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‘Now give her the ring,’ I said to Pitajee, who turned to look blankly at me.
This man!
I yanked my own engagement ring off my finger. ‘Here! Use mine!’ I said, thrusting it in Pitajee’s hands.
‘Now you wear it! Quick!’ I hissed and literally put the ring around Anu’s finger and began to run towards the car.
A sardarji walking past us poked his wife and pointed at the three of us – Pitajee in the centre, flanked on either side by Anu and me, running towards the car with a small mob chasing after us.
‘Oye teri,’ I heard the sardarji exclaim in awe. ‘I have heard of one man running away with one girl. But look at this man! He is running away with two brides!’
I stopped running only when we had reached the car. Pitajee took to the wheel and I sat next to him, pushing Anu into the backseat. Adrenaline pumped through the car as Pitajee now took control of the situation and pushed the accelerator hard.
‘Kas,’ came a small voice from behind me a few minutes later.
‘Yes?’
‘You put a ring on my finger,’ Anu said. ‘I hate to break it to you, but I think we are engaged.’
I slumped into the seat laughing, weak with relief, and Pitajee joined in. There was just one thought in my mind. Anu and Pitajee would be together now. With my faith in love and destiny restored, I yelled at Pitajee to drive more carefully.
41
Indira Gandhi International Airport, Delhi, 16 December 2013.
‘Be good, Kasturi Shukla Dixit!’ said Vikram, winking at me.
The million bangles on my hands jingled happily, as Purva and I bid our final farewells to all the people who had piled into the four available cars to drop us off at the airport. I absently fingered the watch on my wrist, Purva’s dad’s watch, the watch I had not taken off since the day Purva had gifted it to me. With one swoosh of my heavy Kanjivaram sari, I turned around to make my way to the check-in desk. Pushing our humungous suitcase with ease, Purva put an arm lightly around my waist. Just the two of us now.
‘Cannot wait to get on that flight to Brazil,’ he said lazily. ‘It has been so crazy, these last few days.’
Oh, yes. Crazy it had been.
The night of the wedding, worthy of a full-fledged three-hour Bollywood movie, now flashed before my eyes. The mad car-ride across Delhi, rushing to my wedding just as Mum and Anju Aunty … err … I mean Mummy … were about to throw screaming fits, given that they had just realized that the dulhan was absconding, their horrified faces when they saw that there were more brides than expected.
‘When He gives, He gives with an open hand,’ said Purva’s naniji on seeing two brides in place of the one that was missing.
Pitajee’s parents had been pulled out from the crowd. Pitajee quickly told them the whole story and asked for their blessing. Too shocked to say anything else to their son who stood next to the girl he loved, pleading with them, they had nodded their approvals. I felt for them. I did. They had, after all, only come to attend a wedding, not take home a daughter-in-law.
Purva, barking at the panditji, had insisted that the sindoor ceremony and pheras be done right away.
The Goswamis had finally barged in, threatening to call the police. Which was ironic, since twenty policemen had accompanied them anyway.
Anu, sitting next to a horrified and clueless panditji, had had a hysterical meltdown, wedding lehenga and all.
Ahya had had the grace – at least momentarily – to look shameful at what she had done, but later had asked the police to arrest Pitajee, which had Pitajee and me very scared for a minute.
Anu had got to her feet in sheer anger and screamed at the top of her lungs, quite like a banshee, ‘I am an adult! No law in this country can stop me from marrying the man I love!’
In the end, it was glorious Paddy who came to the rescue. Clad in my yellow sari, she drew herself to her full height and said, ‘Here, my boyfriend, Tiger, works for News of India. And boy, would the media lap up a story about a lying parent who also happens to be an esteemed IAS officer! Tiger does what he’s told, what do you want me to tell Tiger to do? Pretend this never happened? Or go tell the world about it?’
Stunned silence met these profound words. I almost clapped with delight when Padma finished. That girl is worth her weight in gold.
‘Thanks, Paddy,’ I said to her.
‘I owed you one, Kas,’ she said, flicking her bangs.
Mum and Dad had performed Anu’s kanyadaan when her parents stoutly refused to. Worth their weight in gold too, Mum and Dad.
