Chapter 5: Proposals and Quiet Power

As I approached my thread ceremony, marriage discussions began.

The air at home buzzed with new tension. Aunties arrived with sweets and sly questions, the matchmaker’s visits became more frequent, and my father started humming under his breath. My grandmother polished her gold bangles and eyed me with a new scrutiny, as if evaluating a prize goat for sale.

My teacher’s praise for my learning and wisdom became my bargaining chip to secure the best husband possible.

The matchmaker, a sharp-eyed woman with a nose for family secrets, made sure to drop hints about my intelligence and gentle manners. My teacher even wrote a letter of recommendation—such things mattered among these families, almost as much as the number of tolas in the dowry.

Matchmakers flocked to our door, even sons of noble families sent inquiries.

Our door was never closed. Every few days, someone would arrive with a tray of sweets, peeking into the drawing room, making polite conversation with my parents. Even the neighbours’ curiosity was piqued, and I overheard more than one aunty sigh, “Wah, what luck, so many rishtas for our Jiya! Next time, we’ll have to hire a bandwala just for the proposals.”

For the first time, my father was so pleased he could hardly close his mouth.

He’d puff up with pride, his usual frown replaced by a smug smile. “Dekha? Hamari beti kitni tez hai!” He’d say this to anyone who would listen, even the sabziwala. In the evenings, he’d sit on the veranda, legs crossed, boasting about his clever daughter.

He boasted every day about how wise he’d been to marry into my maternal grandfather’s family.

At tea time, he’d tell the family, “All this is because I married into a family of real scholars. It’s not just about money, you see—padhai likhai counts.” My mother would just smile and pour him more chai.

After marrying my mother, this rough old army man could have such a talented daughter!

He liked to imagine himself a hero, softened by marriage into a cultured family. When guests came, he’d slap me gently on the back and say, “This one will make our name shine!”

Though my maternal grandfather’s government post wasn’t high, their family had been scholars for generations.

Nana ji was a clerk in the local courts—hardly a grand post, but his reputation for honesty and knowledge was unmatched. Their home was filled with books, and every shelf held a treasure of stories and poems. My mother was raised on a diet of literature and logic.

My mother was well-read, with a unique bearing.

She carried herself with a quiet dignity, never raising her voice, but always making herself heard. Even in the middle of household chaos, her calm presence was like a cool breeze on a hot day. She could quote Kabir and explain Newton’s laws, all while rolling out perfect rotis.