***

Word Count : 4900

***

01 | An Act Of Promise Or The Art Of Pretense?

| November, 2022 |

The art of pretense was scary. 

You would keep on pretending, to prove that everything was normal. Only to realize that one fine day your pretense would lapse right into your true self. It would break through you. Vandalize your mask. Force your true soma to bask in the sun. Force it to get some fresh air, while chaining your false skin for a show in front of those who thought it was true.

And you? 

What would you do at that time? 

Will you avoid the sun and air to cower back in fear? Shackling yourself into the corner of a room, in the dark?

Or, will you embrace it the way it was handed over to you? In the light, under a thousand pair of eyes?

The later would demand your courage. 

The former? Your patience. 

The ethical 'you' would say that the former choice was correct. The 'human' you would say that the later made more sense. 

And he, was someone, who found it much easier to pretend. 

To pretend that everything was normal. That he was normal. That his marriage with his soon-to-be wife was normal. 

After all, she too was like him, wasn't she?

The art of pretense was one of her predilections too. She loved it. It came to her as naturally as it came to him.

She was never someone you would notice at first glance because of her looks, or even at second glance, for that matter. And it was the same even when she was in her high school epoch. She was that quiet and introverted teenager with just above-average grades, typical South Asia-specific facial features, average height, a straight twig-like body, and a negligible amount of involvement in anything and everything. 

Her first striking facial feature were her eyes—midnight obsidian eyes. The kind of eyes that would peel apart your false skin from your true soma and dissemble you cell by cell, right from the corner of a room, without even lifting a finger or even a knife per se. The kind that would hide behind a pair of specs, sit back, one leg over the other, sip on a carton of juice, and behave as if they weren't aware of anything, yet prove to be the kingmaker at that end. 

Her second striking facial feature was her face—always so calm and indifferent. The kind of face that would smile at you, yet plan your downfall at the same time.

And that made her someone you would notice and set your eyes on, for her brains. For that quiet motion of her pieces on the chess board, like how she was doing now. As if she were preparing to utter just two words—'Check Mate'.

And, he, Mahadevan Dogra, the Patriarch of the Dogra clan, liked it. He freaking loved it. 

At the age of thirty-two, his mother told him about her, a maiden of twenty-five, with a very uncommon name, Hinduja. Affixed to which was her maiden name, Rao.

He had a son of two—Anirudh. And obviously, because of his age, pretense didn't came as naturally to that kid as it came his father and his soon-to-be mother. 

So the toddler did what was expected of him. He got smitten with her. Mahadevan liked how the boy giggled in her dainty arms, completely engulfed in her motherly warmth at the very first glance, his little fingers playing with her black tresses.

He loved how she so casually wiped the boy's drool off with the end of her saree Pallu, without even a hint of disgust or dislike etched on her face. In lieu of that, his son was smothered with kisses all over his chubby little face from the said woman. The father in him subconsciously had a wide smile etched on his visage that day—a genuine and profound smile. Not a smile stitched together with a piece of false skin. 

The next time he saw her again was when she strutted into the dingy-looking marriage registrar office with her confident steps turning heads in her direction, followed by her parents and her older brother. 

She was appareled in a maroon khadi saree with a Chinese-collared elbow-length blouse, a pair of tiny gold studs in her ears, and her regular Kolhapuri flats. And those eyes of hers, as always were hidden behind a pair of specs. Her feminine elegance, ramrod-straight back, and quiet presence in that dingy little chaotic courtroom were not ignorable.

Even while signing their marriage registry papers, her center of attention was Anirudh. And as far as that boy was concerned, that little traitor had conveniently ditched him and made a run towards his 'mamma'. That's what he called her. 

Her brother, Commander Vijaypath Rao, a renowned retired cardiothoracic surgeon from the Indian Navy, was still skeptical about this entire setup. Throughout their time in the marriage registrar's office, until she signed the papers, the thirty-six-year-old commander had calmly asked her multiple times, "Molu, think again. He already has a child from his previous marriage. It's not just about you two; that innocent child is in the picture too. Are you sure that you'll be able to manage everything, including the child? Are you absolutely sure about your decision?"

It seemed as if unlike his sister, pretense was one of  the commander's pet peeves instead of predilections.  

Good for him.

The fact that she was eleven years younger than Vijay must have caused him to worry so much. More than an elder brother, he was a father figure for Hinduja—a very protective and loving and, at times, scarily possessive father figure who could both kill and get killed for his molu.

And despite all that, composure was something that was common in both siblings. They were always level-headed and had exceptional self-control over their emotions and reactions to situations; he had witnessed this innate ability of both the siblings numerous times.

Maybe her being a civil servant and him being a retired defense personnel was the reason. But that was for the world to believe. For the Dogra Patriarch had other things to believe.

Eventually, the time came for them to sign the marriage papers. When the unconvinced retired Navy Commander repeated the same question again, his sister automatically redirected her gaze towards Anirudh, who was playing with the paperweight on the registrar's table, sitting on her lap. And with a serene smile lingering on her lips, she had finally answered, "Anything for him, bhai."

And with that very peaceful curve of her lips, she had signed their marriage papers—she had signed her fate to be the crown of the Patriarch. 

The then scrawny fifteen-year-old Hinduja Rao, whose poetry he had sneakily stolen and perused from his mother's office bag when he was twenty-two, had now embraced the position of his wife and subsequently the mother of his son, almost ten years after he had read those verses scribbled across a piece of paper by her.

Yet, Mahadevan Dogra was still meandering somewhere between what he knew and what he didn't knew. He was unable to decipher the reason behind her agreement to this marriage. Why would she marry him? How would the mask that he donned would be able to help the mask that she donned?

Lest he had to put a full stop to his thoughts. 

He averted his eyes toward the left side of the room. His mother, Manasvini Dogra, could give tough rivalry to an Australian kangaroo at this point with the way she was jumping around and distributing those orange-colored balls of diabetes among the people in the registrar's office.

As for the marriage officer, he had already gobbled up three of those laddus and was currently on the fourth one.

May God bless his pancreas.

Vijaypath, on the other hand, was standing next to Anirudh. Their height ratio was that of a toy truck to a concrete mixer truck. "Oy circuit! Your maamu is here!"

The six-foot-something commander deadpanned, putting his right hand forward for a handshake. When he couldn't gauge out any reaction from the little boy for the next thirty seconds, Vijaypath Rao conveniently bowed down, picked up his brand-new nephew, and walked out of the marriage registrar's office with light jumps in between. "Oy circuit! Come, let's get you some chocolates."

"सुबह होगी मामू! मामू!" Oh yeah, the commander was a die-hard cinephile.

Especially, Sanjay Dutt and Arshad Warsi's characters from the Bollywood movie Munna Bhai M.B.B.S., were his favorites and that often resulted in his sudden outbursts of the popular Bollywood number 'सुबह होगी मामू!'out of nowhere in his 'overly melodic voice'.

His parents and the commander would make great friends, it appeared.

Kangaroo jumps and their unrequited love for Munna Bhai—there were a lot of commonalities between them.

Hinduja, on the other hand, was standing next to his father and her parents. While the three baby boomers were conversing amongst each other, her eyes were solely set on the toy truck-concrete truck pair that had just walked out of the office to buy chocolates.

From the time she had entered the office, she had not spared him even a single glance. Well, weirdly enough, she never actually did. All their previous interactions were also pretty formal.

"Mr. Dogra?"

"Mr. Dogra?" She called out louder.

"Uh . . . yes, yes, Miss Rao?" He fake-adjusted his cufflinks, looking at her broodingly.

"All the official procedures, including the photographs, are done. So, can we leave now?"

"Sure, Miss Rao." He turned towards his chief-of-security, Karim, who stood there with a constipated face as his mother shoved the fifth piece of Kaju-katli into his mouth while simultaneously opening the seventh box of Laddus.

"Karim! Go out and ask the others to take the cars out of the parking area."

"Ji Sahib." With a slight bow, the 41-year-old man rushed out of the office, saving his ass from the third piece of laddu his mother was about to shove into his mouth.

For the love of God, that man abhorred sweets as much as he hated pumpkins himself.

As if on record, he found the elderly woman on her feet in front of him next.

"Here, you also have one!" She tried to shove in the sweet into his mouth, as if she were shoving garbage into a gutter.

"I am lactose intolerant." He took a step back, detached.

"Oh yeah! You get loose stools due to milk products, right? No issues! I'll cook you something special later."

And then she laughed—a laughter that was ear-splitting enough to frighten Goddess Sita's abductor.

It was the damned Kashmiri Punjabi DNA, as always.

Alas! The marriage officer had to sorrowfully part ways with his fourth piece of Kaju-katli that got ejected out of his mouth, ascribed to the sudden blow his ears received, courtesy of the turbulent guffawing of the Kashmiri Punjabi woman in his vicinity, that could put even Tanzanian hyenas to shame.

How cruel.

And he... the groom.

He, in every way, wanted the ground to swallow him alive.

How the woman even had the guts to make a public announcement about his inability to digest dairy products and the subsequent looseness of his bowels in front of an entire herd of sucrose-addicted government officials was way beyond him.

Shaking his head, he diverted his visual senses towards the right side of the room.

The other two baby boomers were still involved in some deep discussion while his newly wedded wife was erect on her feet beside them. Nobody heard the scandalous words, it seems.

Good for him.

Around half an hour down the line, the Dogra Patriarch dived straight into the main matter of concern, his eyes firmly fixated on the wedding garlands that they had exchanged back in the court, piled up on the dashboard. "Why did you agree to this?"

She averted her eyes from the scenery outside the window and looked at Anirudh, who was fast asleep, sitting on her lap with his head on her covered bosom. "I promised him."

"Promise? . . . What sort of promise exactly?"

"That I will always stay with him." She played with the delicate ebony curls on the kid's head.

His eyes glimmered, and his lips placidly curved up extemporaneously.

His malty pools tenderly landed on her countenance while her sole attention was on the toddler sleeping in her embrace as the entourage of cars guided by security zoomed through the Delhi National Highway.

This was the most restful scenery that he had witnessed in the last five years. 

Touch wood. 

***

Hinduja Dogra, née Rao, knew that wearing a mask would definitely wear her out some day or the other. That faking that mask would prove to be even more fatiguing. Yet, at the same time, she also knew that, the world in general never doubted real women. It loved real women. 

The kind of women, who dressed natural, and waved at babies on their way. The kind who smiled at strangers to supposedly brighten their days. The kind who treated everyone with kindness. The kind who were soft and demure.

So she made it a habit to act like one. She had to be one. Or else how would anyone ever believe her? Or even trust her? 

She had worn the mask of normalcy for so long that she had almost forgotten who she actually was beneath it.

Forget second skin, it had become her only skin. Everything except the smiling part and the act of portraying herself as someone soft. Sadly. 

She assessed her own self—black pants, a short white khadi kurta, and a cotton Bandhej dupatta wrapped around her shoulder, neck, and chest. Then she tried smiling. 

She looked like a real woman, didn't she?

She definitely did. 

Then, she proceeded to appraise her surroundings. Leaving aside the room that she now shared with the Patriarch, which was vernacular-styled, the entire Dogra Manor was colonial-themed. 

"Miss Rao?" She turned around, only to witness him lowering his gaze. 

"Yes, sir?" She took a step forward.

"Need any help?"

 "No, sir." Adjusting the dupatta properly around her shoulders, she resumed with the task at hand. "I have already arranged all my clothes in the closet." She smiled. Demurely. "Thank you." 

"That's good. It's already nine-thirty pm, so—how about dinner?" He suggested.

Her gaze darted back to the clothes organized in the closet. "Sure." She nodded.

They sauntered out of the bedroom into the long passage hall. He was dressed in a pair of black tracks and a white polo tee. 

She waded her eyes through the Victorian architecture. Portraits and art pieces from different periods graced the walls of the colonial manor that was passed down through different generations of the Dogra clan—a prominent business kinship group of Asia, with its origin from Kashmir.

Its flooring resembled the flooring of The Durbar Hall at Rashtrapati Bhavan. The Persian carpet in aristocratic hues, with cypress tree motifs, seemed to be woven with utmost intricacy and precision. The scale of the Dogra manor was overwhelming and thoroughly well-maintained. Its gigantic off-white walls and interior with royal gold and blood-red murals stood as a proud testimony to its previous owners, with antique wall lamps having uniform gaps in between. 

Descending the wide spiral marble stairs, they made their way into the humongous central hall that had a long passage at its leftmost corner that led to the central dining hall. "Mr. Dogra?"

 "Yes, Ms. Rao?" 

"Where is Anirudh?" She asked.

"Oh, don't worry about him. He is with Karim. Karim likes to play with him after dinner. Probably, Poorna would be there too."

"Alright." She smiled, "Who is Poorna, by the way?"

 "She is the housekeeper." 

"Okay."

 "Ms. Rao, I had something in my mind that I need to convey." He glanced at her.

 "Please go ahead, sir." 

"See, we are already acquainted enough. Addressing each other as Ms. Rao, Mr. Dogra, or just 'sir' for that matter seems too odd to me, too formal for two people who are married. How about you call me by my name and I call you by your name?" He brought up the matter that was in his mind for a long time. 

"Uh," She hesitated, her face blank, "I need some time."

"Alright, take your own time." He sighed as they entered into the dining hall. She saw the butler bowing his head from her purview.

The Dogra Patriarch made his way to the front most armchair meant for the head of the family.

 The long, regal African blackwood dining table had five-candle golden candelabras kept in such a way that all the candelabras had regular intervals of space between them. 

She made her way to the first chair on the right side of the table and was about to sit down when she saw both the butler and him, staring at her, amused. 

Confusion grappled her visage. "Sorry, what happened?" 

Swirling his tongue over his upper lip, he clears his throat. "Listen, we are married. So, as the matriarch, you have to sit on my left side. It's a family norm." He explained with a gentle smile, pointing his finger towards the chair that was to the left side of his armchair. 

"Yes, madam." The butler replied with a smile, "Please?" He added.

"Okay." She nodded and ambled her way towards the chair he pointed at. 

In an instant, he got up from his armchair and gently tugged her chair a little away from the table, focused his eyes on her face, and pointed them towards the chair again. A minute later, they were both settled down in pin-drop silence while the butler started to serve them. 

Everything was going on normal. Everything had to. 

Or else, how would people who knew, ever believe them?

***

The white sheet on the mahogany table was filled with sophisticated cursive penmanship all in the hues of royal blue. Each corner of every English alphabet was penned with precision and just the right amount of pressure. He put the cap on the silver nib of his pen and inserted it into the pen stand next to his desktop. 

Numerous chart papers with blueprints of various upcoming government buildings and skyscrapers drawn with charcoal pencils were laid out on the table.

The hour hand struck six, and the gleaming little bob reached its extreme as the ancient wall clock echoed its familiar old symphony. He adjusted his rimless glasses with the tip of his index finger as his eyes automatically averted to the sketch of the state-of-the-art hospital building on the paper.

It was a hectic day, and at the current moment, it felt as if his head would be blasting anytime now—a terrible migraine. Sighing, he arranged all the stationery items at their designated places, closed all the files, and kept the sketches in their folders.

 A minute later, he strode in the direction of their room. They had shifted to his penthouse apartment at the Leela Sky Villas for he plumped for this apartment over the humongous Dogra manor, lo and behold. 

The older Dogra couple, on the other hand, lived back in their palatial manor in Dehradun. 

 He could hear faint sounds of footsteps. The corners of his lips upturned languidly for a quarter of a second, and then they were back to normal. He pushed the silver doorknob as it creaked and entered the room. And there she was, still clad in one of the cotton sarees she wore to her office every day, today its color being baby blue. Her hair, like always, was in a low and tight formal bun. 

Something that he had noticed about her was that she always wore her sarees in a way that didn't even exposed a millimeter of her waist to someone's naked eyes. The blouses were also pretty conservative and modest in style with Chinese collars. Quite a few times, he had seen her wearing black or navy blue formal pants and coats with white or sky blue button-down shirts. In a sense, her clothes were always simple, formal, and exuded a dignified aura. 

Even at home, it would always be classic—a pair of cotton pants, short or knee-length kurtas with elbow-length sleeves, and accompanying them would either be an authentic Pashmina shawl or a cotton dupatta completely wrapped around her shoulders, chest, and neck area. 

The only jewelry she wore before marriage was her kite-shaped gold studs. A black analog watch always adorned her left wrist as well. Now added to those studs were her nuptial chain and those red and white bangles—the Sankha-Pola.

And he knew that none of this was pretense, or was it?

He forced himself to believe the former.

Currently, the five-foot-four-something wife of his was un-clasping the straps of her Kolhapuri flats while sitting on the diwan. 

Sensing his presence, she lifted her head and looked at him. A graceful smile adorned her face. "Good evening, sir."

 "Good evening."

 Her eyebrows formed a crease, perhaps sensing the dullness in his voice. "Are you alright?"

 "Uh. . . it's fine; I am okay." The crease deepened further. She was clearly not convinced. 

He had a habit of reading her. He like it that way.

 "It's okay to be not okay at times." He heard her say.

The irony of the situation was that the statement she just uttered was perhaps not even included in her own set of beliefs. 

He sighed and focused on the small black Bindi between her brows. "I have a headache." 

 "Pretty bad, it seems?"

 "Terrible." He massaged his glabella.

 In response, she stood up, picked her flats with her right hand, and made a beeline to the closet on the right side of the bedroom. He squinted his eyes in her direction for a few seconds and then settled down on the bed. A minute later, she walked out of the closet in her classic pants, kurta, and dupatta combination. "Where is Anirudh?" She turned around to look at him.

 "I took him along with me to the office today after you left for the office. He was tired, currently sleeping in his nursery. Once he gets up, I'll feed him." He answered.

"Alright." She nodded and turned around while he continued to sit on the edge of the bed, only to stare at nothing in particular for god knows how long. Zoned out.

"Dogra Sahib?" Her soft voice snapped him out of that zone.

'Dogra Sahib' was what she had eventually started to address him with, in the course of time.

She was standing a foot away from him with a tray in her hands. Two porcelain teacups with saucers underneath them and a plate with cashew cookies, symmetrically arranged on the tray, hot steam emerging out of the cups. "I generally prefer a cup of strong ginger tea over medicines for migraines. Would you like to have some?"

He smiled and stood up. "Terrace or hall?" He asked.

 "Terrace seems fine."

Around five minutes down the line as the stood in the terrace, she asked him, "What happened?" 

"Huh?" He adjusted his specs, squinting his eyes in her direction. 

 "The wind flow is soft, the ambiance is pleasant, and I believe the tea I made is also pretty good. But your brows are still slightly creased, you are wiggling your toes, and you have that faraway look in your eyes. You are clearly not relaxed, so my question is, what happened? Obviously, it's your choice if you are comfortable enough to answer my question." 

He just gazed at her for the next thirty-something seconds. She was not even looking at him. Her focus was on the design on the cup, tracing the curved lines of the flowery pattern. Turns out, she had a habit of reading him too.

 "We been working on a new project for the past five months—a palliative care center building to be built in attachment to the military hospital of Northern Command envisioned by the defense chief. Everything was functioning smoothly, the blueprints were also completely done, and then suddenly, an envoy of senior tri-service officials arrived today and said that the project might not have a future anymore." He began, steadily.

 "Why?" She took a quick glance at him.

 "Apparently, the District Magistrate of South-West District has sent a report to the higher-ups that the area next to the military hospital on which the building was supposed to be built was illegally acquired by the Defense Ministry, submitting some false proofs about the land being under the ownership of a few local civil traders even though the land comes within the Delhi cantonment area. The Defense Ministry completely dismissed the allegations against it, but from my personal resources, I came to know that the DM has instigated that entire group of traders to go on a hunger strike on that same land from tomorrow onwards, his motive behind it still undisclosed. He is doing all this behind the scenes. Now, the main problem is that the construction work was supposed to begin the day after. Even the material is ready. So, now if they cease the project, all the efforts and time put into the project would flush down the drain. The DM is just not ready to sign the fucking. . ." 

 His eyes suddenly enlarged, realizing the slip of tongue. "I apologize; I just—" 

 "It's okay, continue." She smiled, focusing her eyes on him. 

 "So, basically, the DM is not signing the NOC." 

 She nodded thoughtfully, trailing, "Vaibhav Pathak can be a pain in the ass at times; I concur."

 "You know him?" 

 "My super senior back from the days of university—an ideal case of 'all that glitters is not gold." She exhaled. "Appearances can often be deceptive, Dogra Sahib. Vaibhav Pathak just happens to be the best example of this proverb. That man has mastered the art of manipulation to the best of his abilities." She chuckled, taking another sip of the warm and creamy masala chai. 

 "You seem to have some bad blood against him?" He probed.

 "Professionally, no; personally, yes." 

 "I see." He nodded.

 "Pathak is instigating the traders to do a hunger strike. You have this piece of information even before the authorities do. Either you yourself have connections with the underworld, or one of your associates or your informant does, don't they?" 

His hands that were holding the cup, lifting it towards his lips to take the last sip of the delicious ginger tea, had ceased to move with an almost invisible jerk. "Smart." He mouthed and continued his ceased movements, taking a sip of the tea. 

Cunning was the actual word. He replaced it with smart.

 "Nothing so astute about this. All these affair, legal or illegal, whether I like them or not—are always under my information radar." She replied.

 He hummed. 

 "Corporate wolves rarely desire assistance from outsiders, Dogra Sahib. I don't think that I, a civil servant, out of all people, need to explain to you the centuries-old drill."

 "What do you mean?" He snickered, already deducing what her next set words would be. "You know exactly what I mean. Lay the trap; lure the herd of sheep into the trap. The wolf shall itself walk to you to get slaughtered." She paused, taking a sip of the sweet and gingery concoction. "I guarantee you." 

He chuckled and nodded his head. "So, Hinduja Rao-Dogra knows how to infringe the statutes as well?" He asked, amused, air quoting the term 'infringe' with the index and middle fingers of his right hand while clutching the teacup with his left hand. 

"Only, I reiterate, only if the cause is righteous." She asserted. 

The simple act of him pronouncing her surname, joining it with his own, gave her a twisty feeling in her stomach. He, on the other hand, tried to gouge out any reaction out of her, pulling up that stunt a few seconds ago, yet, leaving aside that curve of her lips, nothing else was apparent on her face. 

Obviously. Smiling was something she could never perfect on her face. It just didn't happen to he that easily.

He hummed.

 "I believe that you will lead not only yourself but also the authorities as well as your employees to come out of this issue."

 "You do?" He asked.

 "I do." He looked around at the setting sun in the orangish-yellow horizon and took a bite of the buttery cookie his fingers held. 

The headache was long gone. He looked around at her. 

She arranged her dupatta properly around her chest, her thick black locks flowing in the air. Averting his eyes towards the other side, he tried to hide the emerging smile, threatening to make an appearance on his face. He seemed to smile a lot these days.     

Everything was normal after all. Everything had to be. 

Or how else would anyone ever believe that they were not pretending? 

At least he wasn't. Or was he? 

***