I was raised to be coy. You were raised to be assertive. It does not matter if we get to know each other or not, as long as we fulfil our family-ordained roles.

In my mind I saw your member warming itself like an old dog on a sunny porch. I’ve never seen men’s privates before, except of course for the peeping ones, in the hands of roadside pissers and perverts.

My mind is like a narrow-mouthed cave gleaming with phosphorescent creatures deep inside. Hmm. I like that analogy. It is mysterious and poetic.

Mother told me that bad thoughts showed up on faces. So, I kept my eyes down that day. She also told me not to bite my lips, as it’s a sign of passion. To not sit with my feet intertwined, as it’s a sign of slyness. My hands are allowed to fidget a little, for a nervous girl is one who is eager to please. My hunched shoulders mean I am ashamed of my breasts, therefore modest.

You and your family were shown my embroidery, and samples of my knitting and crotchet work. You were told I cook well and play the sitar. I was massaged withe with milk-cream and turmeric before my bath. Then put on a silk sari. Heavy, but not ostentatious, jewellery. The room swallowed me when I entered. From the corners of my eyes, I observed the discreet undulation of curtains.

My family had matched our horoscopes, double checked your salary, and made a note of the quality of jewellery your mother, aunts and sisters wore. I know your family had checked mine out too, except for the salary part. I’m an interior designer, but my earnings don’t matter. I am expected to seek your permission if I wish to continue working.

A good dowry will ensure my status in yours. I am to produce heirs, regardless of your virility. One son most definitely, possibly followed by a daughter, for daughters are like Laxmi, the Goddess of prosperity. My mother, never one to take chances or play with fate, had taken me to a reliable doctor months ago to be checked. The doctor, after addressing certain details with pressing care, and a little smile only meant for me and my cooperation, had given me a “pass” certificate.

Nevertheless, I sensed tremors passing from you to me. I felt hysteria hitting its screaming head against my dry throat. The whole charade made me feel numb on the outside, and liquid inside.

You sat opposite. Samosa crumbs on your thigh. You smiled. You seemed to possesses the confidence of one who has all the details at his disposal, but doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on. Like the baboon that was caught clicking a selfie.

The curtain covering the doorway to the interior of our house showed up the shape of an aunt or two, for a split second. The question beating ominously in my head was, why should I? Ominous, because of the repercussions, which I must face. Not you. As I mulled my situation, sitting before you, I had a pressing need to go to the bathroom.

I am sorry if it was rude of me to leave abruptly. My mother and aunts explained that I am a very shy girl, and therefore overcome by all the attention. I remember the hush as I slipped past the curtains.

The fan above us churned stale air when I returned, almost bundled back, you may say. Your eyes rested on mine for a few seconds before darting towards the curtains. I could see shapes forming again behind them. Sometimes rounded, sometimes sharp, like a jutting elbow. I did not hear the long held collective breath being expelled, I sensed it

When everyone rose, the ‘meeting’ was officially over. You said authoritatively to my mother that you would give your answer through your aunts if it was negative, and your mother if was positive. I saw my mother bob her head like a Bharat Natyam dancer. Her eyes were like that of a supplicant’s, stooping before the shivling - the holy phallus Hindu women adore to distraction.

Since then, nobody has asked me what I think or feel. What should my answer be? There are certain four-letter words in the English language that I could use. Except that I can never bring myself to do it. Strange. I can think them, but I can never utter them! The reality is that I have been raised not to even think of them.

Yesterday your mother called my mother. Now my family and my extended family are in a tizzy. My mother and aunts keep fussing over me. They are full of advice on all matters of wedded bliss.

I need to weigh the pros and cons. I need to understand how much time I will need to wean you away from your mother, aunts and sisters. I need to know how much of sex I must deliver before I can resume my job with your blessings. I need to take a recce of the landscape I have to trek through to achieve my goals. Yes, I have goals. Clearly defined ones, even if they appear domesticated and nebulous to you.

Meanwhile, I imagine the smart, independent women, you are likely to meet at work, and during your business trips. I know the type. I could have continued to be like them. And then, I imagine the weight of your crotch in my hands. I do not imagine any kind of wedded bliss or whatever bullshit (that’s holy cow dung for you) that is poured like blessings on the bride’s head. I am preparing myself. I don’t know for what. But I’m preparing. I will be ready for you when we take the turns. Seven times around fire. I own my body. I can bend yours to my will.

***

Shikhandin is the author of seven books, including, “Impetuous Women” (Penguin-Random House India), "Immoderate Men" (Speaking Tiger), “The Woman on the Red Oxide Floor” (Red River Story, India), “After Grief – Poems” (Red River, India), and "Vibhuti Cat" (Duckbill-Penguin-Random House India). In 2024 she was shortlisted for the Asian Prize for Short Fiction. She is a two times Pushcart nominee – Aeolian Harp 2019 (USA) and Cha: An Asian Literary Journal 2011 (Hong Kong), and a Best of the Net nominee – Yellow Arrow Publishing 2023 (USA). Her honours include, runner up - George Floyd Short Story Contest 2020 (UK), winner - Children First Contest curated by Duckbill in association with Parag an initiative of Tata Trust in 2017, first prize - Brilliant Flash Fiction Contest 2019 (USA), runner up - Erbacce Poetry Prize 2018 (UK), winner 35th Moon Prize (Writing in a Woman's Voice: USA), first Runner up - The DNA-OoP Short Story Contest 2016 (India), second prize - India Currents Katha Short Story Contest 2016 (USA), first prize winner Anam Cara Short Fiction Competition 2012 (Ireland), long list - Bridport Poetry Prize 2006 (UK) and finalist - Aesthetica Poetry Contest 2010 (UK). Shikhandin’s prose and poetry have been widely published in India and abroad in online and print journals and anthologies.