Chapter 1

The wedding celebration was in full swing when we arrived, a vibrant tapestry of color and music. It was the first night, designated as the musical night, and I had chosen to wear a traditional Chaniya Choli. The swirling skirts and fitted bodice, a nod to the festive atmosphere, felt just right. My husband, initially, was not supposed to join me that night. He had cited work and a general aversion to large social gatherings as his reason for staying home.

However, after a considerable amount of back-and-forth and my persistent, perhaps overly persuasive, pleas, he finally relented, agreeing only to come and pick me up later. As the hours passed and the revelry continued, I was surprised to see him arrive much earlier than expected. He mingled briefly, a little stiffly perhaps, meeting the extended family and a few friends before settling in to wait.

The party finally started to wind down in the early hours of the morning. It was around 1:30 a.m. when we eventually said our goodbyes and headed out to the car for the drive home.

The wedding’s venue, a grand party plot, was situated right on the highway, a significant distance from our home—about an hour and a half’s drive, and the late hour, coupled with the long wait and, I suspected, an already brewing bad mood, had set a tense stage. My husband was noticeably disturbed and, to make matters worse, he had been drinking. The silence that initially filled the car soon gave way to a heated argument. The air was thick with unspoken tension and angry words.

It was during the peak of this fight that a sudden, alarming incident occurred. A man on a motorcycle, riding carelessly and dangerously on the wrong side of the road, swerved close to us, narrowly averting a serious accident.

In a moment of purely instinctive reaction, I exclaimed to my husband, the argument momentarily forgotten,

“Man, hey, pay attention while driving. There could be an accident right now...”

Before the words could fully leave my mouth, my husband shot me a furious, venomous look. His response was a sharp, aggressive deflection of blame:

“He’s coming on the wrong side.”

I glanced over at the motorcyclist, who appeared to be a senior citizen. The sight of the man and the close call seemed to infuriate my husband further. He violently rolled down his window, leaned out, and unleashed a torrent of vulgar curses at the older man. He even pulled the car over slightly, stopping momentarily. The man on the bike simply looked at both of us, his expression unreadable.

My husband then rolled up the window, but his rage wasn’t spent. He turned his anger directly on me, spitting out another vicious curse, “You bloody motherfucker!” or something equally vile.

His outburst was shocking and completely unwarranted. I immediately pushed back, deeply offended. “Man, how can you say that? Look at his age? He must be at least 60 years old. He must be under some compulsion, driving so late at night, and you’re saying all this?”

He became even angrier, his face contorted. “You’re not saying that,” he roared, interpreting my defense of the stranger as a betrayal.

“You care about everyone except me. Come on, get out of the car right now. Come on.”

In a final, aggressive act, he slammed on the brakes, stopping the car abruptly on the shoulder of the deserted highway, and violently ordered me out. Stunned and humiliated, I obeyed, stepping out onto the cold, dark road. I stood there, tears stinging my eyes, the reality of my predicament sinking in. My purse is in the car. How am I going to get home now? I thought, my mind racing in panic.

Just as I stood, contemplating my helplessness, the same older man from the motorcycle incident appeared, slowly riding up on his bike. Initially, a wave of fear washed over me. It was half-past two in the morning, on a desolate, winding highway, and here was an unknown man. My fear was amplified by the irrational thought that he might be a stranger (I had initially misjudged him as potentially Muslim, adding another layer of anxiety in the dark) who might take out his anger over my husband’s earlier verbal assault on me. I quickly turned my face away from him and started walking in the direction we had been driving, hoping to put distance between us.

He pulled up alongside me.

“Daughter, was that your husband?” he asked, his voice calm and fatherly.

The conditions were terrible. It was dangerously cold, and I was grossly under-dressed for the weather and the hour. I was wearing only the Chaniya Choli, and specifically a backless choli for style, a single piece of fabric held by a string, with a rather transparent dhoti. I was shivering violently, a mix of pure fear and the biting cold. I stopped walking, turned to him, and stood quietly, unable to speak.

“Tell me, daughter, was he your husband?” he repeated, gently.

“Yes, uncle,” I managed to say.

“He’s very angry,” the uncle observed. “I was in a hurry, so I took a shortcut, as there’s no traffic here so late at night. But your car arrived. What did he say to me for such a small thing?”

I felt a surge of sympathy and recognized the truth in his words. To prevent any escalation or his taking offense at my husband’s behavior, I felt it necessary to apologize.

“I apologize on his behalf, Uncle,” I said, trying to be conciliatory. “He was upset and took his anger out on you over something else. Sorry.”

“Oh, daughter, don’t say that,” the uncle said kindly. “It happens sometimes, I forgive him. That’s it. But why did he throw you out of the car? I don’t understand that.”

“Actually, I scolded him for mistreating you,” I explained, the humiliation returning. “He got even angrier that I was his wife and was taking your side. That’s why he threw me out in anger.”

The uncle shook his head sadly. “So, daughter, how will you go home now?”

“I’m thinking the same thing, uncle,” I admitted, my voice strained. “Actually, I forgot my purse in the car, and my mobile is in it too. I don’t even remember the way to Bodakdev from here.”

“Oh, daughter, how will you go so far from here?” he said, concern etched on his face. “You won’t be able to get an auto or a bus.”

He was absolutely right. I was already confused, and my mind was clouded with worry. There wouldn’t be any public transport until morning, still four or five hours away. He must have read the panic and indecision on my face, for he quickly offered a solution.

“If you want, I can drop you off on my bike.”

The offer was generous, but I hesitated. Is this true? I thought. I considered the late hour; everyone in my social circle would be asleep. Even my husband, after his drunken fit, would likely pass out and wouldn’t be awake until noon. I decided to maintain a level of formality and caution.

“On the other hand, Uncle, it’s strange that you would go to all this trouble to drop me off. If you just get me an auto, I’ll go.”

“Oh, daughter, if the auto driver comes this late at night, he’ll charge 1,000 rupees,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s better if you just give me 500.”