[27]POOJA
The first call of the koel drifted in through the lattice.
Amisha stirred, blinked, and felt the familiar warm weight on her chest.
Abhiraj was still exactly where he had fallen asleep: head pillowed on her left breast, lips loosely closed around her nipple, one arm locked around her waist like she might vanish.
She bit back a shy smile, cheeks warming at the memory of last night.
Carefully, very carefully, she eased her nipple from his mouth.
He made a small, sleepy sound of protest but didn’t wake.
She slid out from under him, letting his head settle on the pillow instead, and padded to the bathroom.
The towel went around her body; yesterday’s saree was picked up and wrapped loosely, just enough to cover, then discarded again when she stepped under the shower.
Ten minutes later she came out, towel knotted above her breasts, and opened the almirah for today’s saree.
Dadi had kept it ready weeks ago: heavy lavender-pink tissue with a thick zari border and delicate gota-patti lace.
Perfect for the post-wedding pooja of the new couple.
She slipped on the petticoat, tied the blouse strings loosely, and began the battle with six yards of slippery tissue.
First pleat: slipped.
Second pleet: fell.
Tenth attempt: the pallu slid off her shoulder like it had a personal grudge.
“Poori zindagi saree pehen-pehen ke nikal di… ab ek din bhi nahi peheni ja rahi!” she muttered through clenched teeth.
With a frustrated huff she gathered the whole thing in a crumpled ball and flung it back into the almirah.
A low, amused chuckle sounded behind her.
Abhiraj leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, lowers riding dangerously low, eyes dancing.
“Kya hai aapko?” she snapped, face flaming.
“Bas… tamasha dekh raha tha. Badhiya tha,” he said, voice still rough from sleep.
“Kab se?”
“Jab se tum uthi tab se.”
He pushed off the post, walked over, and plucked the crumpled saree from the shelf.
“Main madad kar deta hoon.”
She sighed, defeated, and turned around.
What followed was less “draping” and more deliberate torture.
His fingers brushed the curve of her waist every time he tucked a pleat.
His knuckles grazed the underside of her breast when he adjusted the pallu.
He smoothed the fabric over her hips far slower than necessary, palms lingering, thumbs tracing the edge of her petticoat.
Amisha narrowed her eyes.
He gave her the most innocent look in his arsenal.
Half the saree was done.
“Ghumo,” he ordered softly.
She turned, sweeping her damp hair to one side.
He stepped close, tied the blouse dori with deliberate slowness, then let one finger trail from the nape of her neck, down her spine, all the way to the base, stopping just above the cleft of her bottom.
She gasped, spun, and slapped his hand hard.
He laughed, low and shameless.
But the saree was perfectly draped now, every pleat sharp, pallu falling exactly right.
Amisha combed her hair quickly, applied a coat of vanilla lip-balm, and stepped back so he could see the full effect: heavy tissue glowing against her skin, the new delicate payal he had gifted yesterday chiming softly at her ankles.
Abhiraj’s gaze went dark.
In two strides he was in front of her, cupped her face, and took her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss, licking the vanilla straight off her lips.
He broke away just enough to murmur against her mouth,
“Hmm… vanilla. Good taste.”
Then he licked his own lips, grinning.
Amisha stood there, flushed, breathless, lip-balm ruined, heart racing.
And the morning pooja hadn’t even started yet.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click.
Abhiraj stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, water still clinging to his shoulders and chest.
He stopped mid-step.
Amisha stood in front of the mirror, back to him, braiding her long hair with quick, practiced fingers.
The heavy tissue saree shimmered in the morning light, the new payal glinting every time she shifted her weight.
He frowned slightly.
Why tie them? They looked better open, falling loose over her back like silk.
He padded across the room silently.
She didn’t notice, too focused on getting the braid even.
So he did what any sensible husband would do:
slipped one finger under the edge of her saree and poked the soft, bare curve of her tummy.
Amisha squeaked, hands flying to cover the spot.
“Kya kar rahe ho?!”
He leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, towel dangerously low.
“Baal khule kyun nahi rakhe? Achhe lag rahe the.”
“Manage nahi hote,” she muttered, resuming the braid.
“Main kar lunga.”
She turned, eyes wide.
“Aap karoge?”
He didn’t answer, just plucked the comb from her fingers, undid the half-finished braid in one smooth pull.
Long, damp waves tumbled down her back.
He combed slowly, gently, from root to tip, then gathered the front sections, twisted them softly, and secured them with a pearl pin he found on the table.
The rest fell open in soft waves, framing her face perfectly.
Amisha stared at the mirror, then at him, then back at the mirror.
A shy smile broke across her face.
She stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek softly.
“Thank you.”
She handed him his clothes (crisp white kurta-pyjama).
He dropped the towel without ceremony, dressed while she pretended not to look (and failed).
Then he sat at the dressing table, running the comb through his own hair.
Amisha frowned.
“Aapke honth aur chehra kitna rough hai.”
She picked up the small jar of malai-kesar cream.
He immediately leaned away.
“Mujhe yeh sab nahi lagata.”
“Lagao na, achha ho jayega chehra.”
She scooped a little on her fingers and began massaging it into his jaw, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose.
He grumbled but let her.
Her thumb brushed his lower lip.
“Aapki beard bhi badh gayi hai.”
“Kar lunga shave.”
She reached for the vanilla lip-balm.
He caught her wrist.
“Nahi.”
“Arre, colour nahi hai!”
She rolled it across her own lips to prove it.
“Dekho, bilkul transparent.”
Before she could pull away, he tugged her forward by the waist, brought her mouth to his, and rubbed her freshly coated lips against his own in one slow, deliberate swipe.
Lip-balm successfully transferred.
He licked his lips, tasted vanilla, and grinned.
“Ab theek hai.”
Amisha stood frozen, cheeks on fire, lips tingling.
He tapped her nose.
“Chalo, panditji wait kar rahe honge.”
And with that, he walked out, leaving her touching her mouth, half-annoyed, half-breathless, completely in love.
The morning air carried the scent of marigold and incense.
Panditji’s mantras floated from the small temple room.
Abhiraj spotted Rajveer Papa, Mihir, and Shatish near the tulsi platform and walked over, hands in pockets, nodding at the men.
Amisha slipped into the kitchen.
The women were already busy:
Minakshi Ma directing the making of puran-poli,
Badi Saasuma rolling out dough,
Megha chopping dry fruits,
and, to Amisha’s quiet surprise, Shushila, standing at the counter in a deep red silk saree, hair open and flowing down her back like a new bride should.
The heavy sindoor in her parting glowed, and she was actually talking, softly, but talking, to Ma and Megha.
Amisha stepped in.
“goodmorning, sabko.”
Everyone turned, smiles breaking out.
“Arey bahu aa gayi!”
“Kitni sundar lag rahi hai aaj!”
Shushila even gave her a small, shy nod.
Ma patted Amisha’s cheek and hurried off to check the pooja thali.
Now only Megha, Shushila, and Amisha stood at the side counter, stuffing modaks.
Megha couldn’t resist.
She leaned in, eyes twinkling.
“Bhabhi, aaj kal toh chamak hi rahi ho!
Meri tarkeeb kaam aa gayi na?
Suna hai suhaag-raat ke baad aisi hi glow aati hai.”
She turned to Shushila with the same mischief.
“Aur tu bhi toh ab bhabhi ban gayi… ab toh teri bhi chamak aayegi!”
Shushila sighed, a tiny, tired smile.
“Mera toh koi glow nahi aayega… poori zindagi aise hi rahungi.”
Megha clasped her hands dramatically.
“Arrey, main toh jaldi hi bua ban jaungi!”
Shushila joined in, softer, “Aur main chachi…”
Amisha rolled her eyes, laughing.
“Bua-Chachi baad mein banna, pehle kaam khatam karo, behno ji!”
The three of them burst into quiet giggles and went back to filling modaks.
While her fingers pressed the dough, Amisha’s mind wandered.
Bachhe…
Kabhi socha hi nahi tha itni seriously.
Main maa…
Mujhe kitne chahiye?
Panch toh bahut ho jayenge, thak jaungi.
Do theek hai, ek ladka, ek ladki.
Par ghar khali-khali lagega na?
Phir khayal aaya, arrey meri dono devraniyon aur nanad ke bhi toh bachhe honge…
Megha ke, Shushila ke, Mihir bhaiya ke…
Tab toh haveli mein hamesha dhamal-machayega, hansi-thahake, chhote-chhote paer daudte rahenge.
She smiled to herself, warmth spreading in her chest.
Haan… do hi kaafi hain.
Baaki ghar khud bhar lega.
She glanced across at Shushila, who was quietly shaping a perfect modak, and felt a sudden surge of protectiveness for this new, silent sister.
Everything would be all right.
The haveli was big enough for every kind of love, even the ones that started with fights and cricket bats.
The havan kund crackled softly, sending curls of fragrant smoke toward the carved ceiling.
Everyone sat cross-legged on white dhoti sheets spread over the marble floor in neat rows.
At the very front, directly facing Panditji, were the newly-weds:
Shatish and Shushila.
They had been told to sit shoulder-to-shoulder.
Instead, a silent war was being fought for territory.
Shatish shifted left, trying to claim more sheet.
Shushila immediately scooted right, elbow nudging him away.
He pushed back with his knee.
She answered by sliding her hip (hard) into his side, knocking him an inch off balance.
A tiny, almost invisible tussle followed:
shoulders bumping,
hips shoving,
dupatta and angvastram getting tangled.
Finally Shushila planted herself firmly, pallu flicked like a victory flag, and refused to budge another millimetre.
Shatish glared at the havan flames as though personally offended by them.
They both sat stiff, cheeks flushed, convinced nobody had noticed their two-minute battle for three extra inches of floor.
Behind them, Amisha had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
A tiny, muffled giggle escaped anyway.
Abhiraj, seated beside her, glanced over, caught the whole scene, and simply shook his head with the fondest, most resigned smile, the kind that said:
Welcome to the rest of our lives.
Panditji’s loud “Swaha!” mercifully covered the next elbow jab.
The pooja continued.
So did the quiet war at the front.
And the entire family pretended (very badly) that they saw absolutely nothing.