My smile vanishes. ‘Right.’
The word is ice. It’s not his fault. I’m small. He gets up and gets ready as I finish the cup of tea. When he leaves, I watch him pause at the door. Then, he points at the locks.
‘Please, don’t be overconfident,’ he says. ‘Lock the door.’
‘Because I’m small—’
He has left by then.
It’s not really his fault. I’m misdirecting it to him. Because that word, small,chhoti, they trigger a wave of memories. I feel hot across my face and it takes me back to all those times Bhaiya had slapped me. How my brother-in-law had. In the past year, I have had plenty of time to count those slaps and really ruminateand wallow in the humiliation they had dished out. I have wondered, though, would they have dared to hit me as much if I were as tall as Didi is, neck-to-neck with Bhaiya? Would pulling me by my hair have looked ungraceful enough for them to stop? I remember the times they pushed and pulled me like I was a fucking rag doll. How did I allow them to do that? Who allowed them to do that? Is that what family is? The ones who have the right to inflict violence on you?
In Naman last night, I saw my brother. All these fucking men trying to bully me.
I had told myself I wouldn’t leave the house. But I can’t stay at home. This is too clean. They need to hear everything that I have wanted to tell them. They need to know of all the anger I have for them, all the disgust. Why shouldn’t they? Won’t they live their entire lives thinking they were right? Worse, thinking that I deserved what I got because I went against them? No, this has to happen.
An hour later, I’m on the metro, the screech of its jagged movement competing with the voices in my head. The train is packed with people living their ordinary lives. Have they gone through something like I have? I’m sure they have. But they go on. Unlike me. I feel ashamed. I don’t decide where I’m going, but my feet know. They carry me through the crush of bodies at Rajiv Chowk, on to the Yellow Line, and into the suffocating chaos of Old Delhi. My breath’s ragged. I know I should turn back. What’s left there? Nothing. And yet, I am there.
In ten minutes, I’m in the lane again. Chawri Bazaar. And then I see it.
Gupta & Sons, Est. 1988. Wedding Invitations & Fine Stationery.
It’s smaller than I remembered.
Right now, neither Papa nor Bhaiya are there, just Chhotu. I shouldn’t be here. But shouldn’t I? Screw them. I walk straighttowards the shop. I walk past the stacked reams of paper outside, a scent of ink and glue filling my nostrils. Chhotu now turns andspots me as I sit on the small, worn wooden stool behind thecounter.
‘Didi,aap?’
‘Go, get a chai,’ I order him.
He looks at me, confused. It’s been a couple of years since he last saw me. Then, not wanting to say something he doesn’t intend to, he scoots off. I look around. Unlike Bhaiya, I haven’t spent a lot of time here. This was never mine. Not that I ever wanted it. But over the years, I have seen all the cards they have printed. Some really ornate ones too. My idea of love came from them: these declarations of love. But this was before I knew most of these marriages were happening not out of true love, but because the parents thought it was best for them. But by then, it was too late.
I pick out the cards and start reading them. Like I used to.
And then, a voice, crackling with static, erupts from a small speaker on the ceiling. From the CCTV.
‘What are you doing here, Aditi?’
Bhaiya. I lean back on the stool and look up at the camera lens of the CCTV. I smile at it like a lunatic. I know he will lose it. There will be no niceties I’m sure. Once all the dignity of a relationship is gone—once you have been hit, pulled by your hair, locked into your room, your clothes that were deemed too provocative thrown away—there’s no need for courtesies. You can jump right into the evil that you are. But that’s what the most irritating part of this is. They don’t get it. They don’t know who they are.
‘Nikal yahan se, get lost!’ he says.
‘Why should I?’ I say, while flipping through some of the cards they have made. ‘Shouldn’t all of this be mine too? Though I will say it’s not something to be wanted.’
His voice crackles over the speaker again: ‘Why are you here? Left the house, started sleeping with that man? And you’re still back? Did he drive you out of the house? Realize you’re nothing more than a randi?’
‘All those years I spent tying you arakhiand this is the language you use? Despicable, Bhaiya.’
‘What . . .’
I know this will hurt him. When we were younger, he used to rail against everyone who spoke fluently. And I used to echo the same feelings and say, ‘Look at these snooty South Delhi people, using language to prove they are better.’ But soon I realized it was never a noble argument. He was rejected one too many times by girls and this was his comeback—their snootiness, their hollow arrogance, their morally corrupt character.
‘I meant, terrible. You don’t know what despicable means. Not trying to be elitist, Bhaiya, but you kind of went to the same school. Seems like you were just dumb.’
‘Oye sun—’
I scream now. ‘Oye!Saale, tu sun!’
‘How are you talking to me like this?’ he screams. ‘I will fucking cut you!’
