The Unventured Passions

The New Bride

The beauty of a Bengali wedding lies in the intricacies of it's rituals. With the right person, it's often said to be aesthetically romantic, with a hint of spiritual gratification in it. May it be the subhodrishti, where unsheathing the veil of betel leaves, the two pair of loving eyes would sink in their depths for the first time, or the malabodol, where the two pounding hearts would be exchanged forever in the form of garlands, a Bengali wedding always has more than just a lavish feast to offer.
Raimoti had never been to a local Bengali wedding before, definitely not in one where the groom would be welcomed by the bride's father with a gamcha around his neck, hands folded in gratitude and head bowed down...
It was as if the groom was doing a huge favor by marrying his daughter, in exchange of a hefty dowry ofcourse, and the groom's family seemed to had vowed to find faults with everything that they were offered.

"Err... The singara is a little high on salt!" One remarked.

"Chii... How distasteful of them to put cold jilipi on our plates!" The other flinched.

Raimoti, however, was awed and disgusted at the same time. She had tasted both the snacks, and her elite tastebuds suggested no such adulteration, neither in the food nor in reception.
She had sat with the other gossiping women, on one side of the carpeted ground, wearing the new checked yellow saree, it's end drawn on her vermillion smeared forehead, sheathing her bare shoulders from the prying eyes of gawking men around.

"Ei, new girl, look look..."
A young woman had nudged Raimoti's arm with her elbow in excitement, drawing her attention to the bride who was just brought under the wedding canopy, seated on a wooden plank, lifted by five young men, her face covered by a pair of betel leaves, and from the shivering silhouette of the seated statue, it wasn't difficult for Raimoti to figure out how terrified the poor soul was!

"How old is she again?"
She hushed the question to the woman, and the latter pursed her lips in displeasure.

"Ten, that's what the bride's father claimed." The woman chuckled disdainfully, "but I can vouch this one isn't anything below thirteen!"

"Just thirteen??" Raimoti gasped as the words came out of her mouth automatically, making the woman narrow her eyes at her.

"Good god! Just thirteen? How old were you when you were married girl?"
The woman raised her eyebrows at her and chuckled again, but the question being rather rhetorical she thought it to be best to focus on finding faults with the new bride instead.

Raimoti didn't attempt to reply either. All these were very new to her, exotic yet appalling to an extent, but somehow she knew there was a lot more for her, yet to experience. The young bride looked thin, pale, and as an elderly woman held her trembling hands and forced her to remove the leaves from her face, Raimoti shivered in horror at the sheer sight of the terrified ashen child being compelled to exchange garlands with the middle aged man, unsteady under intoxication.

"Meh goo... Such a pale bride, as if a corpse covered in a saree." A woman flinched and murmured.

"Chii... look at her nose! Such a stale deal for the Chattujjees!" The other remarked.

Raimoti heard them, and her hands had automatically moved up to press against her throbbing temples.
'How awful!!' She thought, her heart bleeding for the misfortune of that young girl, and suddenly an unseen courage took over her being.

She would have to do something... Stop this wedding, somehow... And for that, she'd have to seek help from the only person, the reformer, who had excelled himself in the past, passing reformative laws against the evils of child marriage!

But where was he? Where was Barrister Anirudh Roy Chowdhury?
Raimoti's restless eyes looked around, searching for him. It was at noon that he had left for the Mymensing Post Office, right after the BorJatri procession entered the border, but wasn't he supposed to be back by now! Raimoti suddenly felt a pang of cold chills in her palpitating heart.