Deranged

by: Shivani Sethi   

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Then again, how should I know if he is silently scrutinizing what my personality might be like or the size of my breasts? Does he think I'm too thin? To dark skinned? Too clumsy? I had already dropped a napkin on the floor when attempting to be helpful to his mother. I bet he thinks I'm the most ungraceful person in the universe. I leave the room praying I don't trip over my satin pink sari.

While in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in the metal pail of water. I was glad my mother had been so generous that she let me wear her new sari. It was a pale frosty shade of pink that she said made my skin look lighter. Light skin is always an advantage. My mother has always been concerned about my skin tone. When I was younger, the village women would shake their heads and frown in sympathy saying my skin was too dark and I would never be married. I could tell my mother was very nervous today. It is the third time a family has come to visit us. The first time the boy complained I was too dark. The second time, the father said it was unfortunate that we could not provide a larger dowry.

I poured the hot tea into our special cups and set them on a black tray. My hands began to shake slightly as a vivid image of the tea cups shattering to pieces on the floor crossed my mind. I summoned up my courage and proceeded to the sitting room where I heard voices. When I entered the room, the chatter ceased and all eyes once again were on me. As I offered him tea I felt his gaze. His mother smiled haughtily when I offered her tea. She commented on how well kept my hands and nails were. At first I was flattered but soon after taken aback when she remarked, ³As beautiful as they are, those hands surely don't look like the hands of a girl who works hard around the house.²

I ignored the comment and sat down beside my mother. I covered one hand with the other. My mother laughed nervously and tried to reassure his mother how skilled I was at cooking and cleaning. It was the truth. I never went to school past the eighth standard. At that point, my parents could no longer afford sending both my brother and me to school. They forced me to stop so my brother could continue. All I did from then on was cook and clean. My mother had done the same but from an even younger age. She never even went to primary school.

After a few moments of awkward silence, his mother exchanged a knowing glance with him and said to parents, ³Well, if you have no objections, I would like to make your daughter my son's wife.² All at once I felt as if I were caught in a fierce wind storm. The wind was pushing every which way but I just stood there oblivious to my surroundings. Sweets were being stuffed in my mouth on account of the auspicious occasion. My mother beamed. Tears of joy were sliding down her glowing cheeks as she hugged his mother. Then it hit me like a piercing bolt of lightening. The man across from me with the sandy brown shoes was who I would be spending the rest of my life with. I would be forced to tolerate his senile mother. There would be no turning back. I would be bound to him for life. I didn't even remember his name. I didn't even know what his voice sounded like. For all I knew, he could be deranged.