Knot So Matched Preview
Khushi
My mother walks into the kitchen, somber-faced, eyes downcast, not even looking at me. Even her signature red bindi is crooked today—a first in the history of her perfectly centered forehead dots.
My father is heartbroken. And that’s saying something because the last time he looked this devastated was when Sachin Tendulkar retired. This is worse.
It feels like eons since my whole world came crashing down on me.
But it was just yesterday. To think, I was supposed to be getting married tomorrow, probably giggling with my bridesmaids about my honeymoon lingerie right now.
Instead, I’m sitting here in my oldest, comfiest pajamas, which have “Sunday Mood” printed on them. On a Saturday morning.
None of us have spoken in the last twenty-four hours since the wedding was canceled. The silence is so thick you could hear a safety pin drop—which would be a first in our usually chaotic household where Mom can’t even make morning coffee without giving a running commentary about the neighbors.
“I don’t know what we did wrong,” Mom sniffs, the first words spoken in what seems like forever. The same woman who once lectured our neighbor for twenty minutes about how their cat was destroying her precious tulsi plant is now at a loss for words.
It was probably bad luck to see the groom the day before the wedding, but I’m glad I did. Looking back, his matrimonial profile had all the red flags: a man looking for someone his parents approved of, someone who’d uproot her life for his London dreams.
We’d booked a haveli in Jaipur for the wedding—a beautiful traditional mansion with fifty rooms and a sprawling courtyard. Dad wanted me to check if the special wedding night arrangements suited Veer. In retrospect, Veer definitely had his own special arrangements in mind.
“He’s over there!” one of his young cousins had pointed, giggling. I should have known something was wrong when even the five-year-old seemed privy to a secret I wasn’t.
I pushed the door open slightly and peeked in.
Empty room, but then I heard sounds behind one of the wide pillars.
Like any good Indian bride-to-be, I assumed it was someone practicing their terrible dance moves for the sangeet.
Instead, I found my fiancé in a lip-locked embrace with one of his “just friends.” The patterns on my henna-decorated hands blurred before my eyes as I gripped the doorframe, my future shattering to pieces.
“I really don’t know anything anymore, Khushi!” Mom sniffs again, her voice wavering. “We should let it go.”
Let it go? I can’t even throw away my torn pajamas from college (they’re still good for sleeping!).
How am I supposed to let go of this hurt?
Though watching his mother scream at him in front of everyone, and his father drag him away by his collar did bring some satisfaction.
Even his perfectly pressed kurta was all wrinkled by the time they were done with him.
The great London-returned bachelor, caught behind a pillar like some desperate teenager.
I sigh. But that’s not going to change the mess I’m in now, is it? Or take away the whispers and sideways glances my family will have to face in our social circles. Or the shame.
Dad hasn’t eaten or slept since yesterday. Neither have I, but I’m furious. How could that dick have cheated on me?
The phone rings, and Mom goes to get it. “Hello.” She listens for a minute and hangs up, shuffling back to the kitchen.
“Who was it?”
“Your cousins are going to watch a movie.” She putters around aimlessly, then turns to me. “You should go too.”
“No.” I set the kettle to boil water. I need coffee. I know Mom’s trying to cheer me up. But I don’t feel like meeting cousins at a time like this. They’re all very sweet, but no. I can’t drown my grief in a movie.
“It’s a tragedy, but like a good kind,” Mom says, her smile peeking out like sunshine on a cloudy day.
I look at her, confused, until I realize she’s talking about the movie. “Oh.”
My mother, a movie buff, sounds just a tad excited about the movie. A far cry from the way she looks—like her whole universe got swept away in a hurricane.
She’s wearing an old, tattered, red kaftan, the one she refuses to throw away despite Dad buying her three new ones last Diwali.
Like mother, like daughter. Her hair is tied back into a knot with a red rubber band, and that crooked bindi somehow makes her look even more endearing.
Her eyes look tired and puffy, like she’s been crying all night, too.
I lean in and pull her into a tight hug before I pull back and look at her sweet face.
I should have never agreed to move to London. I should have never said yes to marrying a man I hardly knew. But it is what it is.
I swallow the big lump in my throat. “You should go for the movie.” I know a movie will improve her mood.
God knows we all need a little bit of cheering up; I want her to go.
Just like I want to go back to my life. Not the fresh new life that I thought I was going to go to in London, to the Victorian-styled home Veer had shown me pictures of.
A fresh blade of pain drives straight into my heart.
Another day at my parents’ house feels like a constant reminder.
I see how my situation makes them feel guilty.
They feel bad for me, and I feel bad for myself, too.
But I’m glad I have my life back, even though I cried nonstop for a day over my collapsed future—a future that was a farce, to begin with.
Better to have discovered Veer’s affair now than later.
I want to return to my life in Bangalore.
Speaking of my life there—there’s my dog Veer (yes, his name is Veer, too), whom I left with my neighbor when I packed everything else.
To think that human-Veer didn’t want dog-Veer in our London home should have been my first clue. “Dogs make me sneeze,” he said.
I quit my job a month ago. The seniors at the retirement center where I worked gave me wedding gifts, tears in their eyes as they wished me farewell.
The center already hired my replacement.
I gave up my apartment, too. So, I have no home to return to in Bangalore.
The weight of these realizations hits me afresh.
All for someone who, after he was caught mid-kiss, claimed, “Sorry, you were never really my type. I don’t know why I said yes.”
It felt like a gut punch, but then again, I should’ve seen it coming. Men like him had a pattern—they settled for women like me out of convenience, not love. Never again.
I make my coffee and take a sip, feeling the hot liquid burn my throat. “I don’t want to watch a tragedy. You go.”
Mom looks unhappy at my answer.
“Want some?” I pour out another cup of coffee for her.
She takes the cup. “What’s the use of crying now?
” she says, although she has done exactly that.
I can tell she’s putting on a brave face for me.
Her tears have dried up, but her kaftan still has a large fresh tear stain.
She clears her throat and holds my arm. “What’s done is done.
Your father is really upset. You must go and talk to him. ”
“I tried, but he refused to talk.”
She smiles softly, patting my shoulder. “He’ll get over it slowly. But I’m going to go crazy if I sit at home.”
I let out a small laugh, trying to sound light. “As you should not. Who’s the hero in the movie?”
“Shah Rukh Khan,” she beams.
“Oh my God! You haven’t gotten over him yet!” I smile, my mouth stretching wide. It feels good to smile again.
“I’ve been in love with him for the past thirty years. He only gets better with age.” A slight blush creeps up her cheeks. “It’ll take your mind off things too.” She nudges my arm. “Think about it.”
I do, but I can’t make myself go. The thought of sitting in a theatre full of people, some of whom might have heard about yesterday... no, thank you.
After she leaves, I seek Dad out. He’s sitting by the window, reading. His glasses are perched on his nose, his book is open on his lap, but his eyes are shut.
“Papa,” I call out softly.
He jerks at the sound, the book falling from his lap.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I rush forward to retrieve the hardbound book at his feet, and turn over the cover. I smile as I read its title. “Interesting.”
“I can never understand some of Tharoor’s fancy language, but it’s fine otherwise.”
I smile. Dad’s been a Shashi Tharoor fan since his first book came out. He has all of them stacked on his bookshelf. Dad smooths the hair on his head, but the sparse strands spring right back up. They can’t be tamed, to his chagrin.
Then, he turns and looks into my eyes, a slight shine to them. “All my fault. I should never have forced you to say yes.”
Afraid he might catch the glisten in my eyes, I stare at the torn foil backing from his pill on the nearby stand. I move to his bookshelf and put the book back on the rack, then sweep my eyes around Dad’s reading room.
He and Mom had moved into this family home in Coonoor after his parents had passed away. I stayed back in Bangalore, but I came here during the summer holidays.
My father’s reading room was my favorite space - with its large window draped in rattan blinds that filtered the mid-afternoon sun, hundreds of books lining the shelves, and an old gramophone that sometimes stuttered while playing vintage songs.
Last year, when my father was hospitalized with severe pneumonia, I finally conceded to the proposal. His friend’s son. Back from London. A business analyst. “It was my choice.”
“I did not know Veer had...had...” His voice breaks.
He slugs the water from the stand. “Raghav was totally dumbfounded, too.” He lets out a heavy sigh.
“Fathers can’t be blamed for their son’s transgressions.
” He looks at me. “He says I wouldn’t know either if you had a relationship back in Bangalore. ”