The Age of Shiva by Manil Suri Page A

you—that it was his duty to marry you—if he didn’t, your reputation was so ruined that nobody else would. He’s always been the softhearted one—lets everyone take advantage of him. Anyway, we’ll talk more tomorrow. Tonight this room is yours. Arya bhaiyya and Sandhya didi are sleeping with us in the other room, even though he’s the elder brother. It’s going to be tight. Plus all that rich wedding food must have given Didi gas again, and on top of that, she snores.”
    Hema fluffed up a pillow and laid it at my feet. “You have such pretty toes. But I guess that’s what new brides are supposed to have, at least in the beginning. I’m sure my bhaiyya will be very impressed.” She skipped to the door. “Enjoy this special night of yours.”
    I kept waiting on the bed after Hema left. At some point, I took the gunghat off, but the claustrophobia from the doli was not dispelled. Beyond the glow of the candle, the walls strained and tilted against the darkness, as if raring to come up and immure me. Pieces of furniture rose ponderously from the corners, their silhouettes radiating unspoken hostility. The moon seemed to have fallen victim to the blackout as well—only darkness filtered in through the bars of the window.
    Perhaps I actually dozed off in my asana. The blast of a locomotive whistle jolted me awake. A train was thundering by on the tracks outside, so close that I expected a bogey to come crashing through the wall. Rectangles of light blazed through the room from its windows, like a series of camera flashes, lighting up a cupboard, a dressing table, picture frames, and, standing in his wedding garments just inside the doorway, Dev.
    â€œSorry it took so long,” he said, as he tried closing the door. Strings of marigolds hung up for the wedding kept getting in the way. “They wouldn’t let me leave.” He scrunched the door shut over the marigolds, launching a flurry of petals into the air. “I hope Hema didn’t fill your head with too many of her tales. Don’t listen to anything she says.”
    I lowered my eyes and remained silent. Wasn’t that the way a new bahu was supposed to behave? What choice did I have now anyway, except to try and ignore what Hema said? Perhaps I should slip the gunghat back over my head to look more bride-like, to be more traditional by covering the parting of my hair.
    â€œWhat a long day,” Dev said, and began unwinding the silk band tied in a turban around his head. More petals, pink and red this time from the wedding ceremony, fell to the floor from its brocaded folds. He unbuttoned his tunic and pulled it off as well. “Are you as exhausted as I am?”
    I nodded my head without looking up. How strange that as a bride I was expected not to meet eyes with Dev. To not call him by name. Wasn’t it just yesterday that we had eaten pineapple at Chandni Chowk, that I had been making jokes to his face? How little time I had spent with him since then. And now he was my husband, the man to whom I had been wed. My link to this house, this family, the trains clattering outside, the reason I sat perched on this bed. My head swam. How could my games have led to such enormous change?
    â€œAren’t you going to take off your sari?” Dev asked, sitting beside me and running his fingers down its hem. He picked up a corner of the sari and playfully uncovered my blouse.
    There was something cheering about his proximity, surprisingly, something reassuring about being finally alone with him. I allowed my gaze to rise to the level of his chin. His neck was the color of honey in the candlelight, there were no forgotten streaks of makeup tonight. The cotton of his undershirt cut swaths of white over his shoulders. I felt an urge to run my hand under the material, feel my fingertips separate cloth from skin. For a moment, we were back in the tomb of Salim Fazl. Anthers nodding