By: Barlow Crassmont

Issue 01//August 2025

Ritika moved through the thick crowd with the swiftness of a wild river. 

She bumped against guests known and unfamiliar, barely excusing herself as numerous heads turned in her wake. Daydreaming was her favorite pastime – especially after sundown. Ritika could hear everyone’s comments, despite pretending not to.

“There goes the younger one,” the rumors whispered. “Her parents should pray to find a suitor like her sister’s.” The unkind echoes would follow her around turns and corners, like entities refusing to take a hint.

It was the third day of Veda’s wedding, and the incense hung strong and potent in the humid atmosphere. The banquet walls were decorated with paper stars colored in red, gold, pink and orange. Tables were plentiful with biryani, samosas, palak paneer, chana masala, idlis and vadas. An abundance of jasmine and marigold flowers enriched the traditional garbs of family and friends of the bride and groom. To young Ritika, it all may as well have been the height of the annual monsoon: repetitive, burdensome, and tackier than the endless supply of curry in every dish.

She was born first, that’s all. No need to be bitter. My day will come, as Brahman is my witness.

The escalating music continued to reverberate, and its loudness irritated Ritika’s ears to the point of her venturing beyond the banquet’s fence to escape the boisterousness. She would’ve reached it sooner, if not for her father’s hand landing on her shoulder.

“Riti, we’re running low on naan,” Mr. Malhotra said. “Be a good girl and go get some from Pillai’s Pastries.” He handed her a fistful of coins, then added, “And red samosa sauce. We’re nearly out.” Her father turned and walked away before the girl could even respond.

I don’t really want to go, but at least it’ll give my ears a break. She smelled the coins, and found their collective musty, metallic odor repugnant. Ugh. The sooner I exchange these for the bread, the better.

The front gate was unlocked, and she opened it quietly, avoiding the typical clink and clank with little difficulty. Soon she welcomed the open street’s reticence with a smile as big as the Ganges. Ritika skipped down the street, like a jubilant child suddenly freed from a two week mandatory detention. At the intersection of Malhipur and Ayyapa, she ran into a familiar face of Mr. Bissoon. 

“Greetings, child. Do give my best to your sister and her husband,” he said. “May they be blessed for decades, and bear many children. But say, when will the festivities come to a close? It’s been four nights, and although I live several houses away, I haven’t slept through the night since last Monday.”

Ritika merely shrugged. “Baba said it’ll last a week”

“A week?” Bissoon shook his head. “You know, not all of us are privileged. We work from sunup to sundown. It’s hard to do one’s job when your family’s music keeps the entire neighborhood awake against their wishes.”

Ritika shrugged again, smiled, and bid him adieu, before meandering towards Nashik’s town center. She embraced the quiet atmosphere with ringing ears that remained unsettled still: every word, phrase, car engine noise she experienced as if underwater. Meanwhile, nearing the center, the populace increased in numbers. Locals walked in groups of three or four, and would generally blend together to the point of being indiscernible from one another. Young and old, tall and short, man or woman: to Ritika all Indians resembled one another.

I hope to marry a different man than Veda. When I’m of age, maybe our skin tones will have lightened somewhat. 

But no sooner did she complete her thought than she saw four British officers exit her destination’s front door. Two of them were gray haired, one was bearded (his face barely visible from the thick facial hair), while the fourth…well, Ritika’s heart nearly stopped as he glanced at her. 

He was blonde haired, clean shaven, his eye brows rich and fluffy. His eyes were two sockets of blueness more briny than the cleanest of oceans, and his smile made Ritika forget why she’d come to Pillai’s Pastries. For a whole minute after the quartet disappeared into the night crowd, the girl stood stupefied, her mind enchanted by the face of the one that reminded her of the most exemplary Olympian gods.

The Greek mythology lesson from a year prior flashed before Ritika’s eyes. The Island Syme, for one, and its king Nireus, known for his exceptional beauty. According to legend, he was second only to Achilles in natural looks. There was also Dionysius, whose appearance conquered every painting he appeared in. His elusive long hair hung over the cup of wine in his smooth skinned hand, festivities following the master of theater into immortality. Despite their angelic physical characteristics, the two aforementioned deities could hardly hold a candle to Adonis, the mortal who would eventually be reborn into God status by Zeus, at the request of Aphrodite. The God of rebirth, desire – but most of all – unequal beauty.

That’s whom Ritika had just witnessed – albeit in human form. The soldier’s appearance was drastically different from her own people’s, and she found this element all the more alluring. 

He’s whiter than Himalayan snow, his hair as golden as the sun. With him next to me, I’d look like a goddess, too.

Like a forbidden fruit from Eden, there was something deliciously tempting about the soldier’s smile. She’d gladly take a fall from grace, if she could pluck him like an apple, despite all the foreboding warnings – tradition and religion be damned. Ritika began to envision her future with her fingers intertwined with his, even with the apparent difference in their age. 

So what if he’s considerably older? Many couples in our culture consist of an elder and a much younger bride. I wouldn’t be the first to marry an older man, nor the last.

Ritika did not remember ordering two bags full of naan (and cutting in line in front of an elderly couple, who ignored her rudeness on the account of her age and size and dapper-looking dress), nor did she recall paying the baker with the handful of coins that reeked like stale blood (only upon smelling her empty hand later was she reminded of the exchange). Even after she’d exited and began her return journey home, she was consumed with her waking reveries, in which she was courted by the dashing blonde soldier, who– breaking the Indian custom and the nation’s long held tradition, presented Ritika’s father with quite a dowry (cash, jewelry, fancy suits and linens made of the finest fabrics and silk) just prior to asking for her hand.

But sir, what’s the meaning of this? her father would tell Ritika’s Adonis. We are supposed to present the dowry to your parents!

I know, private Adonis would reply, but they’re back in England. As a result, this would have to suffice. Besides, my and Ritika’s love is a unique one. Our union will break new barriers in your culture, and perhaps the entire world!

Their ensuing wedding would hold thousands of guests from each corner of India. It would last not one week, nor two or three, but over an entire month, making Veda’s matrimonial celebration a minor event in comparison. 

When the imagined newlyweds would venture out into the public, they’d be the envy of every corner of India. Folks from the great mountain zone would resent them for their contrasting skin tones (it’s like the yin and the yang – but in flesh!). Citizens from the plains of Ganga and the Indus would bow and nod excessively at their sight (behold the most glorious couple, a convergence of East blending with West!). People from the desert region would generously offer them hospitality in their cool mud huts and silken tents (not even the Maharaja and his princess bride have been graced with softer bed sheets!). The southern peninsula populace would worship the ground they walked on. If only the unique couple would share the secrets involving the details of their matrimonial bliss with the lowly commoners. 

What can we say, Ritika would utter, blushing. We were matched by Brahman’s will. 

By the time a loud car horn jolted Ritika back to reality, she was at an unfamiliar intersection, unaware of her surroundings. The street was different — wider and more spacious. Those still outside stared at her with eyes more peculiar than admirable, and the few parked cars were not nearly in the same quantity as those lined up in front of her father’s property. The hour was late, and Ritika gradually oriented herself homebound, reserving the continuation of her fantasy for later, when she was soundly at home, and listening to the ongoing celebration from the safety of her upstairs bedroom. 

Although she lost track of time, Ritika rushed down sidewalks both smooth and cobbled, those half empty and those half full, until she found herself on Malhipur. The street’s name was reassuring enough that her sighs morphed into smiles, until her family’s front gate was in sight, and nearly within reach.

I hope Baba won’t be mad that I took so long.

The front gate was quite ajar this time around, and the guests, instead of dancing and mingling about, were gathered, all as still as the statue of Thiruvalluvar. In lieu of familiar boisterous music that chased Ritika upon her departure, the current cacophony consisted of shouts and indistinct heated arguments. They were mostly in English, which she was becoming quite fluent in.

With her minuscule, inferior height when compared to the adults that blocked her view,  the girl could see little of what was taking place within the crowded circle. She tried to focus on the verbal exchanges that resonated from its center, but deciphered only random bits and pieces. 

The community is united…enough is enough…people can’t sleep… 

But it’s my eldest daughter’s wedding…it’s our long standing tradition…surely my fellow neighbors will understand…

It’s not them…Mr. Chatterjee has voiced a complaint…his villa is down the street…he’s a friend of the Crown…and an influential man… 

He’s bitter…for not being invited…too often he sides with the oppressors…such nationals will never grace my doorstep…

We won’t ask you again… turn off the music… disperse the guests…and end this farce once and for all…

Farce…? How dare you compare my daughter’s wedding to a farce? Why, I’ll have you …

That was the last of spoken words. What followed were several collective oohs and ahhs, disagreeing shouts, women shrieking in fright, and some indiscernible wailing that bordered on frantic orders, and even unkinder commands. Many guests attempted to intervene, but were soon dissuaded, and retreated outwards from the circle. It took nearly a minute for Ritika to push her way inside, where many arms and elbows bumped against her head. For her persistence, she was rewarded with the sight of her father laying down on the tiled floor, blood oozing from his nose and lips. 

“Baba!” Ritika cried. “Baba, what happened?”

Although several family members were tending to Mr. Malhotra – holding his head, gently slapping his cheek in their attempts to wake him – he remained unconscious. Ritika’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head, and her heartbeat escalated like a clock gone haywire amidst the awkward silence. She looked around, glancing every way, until the khaki uniforms caught her eye. They were walking away towards the gate, several in number.  She couldn’t count how many exactly, but one in particular caught her eye. Again. 

It was him, she was certain. His hand was bloodied, and using a handkerchief just given to him by his fellow officer, he wiped it clean, soiling the cloth red entirely. On his face was a smile, albeit unlike the one Ritika witnessed earlier at Pillai’s Pastries. This smirk bordered on conniving, nearly duplicitous. It was the last expression the girl expected to see on her revered immortal. 

Her mother rushed over from the kitchen, then crouched just behind Ritika, wiping the recently spilt blood with a wet rag.

“Riti, help me with this,” she said. “There’s more droplets than my old hands can reach.”

Ritika did as she was told. The presence of numerous fresh red stains reminded her of the samosa sauce she’d forgotten to bring from the store. The collective bitterness of the evening, the interruption of her sister’s marital celebration, her father’s injury, but especially the shattered fantasy of her God fallen from grace – it made the girl’s ensuing tears taste more bitter than all the Karam Saag in known creation.