No one noticed her silence with so much going on. Some of the older men and women were dancing gently, and the smell of cooking was drawing people of all description. Ragged skin-and-bone children were begging at the gate and whenever she appeared, everyone stared at her. When it became all too uncomfortable she went back inside and slowly, reluctantly, began to prepare in earnest for the evening’s ordeal. Time was both frozen and racing past.
She and Huriya washed in the tiny privy with a bucket of hot water. Once they were dry, an army of women crowded into their dressing room, gushing over their saris. Then they saw the jewellery, and were struck dumb. Ramita saw their faces change as it dawned on them that however mysterious this marriage was, there were very material reasons why it was happening. Some of the faces turned envious, peering at Ramita as if wondering:
Why her, why not my daughter?
Others fawned over Tanuva, praising her motherly skills, reminding her of past generosities. Her mother, sensing the change in mood, chased everyone out, declaring that the girls needed time and room to get ready. Only Pashinta was allowed to stay, her tough face sober as she helped clear the room. Tanuva looked on the verge of tears as she called out to Jai to watch over the gifts.
The girls dressed in silence. Only Huriya took pleasure in the riches they hung about themselves. Ramita’s handed-down wedding saree was a richly patterned maroon and gold piece, the best – indeed, the only fancy piece of clothing the family had owned before today.
It was a family treasure; this would be its fifth wearing in eighty years. For all that, it was the plainest saree here, outshone by the new ones purchased with Meiros’ money.
Ramita felt strange to be hung with gold and gems when all she had worn previously was cheap brass and cut glass. The big looped nose ring piercing her left nostril and fixed to her ear by a chain felt especially uncomfortable, as if it might pull her ear off. The gold and glass bangles on her arm clattered with every movement. Pashinta powdered her face, rouged her cheeks and coloured her eyelids in black kohl. They took a bowl of sandalwood paste and marked her face in a dot pattern sweeping from cheekbone to cheekbone, in the traditional bridal patterns. It took for ever.
Pashinta looked at her critically. ‘You are a pretty girl, Ramita. Your groom will be well pleased.’ She knew who that groom was, of course. Tanuva trusted her with such secrets. ‘Ramita dear, you are doing a brave thing,’ she murmured, ‘but I don’t think this is an auspicious wedding. You are being asked to fly too high. We are simple people. We are not meant to have gold and gems and silks and riches and to walk with princes. Ispal, Vikash and all the other men, they are thinking only about money. I pray you will not be the one who pays the price for their greed.’
‘We’ll be all right, Auntie,’ Ramita said in as firm a voice as she could muster. ‘Father has done a good thing.’ The assertion sounded hollow, even to herself.
I have to believe I am doing this for the good of my family
.
I cannot afford to doubt
.
Pashinta looked away. ‘You are a good daughter, Ramita. Parvasi watch over you.’ They heard a blast of trumpets outside, and everyone froze. Pashinta looked from the window, her face stricken. ‘By all the gods, he is here.’
Ramita sat on her piri stool in the kitchen, her henna’d hands clinging to Huriya’s so hard her knuckles were pale. She could hear everything and see nothing as Pashinta, in the traditional role as female friend of the house, greeted the groom. Beside her, Father was perspiring thickly. Conch shells blew and the assembled women
chanted as they sprinkled rosewater over her groom as he entered the courtyard. She shut her eyes tight and began to pray. This was no dream. Instead of marrying Kazim, as she had prepared her life, she was to be given to a elderly stranger and taken to another land.
‘Where is Kazim?’ she whispered to Huriya.
Her friend whispered through her veil, ‘He’s at the Dom-al’Ahm, with Father’s body. He told me to tell you that he misses you, that he loves you, that he will be yours for ever.’
She peered through her veil, not fooled. ‘What did he really say?’ she demanded.
Huriya hung her head. ‘Stupid, foolish things,’ she said in a flat, unforgiving voice. ‘He’s angry. He has these new Amteh friends and won’t talk to me any more.’ Her face hardened. ‘If he doesn’t need me, then I don’t need him.’
Oh Kazim! Don’t hate me. I will always be yours, whatever happens
.
And suddenly there was no time left. Her mother brushed the back of her hands with trembling fingers, then went upstairs. It was bad luck for mothers to watch their children wed. Huriya handed Ramita two banana leaves, one for each hand. She drew them under her veil, then lifted them to cover her face. She quelled her mounting panic.
I will not disgrace my family
.
Jai and his friend Baghi came in, clad in gleaming white and orange, their faces grim. They bent over her and seized two legs each of her piri stool. ‘Ek, do, tin,’ Jai muttered, and they straightened. She had to let go of Huriya’s hand as they carried her awkwardly into the courtyard to the sound of conches and deafening ululation. She could see the outline of her groom in his pale robes, standing in the middle of the tiny yard, his guards about him. Jai and Baghi bore her around him slowly, the seven turns required by ritual. Meiros, his face hidden deep in his hood, followed her progress. Through the veil, she caught fragments: Father’s face, beaded with sweat; Huriya’s greedy eyes; a sea of straining faces. Finally the seventh circle was completed and she was held before him. The marigold garland about her shoulders filled her nostrils. She hid behind the two banana leaves and waited.
Meiros raised his arms and pulled back his hood. The entire crowd sucked in their breath, finally able to see the mystery groom. Whoever they had been expecting, it wasn’t a whiteskinned old man. She heard gasps of pity and anger as they compared his ancient features to the youth of his bride, and murmurings: how dare Ispal sell his daughter to this old pallid creature? It was an affront to nature. She felt the tension rise about the crowded courtyard.
Pandit Arun stepped through the soldiers and laid a garland of marigolds about Meiros’ neck. She cowered behind the banana leaves and closed her eyes. She felt Jai and Baghi lift the front of her veil and settle it over Meiros’ head, and the world shrank to a tiny space. The torches and lanterns cast a reddish light through the lace. She could hear his breath, smell his rosewater scent.
He smells
old …
Vikash Nooridan’s voice intruded, speaking Rondian words to Meiros, explaining the ceremony. ‘My lord, this is the unveiling of the bride. You must await her. She will lower the leaves when she is ready and gaze upon you. Then you must exchange garlands.’
She was not obliged to hurry. For a second she thought about remaining motionless for ever.
‘Well, girl?’ came that dry, rasping voice, speaking in Lakh.
She swallowed. ‘My father does not think you are an evil man,’ she found the courage to say.
A small chuckle. ‘That puts him in a minority. I suppose I should be grateful.’
‘Is he right?’ she dared to ask.
That made him pause. His eventual reply was reflective. ‘I’ve never believed that a man is good or evil. Deeds might be, but men are a summation of their actions and their intentions, words and thoughts. I have always done what I thought was best.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Not everyone agrees.’
She opened her eyes, stared at the trembling leaves. ‘Will you treat me well?’
‘I will treat you with respect and dignity and honour. I will treat you as a wife. But do not expect love. I have none of that left. Death has claimed those I loved and left that river dry.’
‘Father says you had a wife and a son?’
‘My wife died many years ago. My daughter is barren. My son … My son was murdered. They bound him so that he could not reach the gnosis and then tortured him while he was helpless. Then they butchered him and sent me his head.’ His voice lost its flatness. It was tinged now with loss and anger. Then emotion fled, and the dry voice said, ‘I am sorry to take you from the life you thought to have. I cannot give you that life, but I can make this one comfortable, and filled with beautiful things.’
I don’t want your beautiful things
, she wanted to say,
I just want Kazim
.
‘Who is Kazim?’ he asked.
Her heart lurched as she finally realised that this man was not just ferang, but a true jadugara, a magician who could pull thoughts from her mind. She felt a shuddering jolt of fear. ‘The one I was to marry,’ she whispered.
‘Ah. I am sorry.’ He sounded vaguely regretful. ‘You will be bitter, to have your life so rearranged to be the broodmare of some ghastly old man. I can’t help that. I can only say that this life will have its rewards also, beyond what you can imagine. But I cannot give you back your dreams.’
They fell silent. Outside their tiny tent the hushed crowd, held in suspense, strained to hear the low conversation. Would she refuse him? What would happen if she did? The moment dragged on and on.
Finally, somewhere inside herself, time ran out.
Kazim, forgive me
. She slowly lowered the leaves and stared into the watery blue eyes of the jadugara. They were alien, unreadable. His grey hair and beard were thin and straggly. His face had none of the traditional Omali groom-marks. His lips were thin and his demeanour impatient. His eyes widened slightly as he took her in.
How do I seem to him, with my dark skin and painted face, my patterned hands and glittering jewellery? Does he see all the way into my soul with his jadugara eyes?
‘Why me?’ she whispered. ‘I’m just a market-girl.’
His eyes never left hers. ‘I have great need of children, and you are highly likely to breed many, quickly. I have divined that the path
of greatest safety lies in siring children swiftly, to a Lakh wife. When I say “safety”, I mean not my own, but that of the whole world. There must be children, multiple children of the same birth, to you and I. Those children will be magi, and they will unify the Ordo Costruo and bring about peace. I searched long, but life is perilous here and lineage often uncertain. You are the only one to have the requisite genetic history and race, and I am nearly out of time. You – and our children – represent a chance to stave off disaster, assuming it is not already too late.’
‘I am just your broodmare,’ she said flatly.
‘I am sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I have no fable of love with which to comfort you. There is only this hard fact: you have the requisite genetic and cultural mix. I will treat you with dignity, but I must also sire children, and that will not be dignified at all. If you must know, it fills me with shame. I never wanted this. I have my pride. I can see the revulsion in your eyes when you look at me. I am no old lecher who craves young girls, but I have no choice. Believe me, I wish I had.’ He stopped and half-smiled. ‘I think these young men are tiring of holding you, girl.’
It was as if her instincts decided for her paralysed mind. With trembling hands she pulled the garland of orange flowers over her head, reached out and jerkily placed it over his head. He did the same, smoothly and calmly. She heard the sigh of the gathered people, the letting out of anxiously held breath. A few people cheered, but most just stared. Then the veil was pulled away and she was in the middle of a sea of dark faces, white eyes and teeth gleaming in the torch-light. Smoke and incense hung in the air, almost choking. She found her cheeks wet with tears and could not wipe them, for her hands were locked in his garland, shaking wildly.
Meiros was taken into the kitchen where a fire waited, to complete the ritual. Jai and Baghi, panting now, carried her in and placed her before the fire-pit. Huriya, at the door, reached out and stroked Ramita’s arm as she passed. Only her father, Vikash, Guru Dev, Pashinta and Pandit Arun were within. ‘Now come the vows, Master,’ Vikash Nooridan told Meiros.
The jadugara turned and offered her his hands. He pulled her to her feet, surprisingly strong. Her legs felt wobbly, sore from sitting for so long. She shivered as cool, bony fingers tightened around hers: patchy white skin coiled about young dark hands. Her throat was tight, her breath laboured.
She scarcely heard the words spoken, about loyalty, about trust and companionship, about duty. Gods were invoked, blessings made. Then Vikash instructed Meiros to walk about the fire three times. She followed him, stepping on plates and shattering clay pots, kicking over candles and little cups of water, following tradition, as Arun chanted the prayers and propitiations. Then her hand was joined to his again and they slowly promenaded together about the fire. The final circuit. They were wed.
She felt faint and dizzy, and clung to Meiros’ arm while people cheered uncertainly. Ispal called Tanuva downstairs, and she embraced her weeping parents. They both looked nervously at Meiros, and then Ispal cautiously extended his hand. Meiros took it briefly and inclined his head slightly to Tanuva. Then Huriya bustled in and kissed Ramita and hugged her. She looked fiercely exultant, as if this wedding was something she had laboured long towards.
You are the only truly happy person here today
, Ramita thought.
The Keshi girl curtsied saucily to Meiros and then struck a pose. ‘Music!’ she called to the drummers and sitar players, and they started a familiar tune. Huriya spun, then stopped, her body arching, breasts straining the fabric, then she danced about that tiny space, graceful, light-footed, nimble. She twirled graceful patterns with her hands and arms, her face alive, expressive. It was a story-dance from Kesh. Ramita saw all the northern soldiers drink in her curvy body and narrow waist, especially the monstrous Klein. The gold ring in her belly-button held a bell that tinkled as she spun and swayed. People clapped, the drumming increased and Jai called out in a loud voice and leapt in beside her, clapping his hands, cavorting about, dancing a fierce male role. She had never seen her brother look so masculine, and she felt a surge of pride. Then everyone was dancing as if this were a wedding like any other, a day of universal joy and celebration.