Aditi was exactly four years old when it first occurred to her that she was “well-to-do.” She had no idea how she had found the phrase. She could have overheard a neighbour, a relative or a friend, but with the town’s first videogame cartridge among her birthday presents and Swapnil- everybody’s sweetheart at school- vying for her undivided attention, Aditi had not bothered to see who had dropped the phrase into the conversation the adults were having. Yet it stuck with her. “Well-to-do.” She liked the sound of it, especially if she rounded her lips at the end, as if she was going to kiss someone – or something, maybe the money.
Twenty years later, when the marriage market disabused her of the foolish notion, she laughed out loud, repeating the phrase over and over again. Swapnil watched her like she was crazy.
“What’s with you?” he asked, shoving his glasses up his rather rounded nose.
Aditi looked up from her computer at her friend. The two decades had not touched Swapnil. He was still as chubby as he had been at four and was still in love with videogames. With every shared cartridge they had grown closer as friends. He was visiting her for a week before she left to Delhi and he left to the U.S., both to work.
“Just a silly forwarded email,” she said, still laughing, “called marry a malayalee girl and see how much gold you can get.” He peeked over her shoulder and Aditi saw his eyes almost pop. Aditi turned to the bride in her email. From her neck to her waist, she was buried under the yellow metal. Her hands and fingers were barely visible beneath the rings and bangles.
“Is she for real?” he asked.
“Well, it looks real,” Aditi said.
“It could be photoshopped,” he suggested.
Aditi shrugged. “Well I would say it does not have to be.” Swapnil looked away with a twinkle in his eyes. Aditi thought they glinted brighter than the gold in the picture. “Well-to-do,” he said echoing Aditi, “is not wrong at all. In fact, stinking rich is more like it.”
Aditi gave the bride a quick look before closing her browser. She was easily wearing enough gold to end the recession. She slammed the computer shut and walked into her kitchen looking for something to drink. She saw Swapnil’s gaze follow her, as she pulled out an orange soda and poured herself a glass. “I want some,” he called out. She poured another glass in silence, listening to the soda fizz.
“What do…”
“Are you…”
They had both spoken at the same time. “Go ahead,” Aditi said, as she passed him his glass. He took a sip before he looked at her straight in the eyes, “Are you jealous?” She looked at the faint amusement in his eyes, not sure if he was serious or joking.
“Are you kidding!” she said, sitting beside him. “Why would I be jealous of that?”
“Well,” he said, “All girls like jewels and she had more than you can imagine.”
He seemed so sure of himself that she almost gagged. It was true that she liked worthless trinkets, but she could never wear 100 pounds of solid gold and live to tell the tale. If the weight did not kill her, the embarrassment would. Her father, she believed thought exactly as she did. They had everything – a home, a car, a maid, vacations every year, the latest technology, books, movies and music CDs- but her father could never afford the big wedding. While Aditi’s dad had filled her shelves with books and remodeled her room to accommodate a furnished study, other fathers in sparse houses had been stocking gold. She had realized that on the day Preethi had tied the knot. Preethi had always played with Aditi’s dolls, borrowed Aditi’s books and movies, and nearly lived off Aditi’s computer, until her father’s company had given him a laptop. But on her wedding day, Preethi was caked in gold. Her father had looked pleased with himself, as his daughter had left to her in-laws house, richer than anyone could have imagined her to be.
Aditi’s parents had come home that night whispering. “He must have worked hard for that,” “I never saved that much for Aditi,” “Is that how brides dress now?”
Swapnil snapped his fingers, in front of her eyes like a wake-up call for daydreamers.
“So I was right. You are jealous.”
“Swapnil,” she said, “You know me better than that.”
“Why were you thinking about being rich then?”
“Well all that gold, I guess, reminded me of a time when I thought I was very rich.”
“You are pretty, how do we say it,” he said, a grin spreading across his face, “well-to-do.”
“Yeah. I mean, we never are in need of anything, but do you think I could wear so much gold in my wedding?”
“No,” he said, sipping his soda. “But are you saying you should be able to?” He turned to her with a smile. “What if you were able to?”
She made a face in reply.
“Interesting! You don’t want it then?” he asked. “And you still are thinking about it.”
“I am thinking what a colossal waste of money this whole affair is. I think it is disgusting…”
“Yeah, I get the picture.”
“Why do men earn just to get their daughter’s married? What of their own lives?”
“What of it?”
“Have they never wanted to live it to the full? I mean, when the money comes along, shouldn’t they be living some of their dreams. It is so sad that men marry and then slog to give their daughters a meaty dowry!”
“Well they must have got one before all the slogging began. That’s the way the world works. You get some, you give some.”
“You think it is okay then?”
“I did not say that. I was just telling you how the world works.”
They took another sip of the soda.
“Will you…”
“But if…”
They laughed. “You first,” he said, draining his glass. She watched him with a smile.
“Will you ever…?”
“No way!” he blurted out. “I’ve spent enough time with a headstrong girl to hate things like that.”
“No! I am serious.”
“I am too,” he said smiling. “I take you seriously Aditi. So I know what you mean. I could never marry someone like that. Imagine how much she will expect me to slog when it is my time to give. And you know me,” he said, with a wink.
“Yeah. Lazy guy that you are!”
“But what if it is a gift? What if the father loves his daughter and gave it to her because he wanted to?”
“You know, that happens too.”
“Yeah I know. I think that is what happened at Kausalya’s wedding.”
“Hey! Kausy is R… I… C…H! She can afford to get married like that. Her father did need bank loans to get her married. I think it is a shame when you cannot actually afford it, but you feel the need to do something like that! I mean why the strain?”
“Maybe it is anxious fathers buying their daughter’s happiness.”
“Do you have to buy that? I mean do you have to put a price on it?”
“Well everything comes with a price. Marriage is an industry, love it or hate it.”
“I, for one, hate it.”
“Marriage?” he asked, his eyebrow cocked.
“No,” she said, laughing. “The market!”
He got up to fill some more soda.
“Do you want more?” She passed her glass to him, quietly.
“You know about Preethi’s dad?” he asked, as he walked into the kitchen. She nodded. Almost six months after the wedding, Preethi’s father had met Swapnil’s in the latter’s consultation room. His ECG, blood pressure and blood tests had bad news for his heart.
“Stress,” Swapnil’s father had said.
“What can I do? There are loans. And Preethi is pregnant now. I should get ready for that.”
“Why Swapnil,” Aditi asked, following him into the kitchen and propping herself on the counter, “why can’t girls refuse to go through this?”
“I think girls are jackdaws,” Swapnil said. “Everything that glints must belong to them.”
“Stop being funny,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be easy to just ask for a simple affair. A new sari, a pair of earrings, a necklace and a few bangles, close friends, a cozy party. What more do you need? It should be more about the people right?”
“I would elope, if I were you,” Swapnil said half-seriously. “That’s the only way you are going to get this peaceful wedding. Otherwise someone will force the extravaganza down your throat.” He took a sip. “Extravaganza… who made that word…”
Aditi’s cell phone interrupted the conversation.
“Hello,” she said, and then looked up at Swapnil with a smile. “Oh hi Preethi!” Swapnil hardly smiled. Aditi’s face drained before he could. He listened to her solemn “Ohs,” searching for a clue.
“Ok we have to go,” she said, pocketing her phone when she had hung up, and jumped off the counter.
“Her dad?” Swapnil asked. Aditi nodded. “He had a stroke last night…”
“Where is he…?”
“Home Swapnil,” Aditi said quietly, as she fished for her car keys in her pocket. “He died an hour ago.”

A note from the author: I did get that email. The rest, of course, is fiction.

The Author
 There is nothing Shweta loves more than writing. A graduate from Madras Medical College, she is now a student at the Knight's Center for Science and Medical Journalism at Boston University, from where she hopes to graduate a fine science writer and a nuanced thinker. Apart from experimenting with eggs in the kitchen and paint brushes in her room, Shweta enjoys watching cricket and tennis and just about any movie. She is a voracious reader and enjoys astrophysics, anthropology, genetics, archaeology, mythology and just about anything that will kindle her imagination. Sa, for Shweta is her means of telling the men and the women in the world that there is enough space for everyone. It is also her way of letting people know that no one is more equal than another.

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