-in-law. I couldn't ask for more," said the mother-in-law with a rueful smile, but my mother wasn't assured to hear that because of the use of past tense. By this time, the subject of debate, Pavitra, was openly sneering at everyone. Especially at her husband who dodged her gaze like a football player dodging even his teammates to score his selfish goal. If it wasn't for my pleading mother, I would have found this predicament absolutely hilarious.

The conversation was frustrating with my mother selling her daughter for the most part while the in-laws hesitantly agreed with her, but not convinced entirely. Pavitra's father-in-law had the last word about saying something along the lines of "Let's see in the future . . . " His indecisiveness made everyone's bones ache as people shifted and stretched in the long pause that followed. My father seemed to have accepted his words whereas my mother's restless eyes appealed to him, to say something that would restore her daughter's marriage. The pause was so uncomfortable that I almost stood up to make some excuse and leave, but a surprising voice spoke.

"It's their choice," Dev said firmly, mirroring the hard expression of his brother. From Pavitra's countenance, I expected her to burst into a slow clap, but she restrained herself. The elders all glanced at each other, speechless and shocked as if a bucket of ice water was splashed over them. The in-laws eased into an uneasy smile, nervousness dancing in their eyes as transparent as the light from the lightings on the window that bounced off the spotless floor.

My mother flashed a tight-lipped smile and her eyes focused on me. "Ah, why don't you kids sit inside? It's been a long while. Tulsi, why don't you bring out the ice cream and share it with Dev. What's that thing in which you watch movies? That thing for which you ask money from your father every month." She let out a strained laugh. "Cable is not enough for kids these days."

"Netflix," my father supplied despite the battle of his eyebrows which twisted and turned in agony at this long, long night.

* * *

Glossary :

Gajra- a string of flowers that are put in the hair.

Bhajis- deep-fried snacks.

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