Chapter 3: When the Veil Lifts

03

Arjun said nothing, his lips twisted in a sneer. He folded his arms, rain pounding harder outside, each drop a warning from the sky.

Mr. Dubey, king of the head table, declared, "Beta, niyam simple hai—ghunghat abhi nahi uthta, par tu keh raha hai shava dulhan hai toh, sabki suraksha ke liye, main chhoot deta hoon. Ya toh tu sheher ka hero banega, ya phir yahan se haath tod ke jayega."

His words were heavy, the law of the village settling like a judge’s gavel. Even the littlest kids went silent, eyes wide.

He turned to Arjun. "Arjun, dulhan ka ghunghat uthao."

No one could disobey the panchayat, not even the groom. The murmurs swelled, some women tsk-tsking at the omen. "Yeh din bhi dekhna tha," an old auntie sighed.

Before Arjun could answer, Grandpa intervened. "Chacha ji, woh toh baharwala hai. Shaadi ka din hai—bura mat maano."

He joined his hands, voice pleading, desperate to shield the family from disgrace.

Mr. Dubey snorted, thumping his walking stick. "Dekhna hai yeh natak sach hai ya jhooth. Arjun, ghunghat uthao."

The tension peaked. Somewhere, a steel thali clanged to the floor. Nobody moved to pick it up.

Just then, thunder exploded outside—so loud, the shop’s glass shook.

A sharp crack! The blue paint on the walls looked duller; the marigold garlands trembled as if a curse had blown in with the wind.

Everyone froze, eyes on the rattling windows.

A cold gust swept in, raising goosebumps on my arms. Kids clung to mothers; elders exchanged alarmed glances.

In seconds, the sky turned black, rain falling in thick sheets. Outside, the world shrank to pounding water and the occasional bark of a frightened dog.

A wave of dread swept through me—I hugged my shawl tighter, heart racing. Even the bravest men looked uneasy, haunted by ghost stories whispered under mosquito nets.

Grandpa forced a smile. "Chacha ji, khoon wedding pe bura shagun hai. Dulhan ko bolne do—agar bol payi, toh shava nahi hai."

He tried to sound casual, but his eyes flicked between the bride and the stranger, caught between ritual and terror.

A fork of lightning split the sky, turning the bride’s lehenga ghostly pale. The red dupatta glowed, looking for a heartbeat like a shroud soaked in blood.

I hid behind Grandpa, clinging to his damp kurta, my heart thudding so loud I couldn’t hear the rain.

Mr. Dubey grunted, "Badiya socha."

He nodded, as if closing a land deal. The crowd braced, breath held.

Grandpa turned to the man. "Beta, shava dulhan bol nahi sakti. Yeh tareeka sahi hai?"

His stare was final—if the man agreed, there’d be no more argument.

The man nodded, jaw clenched, rain streaming in through the open door. His eyes were fixed on the bride, desperate for a sign.

Grandpa nodded, "Arjun, apni biwi se kuch bulwao."

He gestured to Arjun, voice trembling. The crowd leaned in, some standing on tiptoe.

Arjun swaggered over, grinning. "Biwi, kuch bol."

He tried to sound casual, but his eyes darted to Mr. Dubey for approval. The silence was thick as the cream on hot milk.

Thunder boomed again, shaking the old shop. The tube lights flickered, buzzing like angry bees.

A layer of dust drifted from the shelf above the cash counter, landing softly on the toffee jars. The whole place felt as if the storm had wormed its way inside.

Everyone stared at the ceiling, some kids whimpering, elders glancing around, the air thrumming with fear.

Grandpa let out a forced laugh. "Bas bijli ka masla hai—wiring purani hai."

He tried to sound light, but his hand shook as he reached for water. The tube-light’s flicker carved his face into strange, unfamiliar lines.

For a second, Grandpa’s face looked haunted—like he too believed the stories he’d always mocked.

Mr. Dubey barked, "Dukaan chalate ho—kanjoosi mat karo. Wiring badlo."

He thumped his stick, the old authority back in his voice. The guests tittered nervously.

Those wires had been put up when my uncle was alive. Grandpa never changed them—every flicker felt like a sign his son was still there.

He gave a small, sad smile, the kind old men wear when talking about things they’ll never fix.

Just then, the lights went out. Darkness swallowed the room.

A collective gasp. Only the rain and the shallow breaths of my cousins filled the silence.

Everyone looked up at the dead bulb. It glowed faintly, then died, leaving only lightning’s blue-white flash.

Then, Priya’s voice rang out: "Arjun."

It was soft, just as it always sounded at home, trembling under the gota work. For a second, relief swept the crowd, like the monsoon breeze after a heatwave.