FICTION
the news, that night and the following day had been filled with firsts—the first moment she realized she would marry Girish, the first morning she refused the paper when Appa offered it to her after he’d finished. In the months since then, she had become engaged to Girish and not read the news once, until today. But Padmini had not sought out the newsprint for updates on the piece that had merely moved from the front page to the middle section in the past months, the story that had captivated the entire country, the piece that hadn’t ceased to be interesting even when its time had passed. Instead, Padmini flipped the flimsy sheets searching for a few specific lines printed among so many others in the society column of the local news pages. There, nestled amongst other names and dates, was her wedding announcement. Padmini had examined it once before creasing the edges of the column with her henna-red fingertips and tearing it from the page. Then, she’d folded the section carefully and pressed it into her top. Now, as she stepped from the stopped vehicle, Padmini put her hand to her chest and took a breath as if she were adjusting to the hot, dense air outside the car. As she inhaled, she briefly felt for the concealed papers, checking that the scraps she carried were still there and did not show in the loose churidar. Satisfied on both accounts, Padmini walked with her mother into the mandabum through its back entrance, the driver following with her suitcase. The front entrance and wedding hall had been decorated with pink and yellow frangipani for the arrival of the guests, but the side room in which Padmini would ready herself was calmingly plain, except for the richly dressed, jewelry laden women who rushed in shortly after Padmini herself. “Ah, Padmini kuti!” her aunts squealed, but Padmini did not listen to the endless chatter and unsolicited words of advice they gave as they pulled at her hair and encased her face in a layer of makeup. Padmini nodded and smiled, held her face and tilted her head as her mother stood back and directed, but did not venture to speak until it was time for her to change. “Just my mother,” she said. “But kuti,” said an aunt, beginning to x_Parachute.jpg protest before Padmini’s mother silenced her.
“We will manage,” said Amma. After the other women had pressed Padmini’s hands, gushed and given her their best wishes in turn, they finally left mother and daughter to complete the costuming. Amma carefully lifted the churidar top from Padmini’s shoulders so it would not mess her hair or smear the makeup. She handed her daughter the blouse. Padmini slipped it on quickly and held her breath while she waited for her mother to fasten the hooks in the back, hoping Amma wouldn’t notice. But Amma came around to straighten the top, and, as was her way, knew something was amiss. “What is it?” Amma asked, her gaze not wavering from Padmini’s eyes. For a second Padmini stood there, half-dressed in old pyjama bottoms and a silk sari blouse, her face fully made up and expressionless. But she could not conceal herself from Amma, who didn’t look away while her daughter reached inside her top and pulled out the clippings. Wordlessly, Padmini handed over the folded squares, small enough to be held between two fingers but still detectable to her mother’s keen eyes. Amma took them and unfolded the papers; but instead of examining them, she asked Padmini, “You intend to take these with you?” Before seeing the torn sheets of words pinched between Amma’s nails, Padmini had intended just that. Carrying these scraps—the first an article announcing the name of some other woman as the first female parachutist in India, the second the announcement bearing her own name—Padmini had hoped to reconcile herself to the marriage. Another had taken her spot. History could not be undone. But looking at the papers now, Padmini was not resigned as she’d hoped she would be. She still felt herself on the verge, halftipping, almost jumping. Padmini shook her head no. “Put them in the suitcase,” she said. The trunk had come this far with her, and with the clippings inside, it was finally fully packed. Now she could go. Padmini wrapped her sari, and later its gold embroidery shone a blinding white as she stepped around the wedding fire. After the ceremony was over, bombarded with endless congratulations, Padmini forgot the suitcase in the wedding hall. Her breath caught in her chest when she remembered it afterwards; then weightless, she jumped. Krupa Harishankar is a sophomore at Columbia College studying Creative Writing. She can be reached at ksh2122@columbia.edu.
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