The Wedding Card

She was taking out a small brass plate after passing the worn-out newspaper collection book to her mother. She had some good memories of using the plate for decorating paan (betel leaves). She said, “It got into the wrong cabinet.”

She stretched her waist and hand towards another cabinet handle.

Her mother suddenly called out, “Bring that out. We can use it for small flowers; the center table would look great.”

Her right hand clasped the plate tightly. She slowly tried to lock the cabinet door with her left hand. Suddenly, an envelope fell from the upper shelf. It dropped on her right arm and then plopped down on the last step of the stair. She saw her mother putting that in the newspaper basket. She asked,“What’s that?”

Her mother looked up and said, “An old wedding card… now come down."

She slowly got down the stairs. Their storage cabinets always looked very neat from the outside, but a load of unused stuff jumbled up in there. The inside clutter was unfriendly. She called out, “We need to clean this…send somebody.”

She knew someone would surely come with some dusters and cleaning sprays. She adjusted her crop top and her bare waist touched the steel stair. She felt like someone touched her adorably with a swift finger. Her face had a flash of a smile. She moved her toe behind the door to get her slightly hidden flip-flops. She suddenly looked at the card in a dump of newspapers, and her face sank into some rare smog of uneasiness. It had her name in the RSVP section along with some unknown people.

“It’s unnecessary… I don’t want it …” she told her relative, but that uncle laughed.

He said, “You know, at the age of nineteen, it’s a privilege to get a name over there.”

She felt this as teasing, as if putting her name had something more than a regularity, as if it had a rough showing off adoration splash on her, as if her name was only there for a glittery glamor quotient. She did not even get any RSVP kind of responsibilities. She opened that card and her eyes fixed on her name. She flipped the next page; she swallowed after looking at the location on the golden page.

Five years ago

She stood numb on this balcony after coming back from the wedding. She just wanted to shout in anger, in fear, in some dark hollowness. She couldn’t stop sweating. She unpinned her phulkari dupatta and lazily unhanded it. She roughly rubbed her cheeks with the sleeves of her white kamiz. She possibly countered her silence a thousand times, but she murmured. “Should I say…everything?”

Before few hours

A lady showed her a room. She went in to clean the curd stain on her dupatta. She heard various high-pitched voices and the music speaker. The speaker roared, “Say Shava Shava/ Mahiya say Shava Shava!”

She wanted to dance. She quickly wiped a tissue on her dupatta. She was looking for a dustbin, but there was nothing to throw that tissue in. She moved towards the washroom. She flushed that and ran towards the door. She got a strong pull on her shoulder.

She saw her dupatta’s golden tassel entangled to a giant wooden box’s latch. She pulled that, but slowed down as it was tearing up. She tried to get it out slowly but it was like it had an intention to snare. Then she opened the latch and got the tassel out of it. But she saw a full box of guns and bullets. She left the latch nervously. A thud sound echoed loudly. She saw the newly-wed man coming in the room. He was on the phone. She tried to say something, but he looked very anxious and annoyed. He frowned and yelled at her, “What the hell are you doing here? Go go.”

He forcefully pushed her outside and slammed the door. She overheard his conversation. He was talking to somebody about borders and transport. She realised that the door lock was unlocking. The clicking sound echoed. She didn’t wait. She walked fast. She dialled her mother’s number. But she was not picking up. After roaming around for some more time in the big wedding hall, she saw her mother taking a mocktail from a serving plate. She stammered, “Ma, please, let’s go…now…please."

Their car came zipping down towards the city; the tire marks dipped down into the soggy ground. She leaned her head on the half-opened car window. She could see the ferry ghat. Some motor boats were still waiting for the passengers; the motor boat helpers were shouting the destination names, “Chengeil…”

She wiped her tears and tried to look beyond the river-sky line. A greyish cloud crossed itself over with some tiny boats, as if it were gulping down everything.

Next Day

The land phone got several rings. Their house-help picked up several calls and handed the receiver to her mother. She picked up once and heard, “We’ve sealed the venue, and the groom and the bride’s father are booked for arms trafficking.”

Today

She teared off the card and threw it into a giant steel dustbin.