She draped the sari across her chest, its hanging length anchored at her shoulder. The fragile folds of her locks encircled her ears and revealed the ersatz chandeliers that lit up her face. Pressing a round Bindi in the space between her brows, she stepped back to look at her reflection. But the circle on her forehead was not a matter of aesthetic. Instead, it was a feature of what was demanded of her gender, an innocuous reminder that she was to stay within the confines of beauty and grace. Although compliant in the charade, she had long given up the battle with society. Torn by reality once upon a time, earlier than she had intended, the pain spread to every blood vessel until she clotted into an apathetic existence. All was not lost in her world, however, she had the best parents in the world after all. They understood her as best as they could, even if not enough. She taught herself gratitude in her mother’s lap, rote-learning the image of her father’s softening face. As the sky cried her share of tears on those rare days, today being one such day, she considered it a good omen. A harbinger of the Brave, she prayed.

“Beta, tayaar hogayi? Ladke wale kisi bhi waqt aatey hi honge…” said a scolding voice. “Bas tayaar hoon, Maa.” she reassured. She walked out of her room, readied in her best behaviour. She had made tea. The whiffs of its homely fragrance impressed her guests who announced their arrival with a compliment about it. This did not surprise her, she was always likeable until her dirty secret was out and soon the growing affection turned into disgust and pity worth only a dime. Growing desperate for ageing parents who were drowning in debt, she wished for the unexpected. Allowing herself some thought, some confusion, she wondered what her fault was. All she wanted was to be accepted into someone’s family, to not be a burden on her parents, to not be punished for being a rape-victim — a word that was reserved for clothing, not for people. She reminded herself of the rain, of the many good things that her parents had said about the potential groom. He was educated, well-read and had travelled across the world. All of that perspective would quickly discern the misplaced, twisted ideologies that shackled her society. No?

She walked into the living room with a perfected facade of coyness. He was sitting on the sofa with his back to her. She walked around the table placed in the centre and served tea to the elderly couple, then her own parents and finally him. She looked up from shyness, breaking character just for a split second, to catch a glimpse of him. She dropped the burning hot tea onto his expensive trousers and involuntarily spat the disgust that salivated in her mouth. There was no time for shock to precede disgust, but what crippled her the most was the fear of that ghastly night rushing back to haunt her again. She had wished for the unexpected, but little did she know that the unexpected was elusive to one’s imagination, almost always exceeding the expectations of the unexpected.

Rain was indeed a harbinger of the brave. But the word brave and the word savage were once conflated in meaning. And for her, he was the reincarnation of savage.

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