I say, “But that was a different time.”
Amma sighs. “It’s what she knows. It makes sense to her.”
“I don’t understand. They’ve been here forever. Why would Dharshi agree?”
“Sometimes the old ways are easier. Don’t you see? Love is difficult. There are no guarantees. But this way is easier, safer. Dharshi’s chosen safety for herself, for her mother.” She laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t try to make you do this. I know better.”
I am grateful for this. Amma might throw plates, lock herself in the bathroom for hours, and cut her wrists. She might scream and yell, but this is something she could not do, this selling of a child to the highest bidder. For once we are united.
*
I throw myself back into school, try to forget the whole thing. Mostly I do, but in my dreams I see Dharshi’s beautiful face and some other unknown one next to it. A frog, not transforming into a prince but shape-shifting into something frightening. The metallic taste of these dreams tinges my mornings like a flavor stirred into my coffee.
Aunty Mallini calls. She makes small talk and I force myself not to let the venom rushing through my body erupt through my mouth. Finally she says, “So you must have heard … Dharshi is getting married.” I mumble an affirmative and she says, “You two have always been so close. Like two little birds in the corner twittering away. Right when we brought you from Sri Lanka, you were joined at the hip, isn’t it?” I say nothing; I wait and then she asks the question I know she has called to ask. “Darling, will you be her bridesmaid?” I want to say no. I want to scream at her that I want nothing to do with this marriage. But more than all this, I want to see Dharshi one last time before it happens.
I say, “Okay, yes.”
There’s relief in her voice. “Oh, good. Dharshi will be so happy.”
I wonder if this is true. It has been months since we last talked.
*
The night before the wedding I take the train again. Retracing the journey I took on that other awful night. I’ve come late, so I’ve missed the dinner, and at the station it’s Aunty Mallini who picks me up and takes me to the house, talking nervously all the way, filling the silences.
Dharshi opens her bedroom door. Hanging on her closet door where all her posters used to be is a white sari encrusted with gold filigree dripping to the floor. Her sari blouse hangs next to it, stiff as a piece of armor with the weight of beads. My own terrible pale-pink bridesmaid sari hangs next to it. Her wedding jewelry—earrings, bangles, the headpiece that will hang along her hair parting—is lined up in velvet boxes on the dresser. High-heeled jeweled shoes balance on their box in the corner. She looks at me and then away. I start pulling clothes out of my backpack, taking off my jeans to pull on my sweats. She says, “How are you?”
“Good, I’m good. What about you? How’s it been?”
She shrugs her shoulders, drops them, turns to the jewelry on the dresser, says, “Look at what Amma gave me to wear tomorrow.” She pulls out a large ring gleaming with brilliants in a paisley pattern, slips it on her finger; it catches the light with its gleaming surfaces.
She says, “Amma wore it at her wedding too. It was the first thing Thatha gave her.”
“Is that right?” I can’t keep the serrated edge out of my voice. I finish changing, say, “I’m going to sleep,” and slip into my old bed. She has kept it here for whatever reason. Perhaps some reminder of how it used to be. I hear her sigh, hear her clothes thrown off. I hear her get into her bed just feet away from mine. I pull the blanket even higher around my shoulders, stare at the wall. She switches off the light, and I am falling asleep when she whispers, “Are you awake?”
I hiss, “No.”
She says, “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
“No! Of course not. This is stupid. I don’t understand.”