The Dowry Bride. Shobhan Bantwal

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wondering if her husband, Suresh, had heard the noise. She was mystified to find him missing. Generally he’d be huddled under the sheet beside her, his bony buttocks sticking out at a strange angle, his wide-lipped mouth hanging open in deep, childlike slumber.

      Frowning, she glanced at the bedside clock. The neon-red digital display read 12:23 AM. The bedroom door was ajar. Where could Suresh be? It was a warm night and she’d wondered if he’d gone for a glass of water. She herself had awakened perspiring. Her thick, long plait lay limply against her moist back. Her sari clung to her hips and legs.

      Sleeping in a sari, which was six long yards of fabric, was terribly uncomfortable and impractical, but in an old-fashioned family such as this, she was not allowed to wear nightgowns or kaftans. There were established rules of etiquette and attire for ladies. Amma had made them clear right from the beginning. “Those silly gowns and frocks that show the legs and bosoms are not allowed in our house, okay? Ladies in our house only wear saris.”

      Assuming Suresh was probably in the kitchen or bathroom, Megha called out to him. She received no reply.

      That was when the first faint ripple of fear crossed her mind. Could a burglar have broken into their shed? Thefts were not uncommon around this neighborhood, and wood and kerosene were expensive commodities.

      Her next thought made her sit up in stark alarm. Oh my God! Someone is stealing our firewood and Suresh is trying to confront them—all one hundred and five pounds of him. They’ll crush him to a pulp! Her heartbeat had leapt in panic. He needs my help.

      She shot out of bed like an arrow, her long, slim legs moving rapidly despite the bulky folds of the sari and the petticoat swirling around them. She rushed through the old-fashioned kitchen, nearly stumbling over the round grinding stone before reaching the rear door leading to the covered veranda. Kuppu, the family cat, hearing Megha’s footsteps, bounced off the window sill and followed close on her heels.

      Standing on the veranda steps, she puzzled some more over her husband’s absence. The fog made it difficult to see much, but a faint sliver of light was visible underneath the door of the woodshed. She visualized images of Suresh lying in a pool of blood, his skinny body motionless. As far as she had determined, Suresh was incapable of defending himself against even the weakest of attacks. Suresh needed her. But what should she do?

      Well, defend him, of course! Steely determination goaded her into action. Being the youngest of three girls, she had learned to wrestle with her older sisters for everything including space in their small, cramped house, their parents’ attention, clothes and toys. So now she’d put those acquired defensive moves to good use.

      Megha wasn’t about to let some petty thugs make her a widow at twenty-one. She’d fight them with everything she had—if necessary, even give her own life to save her husband’s. It was her duty as an ideal wife. But she had to come up with a strategy. Barging into the shed like a crazed woman wouldn’t do her any good, nor Suresh for that matter. First she had to determine the gravity of the situation.

      She was afraid of the dark, always had been, but something in the shed seemed to beckon her with a force that both frightened and excited her. She stepped down from the veranda.

      Nearing the shed, Megha heard hushed voices, barely audible. Talking burglars? Or was it Suresh, her naïve, impractical husband, actually trying to strike a compromise with the thieves? There was only one way to find out. Despite the misgivings nipping at her brain, she tiptoed barefoot across the dirt-covered yard toward the shed.

      She’d been so preoccupied she nearly walked right into the big tulsi pot. Somehow she managed to break her fall by grabbing it with both hands. But she grazed her knees and nearly banged her head on its edge in the process.

      The holy tulsi plant was a tropical variety of basil, held sacred by Hindus. In most conservative households it was planted in a clay pot or urn anchored to the ground in the center of the courtyard—an honored place. The urn was usually painted in bright colors and the plant well-tended. It was customary for women to pray daily to the tulsi for blessings.

      Despite the clammy heat of the night, Megha felt goose bumps pop up along her arms, her stomach instinctively tighten. For a fleeting second she was tempted to run back to bed, pull the covers over her head and let this weird, eerie night go on without her. She wanted to be a little girl again; she didn’t want to know about dark nights and the fearsome things that stalked them.

      But she was not a little girl anymore; she was a grown woman with responsibilities, and she couldn’t afford to shirk them. Besides, the mysterious force in the shed seemed to draw her closer. Was Suresh still alive?

      Taking care to avoid the narrow band of light under the door, she edged along the side wall as noiselessly as possible and positioned herself to peer through the open window. Puzzled lines formed on her brow. There was no sign of strangers and certainly no burglars. Only Amma and Suresh were inside the shed.

      A stench suddenly assailed her nostrils. Kerosene! That potent, unexpected odor made her stomach revolt.

      What in heaven’s name were her husband and mother-in-law doing in there at this hour? Why did the place reek of kerosene? Bewildered, Megha continued to observe them in silence. This was entirely out of character. The obese and sluggish Amma should have been deep in sleep and so should Suresh. They were both heavy sleepers. And yet, here they were, in the dead of night, murmuring to each other in the dusty, rat-infested woodshed of all places.

      Amma wore a deep purple sari and stood with her tree-stump legs apart, in her usual militant posture, fat hands planted on her hips. Even in the pale light cast by the lantern her face was plainly visible. Perspiration glistened on her dark-coffee skin as she stared at a crude bed fashioned out of crisscrossed logs of firewood lying on the floor. “Suresh, make sure the kerosene is soaked into the wood, boy. It has to catch fire quickly and burn for a long time,” she instructed.

      Burn valuable wood in the middle of the night? For what purpose?

      Tiny beads of sweat showed on Suresh’s wide forehead as he crouched on the floor beside the logs, still wearing the sky-blue pajamas he’d worn to bed. He appeared shaky, anxious, as he looked up at his mother. But then, he was always like that around his mother. “Amma, are you sure about this? What if the neighbors suspect something?”

      “Don’t be silly,” snorted Amma. “They’re all fast asleep.”

      “What if they inform the police?”

      “Stop worrying over nothing, boy.”

      “We’ll all end up in jail, Amma.” His voice sounded feeble and pleading.

      Jail? Megha’s heart missed a solid beat. What kind of illegal business was her husband getting himself into? And his own mother was leading him into it? How come Suresh had said nothing to Megha, his wife? She would have talked him out of it in a minute. But then, he was always Amma’s little boy, hanging on her every word—too stupid to think for himself.

      Amma slapped Suresh’s shoulder, making him lurch forward and nearly fall on his face. “Don’t be an idiot, Suresh. Do you see a single light on in any of the neighbors’ homes?”

      “That does not mean someone is not awake, Amma,” he argued weakly.

      “Nonsense! Besides, we don’t socialize with any of those low-caste people. They don’t even know us.”

      “But, Amma, this is still illegal. You understand that?”

      “There

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