Chapter 24
IRA
The echo of voices from outside the room was like a slow, steady beat against the delicate silence inside.
My heart, already restless, was picking up its pace.
Prashant, lost in his own world after completing his training on how to wear a saree, was now lost in his phone, completely oblivious to the war going on inside me.
I straightened the heavy pallu of the saree, the red fabric suddenly feeling like a lead blanket. That was it. The moment of truth.
"Ready?" Prashant's voice was a flat question, not an invitation.
He didn't wait for my response, just opened the door and stepped out.
I took in a shuddering breath, the scent of fresh cow dung and wet mud mingling with the distinctive smell of the village.
This was not the air-conditioned banquet hall I had always imagined for my wedding reception.
As I stepped into the courtyard, silence descended on the villagers gathered there.
Hundreds of sharp, assessing eyes were fixed on me.
It felt like I was thrust into a spotlight, every insecurity amplified.
I tried to make eye contact with them, but my eyes kept squaring off.
Whispers began, a low, buzzing stream that soon turned into a disjointed murmur.
"Look at her," a woman whispered loud enough for me to hear. "She trapped our Prashant. Broke his marriage and forced him into this marriage."
Another voice, a man's, echoed, "What a shame. Our boy deserved better than that city girl who probably ran away from her own family and got herself pregnant with a bastard."
My cheeks burned as they called me names, judging me with that look like I was some sort of witch who came into their village.
It was easy for them but it was difficult when they put themselves in my shoes.
The most beautiful thing in the world is people and the ugliest thing in the world is also people.
They could make you worth and worthless at the same time.
It was just time that changed. And my time was not favouring me at that moment.
My eyes caught a woman. Prashant's mother, standing a little away from the other women, her face a mask of disapproval.
Her narrowed, cold eyes pierced right at me.
There was no welcome, no warmth, just an icy disdain that mirrored my father's recent anger.
She hadn't even looked at me since I arrived, and now, her gaze felt like a physical blow on my face.
Next to them, Prashant's twin sisters, Priya and Pari, stood like two perfectly poised statues, their faces mirroring their mother's hatred, perhaps even amplifying it.
Priya, who had already given me a good scolding, smiled, a sense of triumph dancing in her eyes.
Pari, who was usually quiet, just stared, her silence more condemning than any insult.
Their gazes converged, a powerful current of dislike aimed straight at me.
I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. Every whispered comment, every critical glance, every scornful glance felt like a brick hitting me.
I could feel Prashant's presence next to me, solid and unwavering, but it felt as if he was millions of miles away.
He didn't acknowledge the taunts, didn't even offer a reassuring look, didn't even flinch.
He just stood there, like a silent, motionless pillar, letting me face this onslaught alone.
It was clear: I was alone in this village, an outsider who had dared to disturb their balance.
And Prashant, my husband, was doing absolutely nothing to protect me from their venom.
The air was becoming thick with unspoken accusations, with the weight of their collective disapproval.
How would I survive this? How would I survive here, amid the constant scrutiny and outright dislike of an entire village, led by the very family I was now a part of?
The red saree, once a symbol of a new beginning, now seemed like a scarlet letter, declaring me an unwanted intruder.
"Bahu!" Prashant's mom's voice was like a jump-scare in a Bollywood horror flick, sudden, loud, and enough to make me leap out of my skin.
My head snapped around, and there she was, a vision in traditional wear, slim and elegant, but with a gaze that could curdle milk.
Seriously, I'm not usually one to back down, especially from other women, but her scrutiny made me feel like a five-year-old caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
And let's be real, I'd pretty much resigned myself to the fact that no woman, especially a mother-in-law, was ever going to be my fan.
Trying to impress her felt like trying to teach a cat to fetch, utterly pointless.
"She's calling you," Prashant whispered, his voice a low hum next to my ear. "Bahu means daughter-in-law, don't you know?"
"I know, but honestly, looking at your mom's face makes me feel like I need a bathroom break, pronto," I mumbled back.
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, the kind that makes you want to hit rewind and watch it again before it vanished, replaced by his usual stone-cold expression.
Damn, I really wanted to see those dimples again.
I knew I'd messed things up, but I was determined to fix it. Taking a deep breath, I reached for his hand, but he pulled away like I had the plague.
"Don't... we're in public."
"But we're also husband and wife," I retorted, keeping my voice low, just for him.
"This isn't working in the village, Warrior. They already think you're some kind of 'characterless woman.' I don't need them thinking worse. Just keep your distance from me." His jaw tightened, and he stalked off.
An excuse. That's all it was. He just didn't want to be close because, deep down, he was feeling things he shouldn't.
"Bahu!" Prashant's mom was suddenly in front of me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed into slits.
"I've been calling you repeatedly, but you're too busy having a little romance with my son.
What kind of woman are you, really?" Her hiss was right in my ear, making me flinch.
"Just mind our reputation. You already did enough damage last night.
Please, just please, don't drag us so low that we can't look our relatives in the eye. "
"I'm sorry," I muttered, meeting her gaze head-on.
"Lower your eyes!" she snapped. "Daughters-in-law don't meet their mothers-in-law's eyes."
"I'm looking at you to listen, not to defy," I shot back, and her eyebrows did a quick dance of surprise.
"You really have a sharp tongue, don't you?" Her eyes felt like they were drilling holes straight through my skull. If I had a sharp tongue, she had eyes like surgical blades, precise and cutting.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Pandey..."
"Maa..." She cut me off, sharp as a knife. "Call me 'Maa' because you're sharing my son's last name now, and it won't look good if you call me Mrs. Pandey."
"Okay... Maa..." The word felt alien, a bitter taste on my tongue. I winced. She didn't feel like my mom, not even close, but I knew I couldn't disrespect her.
"Well, I have work for you," she said, a twisted smirk playing on her lips. "You need to prepare kheer for my hundred guests. It's our ritual. On the second day of marriage, our Bahu makes something sweet to win the hearts of her in-laws. I hope you won't disappoint me this time. Good luck."
Before I could even open my mouth to ask a single question, she spun on her heel and walked away, leaving me standing there, wondering if I'd just been assigned a sweet dish or a suicide mission.
My head spun. One hundred guests? Kheer?
The last time I'd cooked for more than two people, it was instant noodles for my mom and me.
And even then, she'd joked about how I nearly set off the fire alarm.
Kheer, for those blissfully ignorant souls who've never had to confront it, isn't just a dessert.
It's an Indian mother-in-law's secret weapon.
A test of domesticity, a symbol of a daughter-in-law's worth.
If I failed in this task I would fail at being the ideal Indian bahu.
I marched into the kitchen, a battlefield of gleaming steel utensils and suspicious-looking spices.
It was huge, intimidating, smelling faintly of turmeric and expectations.
Prashant's mother, or Maa, as I was now supposed to call her without wincing.
A twisted grin, she had when she told me that ritual like she knew my culinary skills extended only to ordering takeout and making burnt toast.
"Bhabhi, you need help?" A giggling cousin-in-law, bedecked in far too much jewellery, peeked in.
"No, I'm good," I chirped, trying not to sound pissed off. My hands, however, were already trembling. Hundred guests. One hundred bowls of creamy, sweet, perfectly cooked rice pudding.
I found a mountain of rice, a lake of milk, and a small hillock of sugar. Okay, Ira, basic logic, I told myself. Rice, milk, sugar. Cook. Stir. Don't burn. It was simple but how?
I poured the milk into the largest pot I could find, it was big enough to bathe a small elephant and placed it on the stove.
The flame roared to life. Next, I took rice and rinsed it meticulously, remembering a cooking show where the chef looked like he was performing heart surgery on the grains.
My hands, though, moved with the grace of a bricklayer.
The milk began to simmer, threatening to boil over. I grabbed a ladle, one of those giant ones that could double as a shovel, and started stirring. Stirring, stirring, stirring. My arm ached. Minutes turned into an eternity and sweat trickled down my forehead, stinging my eyes.
"Is it supposed to be this thick?" I muttered to myself, peering into the milky vortex. It wasn't getting creamy; it was just bubbling angrily. And was that a faint smell of something sticking?
Panic surged through me. This wasn't like making instant coffee.
This was a ritual, a sacred performance.
If I messed this up, I would not only disappoint Maa, but I'd also confirm every villager's suspicion that I was, indeed, a "characterless woman" who couldn't even cook.
Prashant's words echoed in my head, "They already assumed you were a characterless woman.
" Now I'd be the characterless woman with the worst kheer maker.
I turned up the flame, thinking, foolishly, that more heat would speed up the process.
But it was a big mistake. Suddenly, a loud hissing sound erupted from the pot.
A plume of acrid smoke billowed up, assaulting my nostrils.
"Oh, no, no, no!" I cried, frantically trying to stir faster, to save whatever was salvageable.
The milk, or what was left of it, had begun to caramelize at the bottom of the pot, turning a dark, ominous brown.
"Damn it!" I yelled, dropping the ladle. In my haste to pull the burning pot off the stove, my hand slipped. The edge of the hot metal seared into my skin. A sharp, piercing pain shot through me, making me gasp.
"Agh!" I yanked my hand back, clutching it to my chest. A red welt was already forming on my palm, angry and throbbing.
Tears welled up in my eyes from crushing frustration.
The kheer was ruined, my hand was burnt, and I was officially the worst bahu in the history of Indian weddings. I was already the worst wife.
I stood there, a defeated warrior in a smokey kitchen, the smell of burnt milk and my own failure hanging heavy in the air.
Maybe Prashant was right. Maybe I was just wasting my efforts trying to fit in.
Some battles, it seemed, you were destined to lose.
And kheer, for me, was definitely one of them.
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