Chapter 2: The Marriage Bargain

The young and valiant Colonel Arjun was gravely wounded on the border, carried back soaked in blood, barely clinging to life. The news travelled fast in our city, carried on the lips of sabziwalis and auto drivers, each adding a touch of drama as if the whole thing was playing out on Doordarshan. He was the only son of the Sharma family—such a thing, God forbid, should happen to anyone!

Old Madam Sharma became a widow at a young age. Now, on the verge of losing her only son, someone suggested arranging a spirit marriage—a wedding with a deceased person—for him.

My family’s Madam, Meera Singh, hurried to act as matchmaker and recommended me to Old Madam Sharma.

My contract was in Madam’s hands, so I had no way to refuse. In our world, a servant’s fate is tied up tighter than last year’s mango pickle—if Madam says, you do, bas.

Madam said, if I refused to marry, she would send me to an old, retired caretaker. The thought made my stomach churn—better to face the unknown than rot in some godforsaken place.

I knew she had always resented my past with the young master, so I knelt and swore to the gods that I harboured no improper thoughts towards him.

Madam angrily tapped my forehead, her bangle clinking against my skin.

'What good is swearing? Just look at your chest—don’t you know how tempting it is?' Her words, sharp as a papad snapped in two, stung more than I cared to admit.

I hugged my chest, silent tears streaming down. I tried not to sob too loudly, lest the neighbours overhear and turn it into the colony’s evening gossip.

'Every day you wave those two big rotis in front of men. Who wouldn’t want a taste? It’s not that I don’t trust you—I just don’t trust men.'

Madam’s stern expression softened. She bent down and wiped away my tears with her saree pallu, her touch rough but oddly comforting, like masi used to do when I was small and scraped my knees on the terrace.

'The Sharma family is so respected. If my mother weren’t old friends with Old Madam Sharma, who knows who would have snatched up such a good match.'

With tears in my eyes, I said bitterly, 'Madam, I don’t want to be married in a spirit wedding. At worst, I’ll just stay in the kitchen and never…'

Before I could finish, two crisp slaps landed on my face.

Thap! Thap!

For a moment, the only sound was the whir of the ceiling fan and my own ragged breathing. My cheeks stung painfully. My ears rang with that familiar heat, the kind that lingers long after the scolding is done.

'Pooja, have you no shame? If I hadn’t spoken for you, with your wanton appearance, Old Madam Sharma wouldn’t even look at you. You’re not even worthy to be Colonel Arjun’s spirit bride.'

I wanted to tell Madam that I always bound my chest as tightly as possible, dressed conservatively, and even suffered heat rash in the summer. I pleaded for her to be merciful. The truth is, every time the loo wind came through the kitchen, I felt like I would faint from the heat, but never once did I loosen my blouse or complain.

But just then, the housekeeper burst in, panting, hair askew from rushing through the house.

'Ma—Madam! The Colonel’s house has sent word—Colonel Arjun has woken up!'

My fate, it seemed, was never mine to decide. Not even the gods could keep up with the plans of our Madams.