MARRIAGE

"So where will you be all day?" Proloy Kundu asked. "Some disaster in the Economics department needs your urgent attention?"

Rimpa ignored the barb. "Committee work. Republic Day, then Saraswati Pujo."

"You're in the final year, about to leave college."

Rimpa looked at her father, a dainty smile dissolving the pout. "The young need guidance."

Proloy Kundu kept looking at Molly. She had turned twenty-three last month. Always the quiet sort, these days she hardly spoke unless she could come up with something acerbic. Her thick mass of hair was gathered in a slovenly bun. Wide, tranquil eyes on a dusky face, burdened by a thick pair of brows, she sat drinking in the play of light and shade in the distance. 

They were rude but right, Proloy thought. She is more painter's muse than trophy wife.

Rinku and Rimpa left the dining table, trying to beat each other to the bathroom. Joy and Bubu stood at the kitchen door, making inquiries about breakfast. Aloka sent them out to buy eggs for toast. "Put on some pants before you go," she yelled after them. "And don't eat half of them on your way back."

Proloy slid into the chair opposite Molly as soon as they were alone. "Your Ma has talked to you about tomorrow, I believe?" Molly sat looking at the dregs gathered at the bottom of her teacup. She looked like some ancient goddess carved in stone, who neither hears any prayers nor grants one's wishes. Proloy decided to try again.

"Two groups, okay? One coming from Dhanbad, they'll stop for lunch. Then the family from Calcutta, they'll drop by in the evening." He managed to catch his wife's eye through the kitchen door and gave an agonised look.

"Molly, just check if there's some multani mitti left," Aloka said. "I'll prepare the face pack before I start in the kitchen." She flopped her corpulent arms on the dining table to create some impact.

Molly rose to the bait. "You think that your face pack will turn me into some fair princess that everyone wanted to marry?"

"No, it will just take the oil and dirt off, so that you don't look like a mechanic's garage," Aloka retorted.

"How about practicing some writing? Remember those folks from last year, they had asked me to compose two letters to see if I'm of any use? Two letters?" She was slowly chewing her words now. "Formal and friendly?"

"We're trying our best, you have to understand," Proloy said.

"But Baba, you know I'm not good enough. The ones from Calcutta, they'll put up at a hotel, right? They will ring our doorbell at six the next morning, like last time, to check what I look like without the paint?"

"Molly, we are not the ones hurting you," Aloka said. A trace of resignation had crept into her perennial singsong voice.

"But don't you see what it was, the two of you?" Molly's voice was hoarse with pain, like one toiling for long under some ancient curse. "I failed school. Not just Maths or Science. I failed geography. Who fails geography? It's beyond rescue. All of it."

****