[25]GIFT
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the edge of my pallu and turn the big kadhai again.
The rajma is almost done, rich red gravy bubbling, whole spices popping.
Next to it, three more burners are busy: dal simmering, jeera-aloo roasting, and a huge pot of rice for all family.
Sab log aaj lautenge.
Dadi, Papa, Chhoti Mausi, Tauji, Taiji, Rajveer bhaiya, Megha di… everyone.
I miss them so much.
Pata nahi kaunse gaon gaye hain jahan network bhi nahi aata.
Phone karna toh door, message bhi nahi jaata.
I smile to myself.
Lagn mein kitna maza kiya hoga sabne.
I didn’t want to go… I told them I wanted rest.
Crowds, loud dhol-tasha, late nights, I don’t like all that.
But look at me now, still no rest.
Instead of sleeping, I spent two whole days (and nights) with my Pati Parmeshwar.
A shy heat crawls up my neck at the thought.
Everyone says it only pains the first time.
Liar.
Even now, when I bend to pick the haldi dabba, my lower back protests, and between my legs there’s a dull, sweet ache that reminds me exactly how thoroughly he used me.
I bite my lip, scolding myself.
Amisha, kaam pe dhyan do!
The haveli is quiet.
Only the clatter of my payals, the hiss of the stove, and the distant voices of workers outside.
No family.
Just me and the old walls.
I feel a little lonely, then immediately scold myself again.
Arre, yeh kaam karne wale bhi toh apne hi hain.
Servant-employer nahi sochna chahiye, Dadi will scold me if she hears such thoughts.
I glance at the big brass clock on the wall.
4 o’clock.
Time to feed the animals.
Dadi does it every day, but she’s not here, so it’s my duty now.
I wipe my hands, untie the apron, and walk out through the back door.
The afternoon sun is golden and kind.
Behind the haveli stretches our huge courtyard, then the granary, then the animal sheds.
The air smells of hay, warm milk, and earth.
First the cows and buffaloes, twenty-six of them, fat and shiny.
I call Ramkishore kaka.
“Kaka, aaj gaayein aur bhains ko saaf chhaana-peena de dijiye, thoda gud aur chana bhi mix kar dijiye. Thak ke aayenge sab log, doodh garam karke pilaungi.”
Kaka smiles, folds his hands.
“Malkin, aaj ek gaay ne phir doodh de diya hai, bahut saara.”
I laugh softly.
“Haan kaka, rasoi mein rakhwa dijiyega. Aur thoda sa ghar le jaaiye. Aapki beti maa banne wali hai na? Usko achha achha khilaiye, aur aap bhi pi lijiyega.”
He beams, eyes crinkling.
“Jaisa aap kahen, Malkin.”
I walk further.
And there they are, the pride of the haveli, two horses standing tall in their stable.
One black, one chestnut.
Even in this day and age, we keep horses.
Abhiraj and Shatish bhaiya love them.
When they’re free, they ride out to the fields like old zamindars.
I run my hand gently over the black one’s nose; he nuzzles my palm.
I turn to the young worker.
“Arre bhaiya, in dono ko bhi achhe se saaf karna, thoda gud aur chana mix karke khila dena. Aaj shaam ko Hukum aa jayenge, woh dekh lenge.”
He nods eagerly.
I linger for a moment, breathing in the quiet, the smell of animals and earth, the soft lowing of cows.
The haveli feels alive even when empty.
I smile to myself, rubbing the small of my back again.
Sab log lautenge.
Ghar phir se goonjega.
And when Abhiraj comes back with them, tired from panchayat work,
I’ll have hot food ready,
and maybe, just maybe,
he’ll pull me into a corner and steal one tired, grateful kiss
before anyone notices.
The thought makes me blush all the way back to the kitchen.
I come back inside, hands smelling of hay and fresh milk.
The kitchen is done for now; everything is on slow flame.
I climb the stairs quietly, lost in my own thoughts.
First I go to our room.
A little tidying: straighten the rajai, fluff the pillows, open the windows so the evening breeze can come in.
Then I stand in front of the big mirror.
My eyes fall on the small basket on the dressing table.
My secret treasure: twenty-three different lip balms lined up like soldiers.
Rose, strawberry, vanilla, peach, mint, even one that tastes like gulab jamun.
I don’t know why I’m obsessed, but the moment I see them I smile.
I pick the new strawberry one, roll it over my lips slowly, press them together.
Perfect.
Then my gaze shifts to the scissors lying beside the comb.
A tiny, naughty smirk creeps on my face.
Kyun na thode baal uda hi diye jaaye?
I lift a thick lock, heart racing.
Niche se nahi katungi, Dadi maar daalengi
.
Unki wajah se hi itne lambe hain, waist tak.
Sirf aage se… thodi si fringe.
I remember that city girl who came to the gaon last month for some government survey.
Her hair was so pretty: long layers, soft curtain bangs that framed her face.
I want that.
I take a deep breath.
“Jyada ud gaye toh khud hi ud jaungi is duniya se,” I mutter, and snip.
One side first.
Too short.
Arre!
I swallow, then carefully cut the other side to match.
I shake my hair loose.
Oh…
The mirror shows a different girl.
Long hair still falls to my waist, but now soft, wispy bangs brush my eyebrows and cheeks.
A few strands fall forward, framing my face like a curtain.
I look… younger.
Like a college girl,not a wed bahu.
A little baby-faced, but cute.
Megha di has something like this, only hers is shorter.
Mine is longer, softer.
I turn my head left, right.
A happy laugh bubbles out of me.
Achhe lage!
I quickly gather the rest into a low ponytail, letting the new bangs and a few loose strands fall free.
Perfect.
Feeling lighter than air, I grab the broom and dusting cloth.
Abhiraj ka office, phir Chhoti Mausi ka room, phir Dadi ka room… thodi si safai.
I hum an old Rajasthani lokgeet while I work, twirling the broom like a dance partner, hair swishing with every turn.
When he comes back tonight and sees this,
I wonder what he’ll say.
I bite my strawberry lip, already blushing at the thought.
He’ll probably tug one of the new bangs and call me “chhoti bachchi” again.
I don’t mind.
Let him.
Today I feel brand-new.
I collapse sideways on the long sofa, one arm flung over my eyes.
My new bangs keep falling into my mouth and sticking behind my ears; they’re driving me mad.
Beauty is painful, I decide.
But when I caught my reflection in the steel dabba just now, I looked… pretty.
So I’ll suffer.
The main door creaks open.
Heavy footsteps.
I know that stride.
Abhiraj walks in, kurta slightly dusty from panchayat work, hair a little windswept.
He stops when he sees me sprawled like a tired kitten, smiles slow and soft, and drops beside me.
“Kyun mari padi ho aise?”
“Thak gayi hoon bilkul,”
I mumble into the cushion.
He chuckles.
“Ghar pe dusre workers bhi toh hain, unse karwa leti.”
I.”
I lift my head just enough to glare.
“Arre, khana woh pakayenge kya? Aur aas-paas ka kaam?”
He raises both hands in surrender.
“Okay okay, tumhi karogi. Meri sherni.”
Then his eyes really focus on me.
He tilts his head.
“Alag alag lag rahi ho aaj.”
I feel shy suddenly.
I tuck the annoying strands behind my ear again.
He reaches out, deliberately messes them up, fingers ruffling the bangs.
“Baal mat bigaado!” I swat his hand, trying to fix them.
He grins.
“Chhoti bachchi lag rahi ho.”
“Main toh chhoti hi hoon,” I huff.
“Bas bees saal ki. Aap hi twenty-seven ke ho. Main toh jawaan, aap buddhe.”
He gasps dramatically, hand on heart.
“Toh main kya buddha hoon?”
I scoot closer, nose almost touching his.
“Haan ji. Poora buddha.”
He sighs theatrically.
“Accha chhodo… buddha ne gift laaya tha tere liye, par ab haath nahi uth raha, budhapa aa gaya.”
My eyes go round.
“Kya laaye ho??”
He pretends to struggle.
“Nahi… haath nahi uth raha.”
I shake his arm like a monkey.
“Arre bolo na! Aap old nahi ho!”
He laughs, finally pulls out a small velvet box from his pocket, opens it.
Two pairs of payal gleam inside.
One heavy, three-layered gold with tiny pearls and bells, perfect for functions.
The other delicate, single chain with little gold leaves and soft ghungroos, everyday pretty.
I gasp.
“Wah…”
He lifts my right foot onto his lap, slips the simple one on first.
The cool metal kisses my ankle, ghungroos giving a soft chan-chan.
“Tum heavy wali function mein pehenna, yeh ghar mein. Pareshan nahi karengi.”
He fastens the clasp, then does the left.
I wiggle my feet, listening to the gentle music.
“Bade sundar hain… chandi ke laate toh sone ke kyun laaye? Koi mera pair chura ke le jayega!”
He looks up, eyes dark and serious.
“Duniya mein kisi mein itni himmat nahi.”
I put my feet down, chan-chan-chan, and grin.
“Kafi sundar hain. Thank you, old man.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Abhi toh jawaan tha, gift mil gya to firse old?”
“Haan ji, gift ke liye.”
Suddenly his big hand slides to my hip, drags me across the sofa in one smooth pull.
I slip and land half in his lap with a squeak.
He leans close, lips brushing my ear, voice low and dangerous.
“Raat ko dikha dunga kitna buddha hoon.”
Heat floods my face.
I try to jump up; he tugs me right back down.
The sofa bounces.
“Mera return gift?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
“Mere paas abhi nahi hai… kal la dungi!”
He taps his cheek.
“Ek pappi chalegi.”
I pretend to think, then lean in like I’m going for his lips,
at the last second turn and plant a quick peck on his cheek.
He touches the spot, sees the faint strawberry lip-balm mark, and laughs.
“Yeh bhi chalega.”
I giggle, grab my pallu, and wipe the mark off his cheek like a good wife.
He inhales deeply.
“Aaj khane mein kya banaya?”
“Rajma, dal tadka, jeera aloo, chawal… aur jo bajra ki rotla khayega uske liye bana dungi. Raat ko sabko kesar-doodh bhi.”
He whistles.
“Wah, davat hai aaj toh!”
I beam proudly.
“Haan ji, sab thak ke aayenge na… pet bhar ke khilaungi.”
He pulls me properly into his lap now, arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder, payals singing every time I move my feet.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the new weight of gold around my ankles.
Home is coming back.
And everything feels just perfect.