The Sun-Bronzed Room

He looked down at her from across the room. She looked up and glanced hurriedly down, and he mistook her inability to meet his eyes for coyness. Traits most appropriate to an Indian girl- coyness, demurity, a startling lack of the most remote sign of boldness.

"She can cook very well. Knows a range of dishes, not only Gujarati ones…" Later, she would only be able to associate her mother's voice with the visuals of her painted toes tracing the brown patterns of the vines on the cream tiles of their drawing room. She was required to look demure. Can cook very well. It was amazing to come back to the much stereotyped statement after a full circle of feminism classes in her literature course.

"Literature?" The would be in-laws frowned, then laughed. "English Literature. Very becoming for a lady. Why didn't you pursue home-science? At least that would come of some use in the house. Oh, you can maybe teach the children some good English, eh? Always useful to pass the time in the house. Where are you going to leave and do a job, a good Indian girl, no need, our Rishi is earning good money-"

And then the floor opened up. Her eyes shut, her thoughts splintered. Hrishi, Hrishi's hands on her body, lips tracing every curve, the hot kisses on her face, her shoulders, her stomach, pinning her to the cupboard in the bronze, sun darkened room…

"Do you want to recite a poem for us?"

Her eyes flew up. No way in hell, lady.

"I'll just get some tea."

They laughed, she's shy, they said. Very good, very good. Has good values.

In the privacy of the kitchen, she leaned her hot head on the cool wall and closed her eyes. Her mind was irresistibly drawn back. She could remember every detail. Hrishi's warm whispers in her ear. "I want you." Pushing back the heavy cascades of hair from her neck, Hrishi'd bitten her so hard she'd cried out. It had taken her a week to heal the wound.

She turned on the gas stove to make her future in-laws their first fare. Hrishi was such a good cook. There'd been a terrible row when she'd announced her impending marriage. "Now that you have me, why can't you tell them?" It's not my choice, she had moaned, its not mine. "You're too damn scared." We never met after that, she thought. Our first fight.

Our last one.

She returned with the tea.

"We are modern that way," the fat mother, wearing a flashy saree and a necklace with a pendant the size of a dinner plate, was saying, "the girl can wear jeans and all. No problem. Why, Rishi's own sister wears jeans occasionally, why not? A change is good."

Hrishi slowly unzipping her jeans, sliding a hand inside, sensitive fingers brushing over every inch of skin, stroking, probing, the sun streaming in through the rust coloured curtains and only the two of them, enjoying a delicious afternoon all of their own…

"Their horoscopes also match beautifully," the fat one beamed. The son, an exact replica of the mother, his partially unbuttoned shirt giving the unhampered view of a hairy chest and a gold chain, beamed at his would-be virgin bride.

An awkward silence followed. Well, awkward for everyone else, because the shy virgin bride was still lost in her lover's fantasies.

"I think we should leave the youngsters to talk for sometime. Have I shown you around the house? We recently had a renovation…"

The father's voice trailed off and the gaggle of people left the room, obediently pouring out to let the 'youngsters' alone. She looked up properly for the first time, taking in the man who could, would be her husband. And was thoroughly repulsed. She lowered her eyes, and he mistook it for submissiveness again. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to talk, voice preceded by paan stained teeth.

That night, her sister told her the news. "They've said yes. The mahurat is for next month. Congratulations, didi, you're getting married!"

She smiled half heartedly. She couldn't believe it. She felt nothing-no sense of anticipation, no pleasure, nothing. And here was the rest of her life being planned out for her. They've said yes? What about her? Everyone around her was discussing her future as if she wasn't even around. Why didn't anyone ask her if she wanted to marry that repulsive paan spitting, googly eyed, chain donning, hairy chested mamma's boy, that ape?

"Hrishitaa will be coming to the wedding, wont she?" Her eyes shot up at the younger girl. "Why're you asking?" "Oh, no reason. She had come over today, she waited for three hours, and then left this note for you, trusting only me with it, she knows I can keep- "She snatched the note before the other could finish her proud declaration. There was only line printed in Hrishi's large scrawl-

Please, please don't marry. I love you. I love you. I'm begging you, come back to me.

A delicious sense of abandonment was creeping over her even before she'd finished reading her lover's note. Her sense of control over her future returned to her. She would make a choice. Life's complications suddenly dissolved in front of her eyes. She would go to her. She could see all their expressions of disgust when she'd leave, their berating her twisted nature, the black sheep of her family, their public shame, the chagrin of her would-be in laws, and it gave her great perverse pleasure. She drew her sister closer and whispered "Very good. I know you can keep secrets. Can you keep another one for me?" The sister's eyes shone with delight at this sudden confidence. Her expression changed to one of astonishment as her sister whispered the secret plan to her.

Tanushree Vachharajani completed her undergraduate studies in Eng Lit from St. Xavier's college at Mumbai, India, and is currently continuing her Master's course in the same subject from Mumbai University. Through college, her extracurricular activities ranged from events and contests in art, writing and theatre (primarily acting). She previously won a second place in an all India short fiction contest, published papers in her school and college magazines, participated in Ithaka, the St. Xavier's theatre festival, and worked as a script writer for Tinkle, a popular Indian children's magazine as well as a copywriting intern at the erstwhile advertising firm RMG David (sister concern of Ogilvy and Mather).

Email: Tanushree Vachharajani

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