[35]MELA
The sky had turned a deep orange-pink, and the entire ground was lit up with hundreds of naked bulbs, lanterns, and flickering diyas.
The air smelled of roasted corn, imli chutney, frying bhutta, and the faint sweetness of gulab jamun.
The second their car (black Fortuner, shining like it belonged to a palace) rolled in, heads turned.
Two men in plain clothes (Abhiraj’s personal security) stepped out first, scanned the crowd, then opened the door.
Abhiraj emerged first: navy-blue shirt, sleeves still rolled, black trousers, height and shoulders making him look like a king who accidentally walked into a village fair.
Then Amisha stepped out: simple grey cotton saree, pallu fluttering, tiny black bindi, hair in a loose braid with a few strands dancing around her glowing face.
The contrast was insane.
People stopped mid-bite, mid-laugh.
“Arre… yeh Shekhawat sahab khud aaye?”
“Sarpanch ji ki biwi ko dekho… kitni simple lag rahi hai!”
“Wah… itna bada gaadi aur itni seedhi-sadi bahu!”
Whispers followed them like a wave.
Abhiraj didn’t care about the stares.
He only cared about one thing: the crowd was thick, chaotic, and his pregnant wife was already bouncing on her toes.
He reached for her hand instantly, fingers locking tight.
“Amisha. Haath nahi chhodna. Samjhi?”
She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling brighter than the fairylights.
“Ji, hukum!”
And then she dragged him in.
The mela swallowed them.
First stop: the imli candy stall.
Amisha’s eyes went heart-shaped.
“Ek plate imli!”
Abhiraj paid before she could even open her purse, handed her the leaf plate.
She popped one in her mouth, eyes closing in bliss.
“Hayeee… kitna khatta!”
He watched her, lips twitching.
“Dheere khao, pet kharab nahi hona chahiye.”
Next: roasted corn stall.
She pointed like a child. “Bhutta!”
He let her have one, butter and lemon rubbed, but only half.
“Bas itna. Spicy nahi.”
She pouted, but obeyed.
Then came the fried peanut-chana stall.
She inhaled the smell, tugged his sleeve.
“Thoda sa?”
He bought a whole newspaper cone, handed it to her, and let her eat while walking.
People kept staring: the giant sarpanch letting his tiny wife feed him peanuts from her fingers, wiping butter off her chin with his handkerchief like a lovesick husband.
Then they reached the pani-puri stall.
Amisha stopped dead.
Her eyes said everything.
Abhiraj’s face said no.
“Amisha… no. Bahut spicy hota hai. Pet mein jalega.”
She turned full puppy-eyed mode.
“Ek plate? Please? Sirf ek?”
“No.”
“Half plate?”
“No.”
“Ek puri?”
He opened his mouth to refuse again.
She already had tears (dramatic, fake, but effective).
“Pregnant hoon main… craving hai…”
The crowd around started grinning.
Abhiraj sighed, defeated in front of fifty villagers.
“Ek plate. Sirf paani thoda kam spicy.”
The pani-puri wala, sensing free entertainment, made the spiciest one first and handed it to Abhiraj.
“Saab, aap bhi taste kijiye!”
Amisha grabbed one, shoved it into Abhiraj’s mouth before he could protest.
His eyes watered instantly.
She laughed so hard she had to hold her belly.
He chewed, swallowed, glared (but the corner of his mouth was twitching).
“Ek aur plate,” he told the vendor, voice rough. “Aur paani bilkul meetha-spicy mix.”
She ate eight puris, eyes watering, nose red, giggling between bites.
He wiped her mouth with his handkerchief after every single one.
Then came the dupatta stall.
Rows and rows of bright cotton and chiffon dupattas fluttering like flags.
Amisha went into full bargaining auntie mode.
“Yeh laal wala? Kitne ka?”
“350, madam.”
“350?! Bhaiya 150 mein de do!”
“Madam 300 final.”
“150! Final-final!”
The shopkeeper started sweating.
Abhiraj stood behind her, arms crossed, letting her fight.
Finally she bought three: one red, one yellow, one blue, for 180 each after ten minutes of drama.
Next stall: small gifts.
She picked a set of red ribbons for Dadi, a packet of big bindis for Minakshi Ma, a tiny wooden peacock for Shushila.
“Shushila bhabhi ko achha lagega na?”
He just nodded, paid silently, pockets getting heavier.
Then the jewellery stall.
Cheap oxidised stuff, colourful chooda sets, jhumkas.
She tried on a pair of huge green jhumkas, looked in the broken mirror, giggled.
“Kitna bada hai! Nahi lena.”
Then a set of red-glass bangles.
“Tight hai… haath phool gaya na, nahi lenge.”
She put everything back, walked away.
Abhiraj stayed behind for thirty seconds.
Shopkeeper came running later with a small packet.
“Saab, aapki wife ne 150 bola tha na? Aapne 500 diye… yeh rakh lijiye.”
Abhiraj didn’t even blink.
“Jo bola woh bola. Baaki rakh lo.”
And slipped the packet (green jhumkas + red bangles) into his pocket.
By 9 p.m. Amisha suddenly stopped, hand on mouth.
“Uff… pani puri repeat ho raha hai…”
He immediately pulled her to a quiet corner, rubbed her back gently.
“Bol na tha maine… ab ghar chalte hain?”
She shook her head bravely.
“Nahi… thodi der aur…”
But her face was turning green.
He didn’t wait.
Scooped her up in his arms like she weighed nothing, right in front of half the village.
Crowd went “awww”.
Some aunties started blessing them.
“Hayee… kitna pyar hai!”
Amisha hid her face in his neck, half embarrassed, half relieved.
He carried her all the way to the car, security clearing the path.
Before putting her in, he opened the packet, slipped the red bangles on her wrist, clipped the green jhumkas on her ears.
She looked up, eyes wide.
“Yeh… kab liya tune?”
He tapped her nose.
“Jab tu gali de rahi thi dukaanwala ko.”
She stared at the bangles, then at him, eyes suddenly teary (hormones + love).
He buckled her seatbelt, kissed her forehead.
“Ab ghar. No more pani puri for next six months.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder, bangles tinkling softly.
“Ji… hukum.”
And as the car rolled out, the entire mela still talking about the giant sarpanch who let his tiny, simple, pregnant wife drag him around like a puppy,
Amisha fell asleep against his arm, red bangles shining under the streetlights,
smelling of imli, corn, and pure happiness.
The Fortuner rolled smoothly on the village road, but inside the car it felt like a boat in a storm for Amisha.
The moment the doors closed, the smell of leather + AC + faint petrol hit her nose.
She scrunched her face, pulled her grey pallu up over her nose like a mask, and slumped against the seat.
Her whole body went soft, like someone had removed all her bones.
Abhiraj glanced sideways and immediately frowned.
“Amisha… theek ho?”
She shook her head, voice muffled through the pallu.
“Ghar kab aayega… mujhe ulti jaisa lag raha hai… yeh gaadi ki smell…”
He reached for the water bottle in the door pocket, unscrewed it, and held it to her lips.
“Peelo, thoda thoda.”
She drank obediently, small sips, eyes closed.
“Bas dus minute aur,” he said softly, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back.
Amisha only whimpered.
The second the car turned into the haveli gates and stopped, she yanked the door open herself and practically fell out.
Fresh air hit her like cold water.
Her legs wobbled badly, knees shaking, face pale-green under the porch lights.
Abhiraj was out in a flash, arm around her waist instantly.
“Dheere… main hoon.”
She was swaying like a sapling in wind.
“Chalo… wahan baithte hain…”
she mumbled, pointing towards the wide marble steps of the veranda (not the hichka; swinging would make it worse).
He half-carried her there, sat her down on the third step, and settled right beside her, arm still locked around her shoulders.
Amisha dropped her head between her knees, pallu still over her nose, breathing slow and deep.
Cool night breeze, smell of mogra from the garden, distant crickets, everything felt like medicine.
Abhiraj kept rubbing her back, palm warm and steady.
“Better?”
She nodded weakly.
Just then Shushila appeared, quiet as always, holding a small steel bowl.
She crouched in front of Amisha without a word and offered it.
Fresh pudina leaves, crushed with a little rock-sugar and lemon.
Amisha’s eyes lit up even in her sickness.
“Shushila bhabhi… aap farishta hain.”
She took a pinch, put it in her mouth, and the sharp, cool mint hit instantly.
Colour started creeping back into her cheeks.
Shushila gave a tiny smile (rare, but real) and placed the bowl in Amisha’s lap.
“Thodi der khao. Turant araam milega.”
Then she quietly walked away.
Amisha leaned her head on Abhiraj’s shoulder, breathing the pudina and the night air, legs finally steady.
Abhiraj kissed her temple.
“Ab theek ho?”
She nodded, voice small but relieved.
“Ab gaadi mein kabhi nahi baithungi… scooter se jaayenge aage se.”
He chuckled softly, arm tightening around her.
“Theek hai, meri rani. Scooter hi sahara hai ab.”
They sat there another ten minutes, under the stars, pudina bowl between them, until the last wave of nausea passed and Amisha finally looked like herself again (glowing, rosy, and already planning the next mela attack).
Abhiraj kept his arm firmly around Amisha’s shoulders as they slowly walked in from the veranda.
Her legs were still wobbly, body heavy with exhaustion and leftover nausea, so she leaned into him completely, one hand clutching his shirt for balance.
Everyone was already gathered.
Dadi sat in her usual big cushioned chair, spectacles low on her nose, remote in hand.
Minakshi Ma and Shushila sat on the long sofa, Megha sprawled on the carpet with a bowl of murmura.
The giant LED TV was playing Colors channel, and the iconic opening chords of a song started.
Dun-dun-dun-dun…
Suraj hua maddham, chand jalne laga…
Aasmaan yeh haai kyoon pighalne laga…
Amisha’s tired face instantly lit up.
She tugged Abhiraj’s sleeve like a child.
“Mummyji! Yeh gaana nayaa aaya hai na?”
Minakshi Ma smiled wide.
“Haan beta, aaj hi dekha maine! Kitna sundar hai!”
Amisha carefully lowered herself onto the sofa between Dadi and Minakshi Ma, legs still shaky.
Abhiraj sat on the armrest beside her, hand automatically going to the back of her neck, massaging lightly.
Shushila, usually quiet, actually spoke up.
“Yeh naya picture aaya hai… Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham.”
Dadi squinted at the screen where Shah Rukh Khan was spreading his arms on a helicopter pad.
“Yeh hero naya hai kya?”
The entire room burst out laughing.
Shushila said softly, “Dadi, iska naam Shah Rukh Khan hai.”
Amisha, now fully revived by the song, clasped her hands dreamily.
“Arre wah… Kajol ke saath kitne achhe lag rahe hain dono!
Dekho na, woh red saree mein… main bhi aise pehnungi kabhi!”
Dadi patted her cheek fondly.
“Tu toh aise hi sundar lagti hai, meri gudiya.”
On screen, SRK started singing,
Main yahan hoon… yahan hoon… yahan hoon… yahan!
Megha threw a murmura at the TV.
“Bhaiya, aap bhi aise helicopter se aaya karo na ghar!”
Abhiraj gave her a deadpan look.
“Helicopter nahi, par biwi ko godh mein utha ke laata hoon… kaafi hai na?”
Whole room went “Oooooooo!”
Amisha turned tomato red, hid her face in Dadi’s shoulder.
Dadi laughed so hard her spectacles fogged up.
The song continued, the family sang along off-key, and Amisha forgot all about nausea, swollen feet, and car smell; everything.
She just sat there, nestled between her new family, glowing under the TV light, humming with Shah Rukh Khan,
while Abhiraj kept stealing glances at her, hand never leaving her neck, thinking the same thing over and over:
Yeh hi pal hai zindagi ka…
aur kuchh nahi chahiye.
And outside, the mela lights were still twinkling in the distance,
but inside the haveli, their own little filmy moment was playing on loop.