The Bridegroom
Photo: Karan Madhok
Fiction: ‘Like old times, they each sit in their own shells. Unable to communicate. Unable to speak. Like old times their eyes still search for each other in familiar spots. Somehow, they never meet.’
Jhelum Lawn 1988
You are bright as a promise full of prayers, friendship, and love. It makes me afraid. And my fear gets unbearable each day. It is not that I need a testimony of your affection—I have enough of it. Yet I am convinced it will not live. With it comes the horror of parting, of bitterness. She could remember months and days at the university, comfortable and nervous in each other’s company both had been positively stubborn. When he wanted to get close to her, something inside her withdrew. It failed to respond. She was proud to admit her love. He was afraid of rejection. They were immensely fond of each other, argued restlessly. How he mocked her laughter! How he loaded her with barbs! And she accepted it all not knowing this would be the only lasting moment of togetherness. Never had she thought of marriage, of children, of permanence. People fell in love, people married, people lived and shared. For her no such ties. He did nothing to assure her. He was rich. And she knew she would be wasting her emotions, her pride. They did things differently. He talked of his family, of the dowry he expected, of the grand posts they held—the male members of his family. She withdrew deeper. There is no point trying to reach the moon. And she could see despite all her love the shallowness of his being. And she knew in years to come it would bore her to death, his love of wealth, his ambitions, his wanting to be on the top of the world. Without God. Without faith.
He lives with a guilt. But proud as he is, refuses to acknowledge it. He has long refused to answer any of his questions. They simmer somewhere deep inside the corner of his heart. Inside him, they make noise, leave him sleepless after making love to his wife.
He was quiet about this feeling. He found it hard to resist. I cannot reach her. She is cruel. She is indifferent. She couldn’t have bothered. She fails to read my emotions. He was under terrible strain. He did not have a job. She was doing well for herself in every sense of the term: success, popularity, scholarship, M.Phil. and a job. This woman was becoming inaccessible. And yet just to reach her he would have done anything. He loved her so. And yet had never once said so to her.
Cottingham Road 1992
Like old times, they each sit in their own shells. Unable to communicate. Unable to speak. Like old times their eyes still search for each other in familiar spots. Somehow, they never meet. They live in the same city. Just a street away. But the streets intersect. Only the two refuse to meet. They pass as strangers. There are many questions she wishes to ask. He has a story to tell. She wants to ask him if he still loves being out in the open. He wants her to know he is married and happy. But that is not what she would like to hear. She wants not his polite, gentlemanly smile. She wants him to argue, to mock, to fight. She wants him to know it has been years since she laughed like a junglee. His junglee. She has become soft like a pear. In those days she was hard as a nail. She remembers the glint in his eye. He lives with a guilt. But proud as he is, refuses to acknowledge it. He has long refused to answer any of his questions. They simmer somewhere deep inside the corner of his heart. Inside him, they make noise, leave him sleepless after making love to his wife. She does not know. She will never know. He is good at hiding his feelings, only anger surfaced in those olden times. Now even anger has subsided. With a sweet, delectable touch he ruffles his pillow, rests himself on the bed, and feels the naked dark of her skin. The wife’s skin. Smooth and ebony. She looks beautiful in bed. Who wouldn’t?
Salmon Grove 1989
She used to be at her best in the noon. Now she sleeps till noon. She refuses to go out. She waits for the night. Whatever little pride she had, he took it away. Heart says he is a coward. They will not know. She never spoke of him to anybody, not even to her dearest friends. He was a precious truth and so precarious. And she loved this truth. It glittered unseen. It glittered and glowed for years. For years she lived with this truth. And she enjoyed his company, his companionable absence. He had convinced her it would be alright. In love there was nothing to lose. One could either rise or fall. And the others did rise. So why should she fall? She had enough control, patience, warmth to give. She said yes.
Maidangarhi 1990
He was happy and hopeful. Her one yes had made it go. And yet he began to wonder if it was right. Single, he rested his head upon the pillow. In the landscape of his dreams, a figure hovered beneath pale sheath of her skin. He disliked its contours, the wretchedness of her bones. Like domes and spires, like poles and spikes her bones rattled in his ears. He woke up with a start. This will not do. They pleaded with him. Think of us they said. I am dying she said. He loved his mother. Mother I will follow you. I’ll do as you say. Please do not die. The mother heaved a sigh of relief with a crooked grin. She picked up the black piece of charcoal to ward off evil. The white evil. How much will be the dowry, the father asked. Will we all get presents sisters-in-law cried in unison? You must not go alone his brother cautioned. Do you like the colour of the suit he asked his mother? She held him for a while and brushed him with kisses. “Get a tie to match the suit,” she remembered. And shoved him out for shopping.
***
Ranu Uniyal is former Professor and Head, Department of English, University of Lucknow. She has four poetry collections in English: Across the Divide (2006), December Poems (2012), The Day We Went Strawberry Picking in Scarborough (2018), This could be a Love Poem for You (2025), and the Hindi connection Saeeda Ke Ghar (2021). She is a founding member of PYSSUM, a centre for people with special needs in Lucknow. She is an Advisory board member (English) at Sahitya Akademi. Website: ranuuniyal.com.
