The Missed Call

Your phone shudders in your fist for the third time in a row. Across from you, he sips his tea in a crisp shirt, looking around the terrace as though he has never seen one before. You could simply receive the call, but you let it die.
He points at a flower. You are as clueless about its name as you are about defending ignored interview calls. You tell him it is your mother who has taken to gardening and wonder how easy it is to pass the buck on a mother. The mother who gave you birth and then said nothing when your father brought home a future groom.
He mostly gloats about his family business. Gemstones or something. You don't care. You are glued to his ring-laden fingers. He squints at your pale eyes and prescribes garnet. Then his gaze drops to your lips, and lower, where your pendant slips under the saree.
He asks if you have ever slept with a man.
You wonder if you heard him right. Not a single photo from his recent Goa trip has escaped you. Booze in one hand, a woman’s waist in the other, while your father thought the most this boy could drink was coconut water.
A pressure cooker whistles in the distance. You want to smash his head with it. Instead, you tell him lunch is ready.
The next whistle finds you on his bedroom floor. A stroke of vermillion has planted you here. You have rescued your laptop from between a pile of sarees. Your mister is in the shower.
His sherwani lands at your feet, lumped and hurled from the bath. Your father found him well-mannered.
You stand up in your wedding attire, the necklace digging into your throat like a witch’s fingers. His wet arm sticks out for his towel. You turn away.
On his bed, two swans lock lips among rose petals. You separate them and hand him the wife swan. Its neck collapses into a washcloth.
Your laptop beeps and beeps. You skim through the comments on Facebook. God bless you, made for each other. Rubbish.
Then you spot an email from the company. They are still offering you a window. But you are busy getting married. You stare at your reflection in the mirror until the first tear surges.
The doorknob twists. A gush of musk awakens you. He emerges, his wet feet squelching, puts on music and stands behind you, eyes fixed on the mirror. His fingers part your hair, fiddling with the knot of your blouse.
You want to thrust him away, but your fingers steer him through the tangle.
The garment drops.
In the mirror, you stare at the lonely swan, sagging on the bed.
You want to hold it tight and beg pardon.
Your phone shudders beneath the wedding clothes.
You let it ring.