Diya Thakur made her way down the aisle. Not at her wedding, but at her favourite movie theatre. Her husband, Kunal, trailed behind her, holding onto a large popcorn tub for dear life. As though it were a trophy of sorts. The real trophy, though, was his wife. His pataka, as he fondly called her.
After Diya had seated herself, she met the confused glance of her husband. Now, what might be going on in that potato head of his? He beckoned her to trade places with him. Only after they sat down did she realise why. There was a gentleman in the seat next to where she had been seated. But boys and girls can sit together, right? That is how it was at her co-ed Panchgani alma mater. Sadly, not at dinners with Kunal’s friends. Or at the cinema with Kunal.
The movie was graphic. Certainly not the kind Diya would have chosen. She was more of a reader. At that time, she was immersed in a romance novel that had more sex in a couple of pages than she had had in a year. Still, she found no reason to complain. Kunal provided her with everything else she needed.
‘I was just trying to save you, baby’
A month later, the Thakur clan were in Thailand, celebrating the wedding of Kunal’s sister to her childhood sweetheart. With the third day of celebrations came the much-awaited pool party.
When Diya took off her dress to reveal her prized bikini, it was as though the music had stopped. The rest of the ladies, soaking in their Forever 21s and Tarun Tahilianis, gaped at her, shellshocked. Right before she could jump in, Kunal appeared out of nowhere. Gripping her arm tight, he led her away. Silently.
“What are you doing Kunal? You’re hurting me!”
“I’m hurting you? You have embarrassed me in front of my whole family.” Keeping it as soft as possible, lest his khandan heard him. He led her to the table where her dress lay draped over a chair, gesturing to her to put it on. The dancing had come to a standstill. It seemed the entire world had. At night, Kunal tried to explain.
“I was just trying to save you, baby.”
“From who? From what?”
“Perverts, Diya. You don’t understand. I’ve seen how they look at you. Don’t you know…that’s the reason we have so many rapes in this country.”
“Really?” Diya sniggered. “So, it’s always the woman who must take the blame, right?”
“It’s not like that. I love you na,” he whispered. She melted. What could she do? She loved him, too.
A month later, it was Diwali. Diya loved this time of year. A time to dress up, without the fear of sasuma saying a word. Kunal splurged on her ethnic dresses, because he wanted his wife to look the best. At those card parties they would go to, where everyone would ask her where she got that stunning outfit. That Diwali, things felt a bit different. She had sensed a vacuum between Kunal and her growing ever since the Thailand trip. If earlier he would call her twice a day, he now called her twice as much. Asking her questions like, “Who are you with?” What did he think he might hear? “In bed with your best friend?!”
At the last card party, Diya had playfully tapped Ritwik, Kunal’s bestie, on the shoulder. A gesture not unnoticed. They never made it to Ritwik’s party. Kunal had feigned the flu.
All she ever wanted was to light some ‘phuljhadis’
Diya watched as the stars drizzled from her dazzling ‘phuljhadis’ Pixabay
On the night of Diwali, it was time for the customary Thakur Cracker Fiesta. Ever since she had got married, Diya had never failed to be overcome with a sense of disgust at the sheer amount of money the Thakur clan wasted on crackers. Lakhs. Perhaps a crore. All that pollution, that sound. Laxmi bombs, Ladis…
All she ever wanted was to light some phuljhadis. She went into a corner of the large bungalow compound, and watched as the stars drizzled from her dazzling phuljhadis. Then she lit another, Like a chain-smoker who needed a fix. All of a sudden, she felt a sense of peace envelop her. All around her, she saw light. Bereft of volume, like back in Thailand at Bikini Hour. Once again, her husband ambushed her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Diya? You could get burned! Next time, at least have Ramlal light it for you.” He then reached for the phuljhadi in her hand, but she quickly wrested her arm away.
“No, Kunal.” No trace of bitterness. Or anger.
“What no? What the hell do you mean?” Almost exploding like a cracker himself.
“No means no. Or did your mama fail to teach you that, too?”
“Don’t bring my mother into this, okay?” Pointing a finger at her.
But she was no longer the demure bahu everyone had witnessed at the pool party. No longer his pataka either.
She may not be able to save the world, but she could save herself
The darkness around Diya meant that she was seen, but not observed; heard, but not listened to Unsplash
Exactly one year later, Diya found herself lighting phuljhadis again. Only this time, all alone. On the terrace of her parents’ apartment, where she had returned not long ago. At a literary festival she attended recently, a woman next to her had asked her, “Why are you here?” She had replied, “To see Siddhartha Mukherjee talk. And you?”
“I want to save the world.” A twinkle in her eye. “Don’t you?”
Right then, Diya felt her brain explode. She may not be able to save the world, but she could save herself. And she did not need her husband’s help to do that. After all, Diya contained within the light to dispel the darkness around her. The darkness that meant that she was seen, but never observed. Heard, but never listened to.
As the Diwali lights on her parent’s terrace lit up the entire apartment, there was one Diya shining brighter than them all. The one who had embraced the light of inner freedom.
Rohit Trilokekar is a novelist from Mumbai who flirts with the idea of what it means to love. His heart’s compass swerves ever so often towards Kolkata, the city he believes has the most discerning literary audience.
