I’m sitting, draped in my mother’s georgette sari, hands folded demurely in my lap, gaze trained down at my feet like I was told to do. I’m hyper-conscious of everything right now. Who moves, who stares, what they say. I suppose he must feel the same way. This ladki-dekhna (meeting the girl’s family) business gives the jitters to everyone. To the prospective bride and groom the most.
The elders around us are mischievously laughing at their own lame jokes. It’s tedious sitting here this way, unnaturally still and acting unlike myself. But I have to because I’ve been warned of dire circumstances (read suspending my internet account, which by all means for me, is as good as a death sentence).
‘I think the boy and girl should have a moment so they can talk, you know’, Buaji winks at my mother, who in turn responds with a devious smile. These…
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