“These girls are a curse upon me!” cried Neelam. “It is your destiny” Advised the Kamla chachi. “I had told you to eat curd at that time” grudged the Hema mausi. Amid the fuss, in the southern corner of the house, under a tiny room, Geeta rose discreetly and folding her bed sheet headed straight for the kitchen. Hopping across the brick-studded hallway she entered the front verandah and saw her mother. “There she comes, at last the maharani is up!” “Stop Neelam, she is still a child” said the grandmother rising from her ancient bed. She was an old, frail woman highly aesthete in nature and extremely lazy in her habits. Over the years, after a selfless service to the grandmother Geeta got her prize. A faint plead and the grand old lady took a breather. But Geeta was adapted. Sobbing, she rushed to the kitchen. On arrival, she scrutinized that the ambiance soaked in the bliss of the kachauris and the halwas. It held a strong scent of mustard oil together with of onions being sliced up. “Ah, where had you been?” cried the Shanta mausi, as she noticed the 12 year old little, skinny girl.
At noon the males came in and occupied the verandah. “Geeta go and serve fresh water to the guests”. So there she crawled, barely balancing the plate in her tiny arms. Just before crashing through the verandah door her sister came “What are you doing? Here take a veil” and she dressed her typically with a black chunri covering her hairs up to the small, flat forehead. “Geeta? Now she is my smallest child” “Girl” interrupted the elder brother, a proud father of two sons. “How much old is she?” inquired one guest. “Just about ready to get married” smiled the father. Serving the guests, she silently left the verandah.
Today Geeta’s elder sister was tying a knot. The grand house was bugged with a wave of excitement. It bloomed as if there was a festival being celebrated.
“We gave a TV and a maruti car at my daughter’s wedding” declared Nitu aunty pitching her nose high up. “It is plenty that we are giving” “You should have given some more the girl is just so-so in front of….”
Suddenly the debate ceased, the elderly grandfather entered the verandah. The women gathered up and tea was made. After a dreadful scan the bride was chosen to serve to the most awaited and honored guest. Stumbling as Beena entered the verandah, peering through the veil, she glazed at the old man. He was an amazingly handsome and youthful man despite some patches of milkish white hair. His face was one of wisdom, gathered up in his wrinkles by the annals of his long journeys and extensive farming.
Having served the tea, she was met with another mammoth task, especially for a short 13 year old one. It was the adventure of the kaali kothari. The room was one of sheer fright and darkness. Other than being in the extreme interior, it also lacked the presence of any windows which raised its aura drastically. The mango pickle shone above the hefty tower of the almirah. With trembling legs on a chair, she stretched herself in the anticipation of conquering the summit. After few painful minutes, she held the success with causality of a broken cup. However the vision of the mother was somewhat different, she knew the costliness of a cheap china cup.
The price was high and Beena paid for it. With an application of a bamboo stick her mother started to flog her with the utmost cruelty. She seemed to be devoid of the fact that it was her own seed which was being crushed and cramped by her; hitherto she continued her services to the Satan. Soon the soars deepened on her delicate yet hard skin. After few minutes when the rage descended, the grandmother staring the corpse whispered “May she be a boy next time”.
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