My morning unfolded without much fuss, as my maternal family was already accustomed to my unexpected visits, sparing me from inquiries. I sat on the veranda, engrossed in the morning newspaper when a boy of 6-7 years approached; his ball had come my way. He asked if I wanted to play with him. Without much thought, I joined him, essentially searching for lost balls for the little ones.
As I went on another expedition to find the ball, I stumbled upon a group of boys talking behind a wall. I couldn't see their faces, but for a moment, it compelled me to halt in my tracks.
Boy 1: "Did that stupid girl tell anyone what happened last night?"
Boy 2: "I heard from my neighbor, who went in the morning, that Dolly was found in Professor Aarti’s house, and she was even caught in bed with Professor Aarti’s son. Dolly was so frightened that she couldn't say a thing."
Boy 3: (In a very serious and anxious tone) “She should not spill a word; otherwise, we will get in trouble, as we had forced her to drink alcohol. We have to somehow contact her, so our names don't get out.”
I remained frozen in my place as the kids approached me for their ball. Slowly, I returned to reality, handed them the ball, and settled back on the stairs of my home's veranda. In those few minutes, a myriad of thoughts raced through my mind, contemplating all sorts of news headlines and terrible scenarios that could unfold. Grateful that the girl seemed safe for now, I couldn't shake off the concern about potential harm from those boys. If they tried to harm me again, I pondered how I could contact the girl once more. Then, my gaze shifted to the innocent kids playing nearby. Could they be of assistance?
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I signaled one of the kids to come near me and discreetly inquired about the girl's residence. With a touch of secrecy, I asked if the kid could bring the girl to me, fabricating a story that she had forgotten something at my place. The kid nodded earnestly and went off on this newfound mission, seemingly unaware of the tangled web of complications surrounding the situation.
In the evening, when Mom returned from college, I decided to lay everything out for her. At that moment, my mom, Aarti, was still freshening up. With some hesitation, I began, “Ma, I have something to discuss.” However, before the conversation could unfold, a woman in her early 40s stormed in with anger, unleashing a tirade at both me and my mom.
“Aarti Sis, what the hell? What does your son think of himself? Already, so much fuss has happened in the morning, and your son is trying to contact her. I don’t know anything about Aarti Sis. If your son is interested in Dolly, then let them get married. I won't tolerate this girlfriend-boyfriend thing.”
My mom signaled me to sit first and asked my grandma to prepare one or more cups of tea. Remaining remarkably calm, my mom inquired, “What happened, Aruna? Suddenly, marriage.” I was about to say something, but my mom raised her hand, signaling me not to speak as she intended to handle the situation herself.
However, Aruna continued her relentless verbal assault, emphasizing how the neighbors were gossiping. She pointed an accusing finger at me, stating, “Your son even sent a boy to call Dolly alone. Of course, there's no room for any explanation. In a drunken state, something must have happened between them. So, for the honor of my house, your son has to marry Dolly. He has to take responsibility.” Despite my attempts to reason with her, she persisted.
Before I could interject once more, a man in his 50s rushed in, asking, “Janu, what are you saying? How can you let our daughter get married? She is still in college.” Aruna's anger escalated as she retorted, “Ohji! She is not our daughter. You brought her into our home without consulting me. Besides, how much more will she study? She has already completed her finals in engineering.” It became clear during their heated exchange that the man was Aruna's husband, and Dolly was their foster child.
The most shocking revelation came when my Mom agreed to the marriage without consulting me. Once again, my attempts to voice objections fell on deaf ears. At 35, I found myself still afraid of my mom, especially her stern gaze. I reluctantly retreated to my mom’s room, slowly falling onto the bed, contemplating how my life was spiraling into what felt like a TV drama.