Desh by Kim Kellas Page A

what’s been going on in here.”
    But he cut her short. “I’ve got someone with me.” A tall thin man followed him into the room and he said, “May I present Gourab?”
    In the instant before she lowered her eyes again Aila recognised the janitor and couldn’t understand why he appeared to chat with her brother like a long-lost friend. They talked about his hobbies and interests, his dreams and ambitions and Aila felt grateful for the veil that hid her laughter until Fadil returned and said the words that chilled her. “Whatever your answer is, tell your father.”
    This cannot be real; this can’t be happening, she thought. Sadhan appeared at the door. “That was so funny, Dad. What’s wrong with these people?” Her voice came out small and strangled.
    â€œYou can’t say no. We’ve already said yes. You will be married on Friday. The mehndi will be tomorrow.” He closed the door.
    The whole family went out to celebrate that evening, leaving Aila alone. The walls in her room slid into screams and the rest of the night passed in tortured sheets. She came to as the sun rose and heard banging downstairs. Like fists on a distant door. She heard what sounded like hammering in a far room but couldn’t make sense of it.
    That afternoon she was told to put the lime green blouse underneath the sari they had bought, as the sleeves weren’t long enough. There wasn’t time to have it made properly. The mehndi passed in a blur. She sat in the centre of the main family room on a mound of cushions with her face covered while people milled around chatting and eating. Henna paste was brought in and someone put two dots on her hands. Just two blobs, like dried blood on her palms. No artistry, no skill, and no mother.
    The day of her wedding felt strange. A merciless sun hung by a thread in the flat afternoon sky and alone in her room it was hard to breathe. The house was filled with the sound of flip-flops slapping over stone floors. A crimson sari had been laid out on her bed. Decidedly not Benharasi silk, it smelled of bleached incense and scratched against her skin as she wrapped the cotton behind her and tucked it in at her right hip. The door opened and Bhabani stared inside. Aila flung a length of cotton over her chest, and the old lady hobbled out, satisfied things were in hand.
    She finished dressing and sat back down on the bed. The tikka lay in its box. Red gold against polyester white padding and beside this her father had put the choker necklace and earrings he’d chosen. She examined the filigree in her fingers: a simple pattern; lightweight; easy to wear. All this was just as well, because there was no-one around to help.
    Surely a mother should be here to clasp the necklace and position the tikka in her hair? She pushed the bangles up her arm, one by one. “I want Mum,” she said when Sadhan came back into her room. “The photographer is here. At least brush your hair, and take this.” He gave her a bright pink dupatta to cover her face when they finished.” Your mother’s ill. Let her rest.”
    A flash of self-preservation made Aila decide to paint her nails, as a sign of that time of the month. At home, her father never bothered to actually count the days or the frequency her nails went crimson. It had been useful during Ramadan.
    A camera crew trouped into her room and told her to pose before the Nikah began. She stood with hands clasped then walked to the glass and looked out the window in the classic bridal pose of one looking into the future. Next came a pose of prayer and the ever-popular seated side view of the body to the camera. When Bhabani and Sobia appeared, she was almost glad to see them, if only for a break from the remorseless snapping. Her sister-in-law of three days ushered them out and closed the door behind them.
    â€œMunni, can you help me?” she said.
    â€œWhat is it that you want of