The Dowry Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

Genres: Women's Fiction; Asian American; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

One sultry night, a young bride overhears an extraordinary conversation. The voices speak of a plot to murder a wife who has failed to produce a child and whose family has failed to produce the promised dowry. . .

Megha is sick with horror when she realizes she is the intended victim. Her husband--the very man who tied the sacred necklace of marriage around her neck--and his mother are plotting to kill her! In the moment of panic, she runs for her life. Frantically racing through Palgaum's deserted streets, her way lit only by the lights strung up for the Diwali festival, her single goal is to escape death by fire. But fleeing from her would-be killers seems impossible--unless she can find someone to help her. . .

To approach her best friend would bring scandal to an innocent woman's doorstep, and turning to her own strict, conservative family is out of the question. Instead, with nothing but the sari she wears and a memory of kindness, Megha finds her way to Kiran, the one man who has shown her friendship and respect. Hiding her in his apartment, Kiran becomes her protector. But the forbidden attraction that grows between them can only bring more danger. . .

Caught between tradition and the truths buried in her heart, a dowry bride will discover the real cost of the only things worth having in life. . .

"Packed with detail. . .splendidly depicts passion, brutality, and cultures in conflict." --Dorothy Garlock

Release date: September 1, 2007

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Dear Reader,

India has a rich and diversified culture filled with colorful folklore, gracious people, a delightful profusion of regional cuisines and breathtaking natural wonders. And yet, as shocking as it may seem to the more advanced cultures of the world, the archaic system of dowry is alive and thriving in contemporary India.

Dowry is a gift of cash, valuables and household items presented by the bride’s family to the groom at the time of marriage. It is considered a contribution toward the household expenses of the groom’s family. Although a dowry is not universal among all Indian castes and classes, there are some that practice it very strictly. To this day, it plays a significant role in many of India’s arranged marriages.

Despite a highly educated middle class, the glitzy Bollywood movie and fashion industries, the high-tech and call-center boom that is touted as India’s pride and joy, there is a shameful secret that casts a dark shadow on all those brilliant accomplishments. In spite of a federal law, the Dowry Prohibition Act of 1961, and its amendments in the 1980s, the dowry has continued to proliferate and become more entrenched.

India’s dowry system is a corrupt and decadent tradition, and yet, its advocates argue that it is merely a method of ensuring equitable distribution of a parent’s estate among daughters and sons. But when one analyzes the crude and inhuman way it is sometimes practiced, it can be viewed as a form of extortion.

As if that were not enough to qualify as a misdeed, if and when a bride’s family fails to produce the expected dowry or falls short of the promised amount, the bride is often abused or tortured or killed by her husband’s family—and, indeed, may suffer all three, in that order.

Statistics on bride abuse and bride killings are highly skewed because of a large number of cases that go unreported or undocumented. They are often brushed aside as accidents. Corrupt police officials that condone the perpetration by looking the other way serve to add to the travesty of an already distorted legal system. Allegedly, anywhere from 5,000 to 25,000 dowry brides are killed and maimed each year. There is no way to gauge the validity of any of the available statistical data.

Although The Dowry Bride is entirely fictional, some of its elements are based on facts surrounding the dowry system. In narrating the story of my young protagonist, Megha Ramnath, I often placed myself in her shoes, and as a result I experienced her fears, concerns, joys and tribulations. Notwithstanding the drama, adventure and action essential to a work of fiction, I have tried to paint a realistic portrait of a culture that is simple yet complex in many ways, abundant yet lacking in some areas, progressive yet shockingly primitive.

I sincerely hope you enjoy reading and sharing with others The Dowry Bride as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Best wishes,

Shobhan Bantwal

At the age of twenty-one, Megha Ramnath was not only married for a year but was about to be executed. In the damp, foggy darkness of the night, she stood outside the woodshed, her brows drawn in puzzlement, the loose end of her plain blue cotton sari tightly drawn around her slim shoulders. Had she heard correctly, or was her mind playing strange tricks on her?

Standing on her toes, she peeped into the shed’s window, secretly listening to her would-be murderers whispering, hatching their sinister plan to finish her off.

There was no light anywhere except for the ominous, dull yellow glow coming from the kandeel. Lantern. It barely illuminated the woodpile leaning against the wall in the corner and the two tins of kerosene standing nearby. The concrete floor, reduced to a blotchy gray from decades of sawdust, oil stains, and dirt, looked grungier than ever.

Icy fingers crept down the nape of her neck, telling her something was not quite right. What was it she sensed? What unexplained electric charge sent chills up and down her spine? Megha strained to listen, trying to make sense of the conversation going on inside the shed.

Kuppu, the fat old calico cat, sat huddled at her feet, shuddering, sending tremors up Megha’s legs. Was it experiencing the same eerie feeling she was? Cats could sense danger better than humans. The leaves rustled in the nearby guava tree, making her jump. She looked up, afraid to breathe, but realized it was only some night creature stirring—perhaps a bird disturbed by Kuppu’s presence. Just then Kuppu’s back lifted in an arch—a definite sign of fear. And Megha’s breathing turned ragged.

Then it dawned on her. Her large dark eyes opened wide with alarm. She was going to be killed! Realization struck her like a punch in the stomach. Terror replaced numbing shock, sending her heartbeat soaring.

Oh, God! Could this really be happening to her? And why? She was an ordinary housewife with a boring life; she had no enemies. She was considered pretty, but it couldn’t possibly be a reason for anyone to kill her. She had no particular talents and posed no threat to anyone. Although her life meant little to anybody but herself, her death would mean even less.

And yet, she was going to be murdered!

The most puzzling part of the mystery was that her executioners were none other than her husband, Suresh Ramnath, and his ferocious mother, Chandramma Ramnath. The children in the family called her Amma. In their native Kannada language, Amma meant mother, but since she was also the eldest female in the family, she was Amma to all the kids, including nieces and nephews. Even the male servant who came in daily to wash the clothes and mop the floors addressed her as Amma-bai. Bai was the respectful Indian equivalent of the English term madam.

Despite what was going on in the woodshed, the surrounding scene looked perfectly normal. The nondescript Ramnath home, with its sooty windows and aged concrete frame, was like many other homes in Cantonment Galli or Street—single-storied, with three bedrooms and a small backyard. The houses were dark, boxy squares rising out of the fog.

The neighborhood was middle-class, where most of the women stayed home and cooked and raised the children while the men held office jobs or owned small businesses. Most every family had a servant come in daily for an hour or two to perform the menial tasks—not a luxury but a necessity. Very rarely did this class of folks travel for pleasure. They ate at a restaurant or went to the cinema perhaps once a month. Money was usually tight and every rupee had to be saved for the children’s futures.

At this late hour, the rural town of Palgaum was asleep. Even the most vigilant watchdogs dozed in languorous abandon in the sultry humidity of the tropical October night. The last show at the movie theaters had let out and the crowds had gone home to their beds. Except for a handful of individuals who had business staying awake, like night-shift guards and policemen, nurses minding hushed hospital wards, industrious prostitutes, and the occasional nocturnal youth or drunk loitering on a darkened street, the place was tranquil. A fine, damp mist had wound its way from the river and spread like a ghostly shroud, while a silent quarter-moon watched over the slumbering town.

After long hours of slogging in the kitchen to keep her husband and in-laws well-fed and content, Megha usually slept like the dead. It was her sole escape from a life she had slowly come to abhor—her only relief for those aching feet, back, and arms that resulted from shopping for endless lists of rations and hauling them home on foot, grinding spices, coconut and various kinds of batters on the heavy grinding stone, serving meals, and handling heavy pots of steaming food and buckets of bath water. One of the advantages of being so young was the ability to sink into oblivion once her head settled on the pillow each night.

And yet, a little earlier, startled by an odd sound, her eyelids had flown open in an instant. It was different from the normal nightly cacophony of snores coming from her in-laws’ room. She could only hear her father-in-law, Vinayak Ramnath, or Appaji as the kids called him, snoring in the master bedroom, and her teenaged sister-in-law, Shanti, breathing like a muffled whistle in her room across the passageway.

But what about Amma, her mother-in-law, the Amazon witch? The older woman’s notorious snoring was ominously absent. It was generally riotous enough to disturb anyone within a hundred meters. Was that corpulent mass of a woman, Chandramma, lying awake? Was she hatching another one of her twisted plans to make Megha’s life even more difficult?

After a minute, Megha recognized the peculiar sound. It was the door to the small storage shed that sat at a little distance from the rear of the house and contained their monthly supply of wood and kerosene. The hinges on the door were rusty and squeaked every time it was opened or shut. It was a familiar echo from her daily trips to the shed to haul in the wood for the kitchen and bathroom hearths. The Ramnaths were too stingy for a gas stove, and the daily bath water was heated in a big brass cauldron because electricity was both expensive and unreliable.

Megha’s breath caught on the possibility that she might have forgotten to lock the shed before retiring for the night. Amma would surely take her to task for such carelessness. Her fierce and tyrannical mother-in-law would never tolerate incompetence on Megha’s part. A young daughter-in-law could not afford to make even trivial mistakes. A bride had to earn her keep and the right to be called a good Brahmin wife.

Megha turned around in bed, wondering if her husband, Suresh, had heard the noise. She was mystified to find him missing. Generally he’d be huddled under the sheet beside her, his bony buttocks sticking out at a strange angle, his wide-lipped mouth hanging open in deep, childlike slumber.

Frowning, she glanced at the bedside clock. The neon-red digital display read 12:23 AM. The bedroom door was ajar. Where could Suresh be? It was a warm night and she’d wondered if he’d gone for a glass of water. She herself had awakened perspiring. Her thick, long plait lay limply against her moist back. Her sari clung to her hips and legs.

Sleeping in a sari, which was six long yards of fabric, was terribly uncomfortable and impractical, but in an old-fashioned family such as this, she was not allowed to wear nightgowns or kaftans. There were established rules of etiquette and attire for ladies. Amma had made them clear right from the beginning. “Those silly gowns and frocks that show the legs and bosoms are not allowed in our house, okay? Ladies in our house only wear saris.”

Assuming Suresh was probably in the kitchen or bathroom, Megha called out to him. She received no reply.

That was when the first faint ripple of fear crossed her mind. Could a burglar have broken into their shed? Thefts were not uncommon around this neighborhood, and wood and kerosene were expensive commodities.

Her next thought made her sit up in stark alarm. Oh my God! Someone is stealing our firewood and Suresh is trying to confront them—all one hundred and five pounds of him. They’ll crush him to a pulp! Her heartbeat had leapt in panic. He needs my help.

She shot out of bed like an arrow, her long, slim legs moving rapidly despite the bulky folds of the sari and the petticoat swirling around them. She rushed through the old-fashioned kitchen, nearly stumbling over the round grinding stone before reaching the rear door leading to the covered veranda. Kuppu, the family cat, hearing Megha’s footsteps, bounced off the window sill and followed close on her heels.

Standing on the veranda steps, she puzzled some more over her husband’s absence. The fog made it difficult to see much, but a faint sliver of light was visible underneath the door of the woodshed. She visualized images of Suresh lying in a pool of blood, his skinny body motionless. As far as she had determined, Suresh was incapable of defending himself against even the weakest of attacks. Suresh needed her. But what should she do?

Well, defend him, of course! Steely determination goaded her into action. Being the youngest of three girls, she had learned to wrestle with her older sisters for everything including space in their small, cramped house, their parents’ attention, clothes and toys. So now she’d put those acquired defensive moves to good use.

Megha wasn’t about to let some petty thugs make her a widow at twenty-one. She’d fight them with everything she had—if necessary, even give her own life to save her husband’s. It was her duty as an ideal wife. But she had to come up with a strategy. Barging into the shed like a crazed woman wouldn’t do her any good, nor Suresh for that matter. First she had to determine the gravity of the situation.

She was afraid of the dark, always had been, but something in the shed seemed to beckon her with a force that both frightened and excited her. She stepped down from the veranda.

Nearing the shed, Megha heard hushed voices, barely audible. Talking burglars? Or was it Suresh, her naïve, impractical husband, actually trying to strike a compromise with the thieves? There was only one way to find out. Despite the misgivings nipping at her brain, she tiptoed barefoot across the dirt-covered yard toward the shed.

She’d been so preoccupied she nearly walked right into the big tulsi pot. Somehow she managed to break her fall by grabbing it with both hands. But she grazed her knees and nearly banged her head on its edge in the process.

The holy tulsi plant was a tropical variety of basil, held sacred by Hindus. In most conservative households it was planted in a clay pot or urn anchored to the ground in the center of the courtyard—an honored place. The urn was usually painted in bright colors and the plant well-tended. It was customary for women to pray daily to the tulsi for blessings.

Despite the clammy heat of the night, Megha felt goose bumps pop up along her arms, her stomach instinctively tighten. For a fleeting second she was tempted to run back to bed, pull the covers over her head and let this weird, eerie night go on without her. She wanted to be a little girl again; she didn’t want to know about dark nights and the fearsome things that stalked them.

But she was not a little girl anymore; she was a grown woman with responsibilities, and she couldn’t afford to shirk them. Besides, the mysterious force in the shed seemed to draw her closer. Was Suresh still alive?

Taking care to avoid the narrow band of light under the door, she edged along the side wall as noiselessly as possible and positioned herself to peer through the open window. Puzzled lines formed on her brow. There was no sign of strangers and certainly no burglars. Only Amma and Suresh were inside the shed.

A stench suddenly assailed her nostrils. Kerosene! That potent, unexpected odor made her stomach revolt.

What in heaven’s name were her husband and mother-in-law doing in there at this hour? Why did the place reek of kerosene? Bewildered, Megha continued to observe them in silence. This was entirely out of character. The obese and sluggish Amma should have been deep in sleep and so should Suresh. They were both heavy sleepers. And yet, here they were, in the dead of night, murmuring to each other in the dusty, rat-infested woodshed of all places.

Amma wore a deep purple sari and stood with her tree-stump legs apart, in her usual militant posture, fat hands planted on her hips. Even in the pale light cast by the lantern her face was plainly visible. Perspiration glistened on her dark-coffee skin as she stared at a crude bed fashioned out of crisscrossed logs of firewood lying on the floor. “Suresh, make sure the kerosene is soaked into the wood, boy. It has to catch fire quickly and burn for a long time,” she instructed.

Burn valuable wood in the middle of the night? For what purpose?

Tiny beads of sweat showed on Suresh’s wide forehead as he crouched on the floor beside the logs, still wearing the sky-blue pajamas he’d worn to bed. He appeared shaky, anxious, as he looked up at his mother. But then, he was always like that around his mother. “Amma, are you sure about this? What if the neighbors suspect something?”

“Don’t be silly,” snorted Amma. “They’re all fast asleep.”

“What if they inform the police?”

“Stop worrying over nothing, boy.”

“We’ll all end up in jail, Amma.” His voice sounded feeble and pleading.

Jail? Megha’s heart missed a solid beat. What kind of illegal business was her husband getting himself into? And his own mother was leading him into it? How come Suresh had said nothing to Megha, his wife? She would have talked him out of it in a minute. But then, he was always Amma’s little boy, hanging on her every word—too stupid to think for himself.

Amma slapped Suresh’s shoulder, making him lurch forward and nearly fall on his face. “Don’t be an idiot, Suresh. Do you see a single light on in any of the neighbors’ homes?”

“That does not mean someone is not awake, Amma,” he argued weakly.

“Nonsense! Besides, we don’t socialize with any of those low-caste people. They don’t even know us.”

“But, Amma, this is still illegal. You understand that?”

“There is nothing illegal about what is right, Suresh.”

Suresh merely stared at his mother, too much of a coward to stand up to her.

“Don’t you understand that she is worthless?” Amma rolled her eyes, seemingly frustrated with her son’s lack of intelligence. “Her father is never going to come up with the dowry. His actions are what I call illegal.”

“But nothing was in writing…” Suresh’s voice trailed off.

“Humph,” Amma fumed, “a spoken agreement is still a contract. When he doesn’t pay up, he is breaking that contract, no? It has been almost one year and she is not even pregnant yet. She must be barren also. We can easily get double or triple the dowry from some other girl’s father. Do you want to give that up?”

Dowry? Barren? As the truth began to sink in, Megha’s stomach plunged. They were talking about her! What she’d stumbled upon wasn’t some mildly dishonest mother-son project. They were plotting against her. The ominous words coming out of Amma’s mouth meant only one thing: Death!

Suresh shook his head and poured more kerosene on the wood as his mother demanded, spreading more noxious fumes into the surrounding air. His lips quivered. “But Amma, can’t…can’t we just send her back to her father’s house? Divorce is legal now, you see.”

“No! In our family there is no dye-vorrce,” Amma hissed. “Do you know how long it takes? Two years? Three? Besides, divorced men are treated like donkey dung, but a widowed man is looked at with sympathy, especially one whose wife dies a tragic death. Divorce brings dishonor upon the family, Suresh. This is a much better way; nobody will know. They will think it was an accident.”

“How t-to explain…” Suresh stuttered, the perspiration on his forehead beginning to run.

“How? She was here to pick up firewood with a lantern in hand; she knocked down the kerosene tin and the lantern set her sari on fire.”

“But, Amma—”

“Just do as I say and leave the rest to me, Suresh. I know all about these things. Two months from now, girls will be lining up to marry you. You are our only son and an officer in a big bank. You will be in much demand, no?”

Megha sucked in a horrified breath. They were planning to burn her alive! They were going to tie her to a bed of kerosene-soaked wood, and set fire to her. She had read about such atrocities. But those had been merely sensational stories in newspapers and magazines—they always happened to someone else—mostly in the rural northern sections of India, not here in the southwest, where the culture was different, more liberal, more enlightened. Bride-burnings occurred among uneducated folks, rarely affecting the modern middle class.

How could something so vile and contemptible as dowry death come to touch her life? This had to be a nightmare. Nothing like this could happen to ordinary people. And yet, here she was, at the center of a plot to do away with her.

So, this was what the three evil women, Amma and her two sisters-in-law, Kamala and Devayani, had been planning behind closed doors earlier that night: kill Megha off in the most brutal manner and find another wife for Suresh. Suresh’s uncles and their respective wives and children had been invited to dinner, and Amma had been behaving more strangely than usual in the presence of their guests. Amma had conveniently gotten rid of the men in the family by sending them off for a walk, dispatched the young women to the kitchen, and then huddled with Kamala and Devayani for a long, secret meeting.

Amma had probably been plotting this for days, perhaps months. No wonder she’d looked smug during the past week. The old witch was planning a major event: Murder.

As Megha faced the fact that she was literally at death’s door, a feeble hand went to her mouth to stifle the sob that rose in her throat. She was about to die!

And along with the dismay came pain—like a hot poker thrust into her belly. Suresh, her husband, was going along with the scheme, even though he sounded reluctant. Was this the extent of his love for her? If not love, at least some sense of loyalty? How could she have trusted him? How could she have rushed out here to save him from danger, and perhaps give up her own life in the process?

A wave of nausea made her gag. She swallowed hard to block the surge of bile and looked again at her husband’s gaunt face. This was the man who had tied the mangalsutra, the black and gold beaded necklace symbolizing holy marriage, around her neck only a year ago. He had given her his name; he had made love to her, or rather used her body for his pleasure; he had accepted her as his wife and life-partner. Megha had tried hard to be a loving and considerate wife to him despite his unattractive appearance, his selfish and ill-mannered ways, and his total lack of emotion.

Now she realized Suresh was much more perverse than she had imagined. He was disgusting, worse than a primitive animal. In fact, most animals treated their mates with a certain amount of care and respect. How could she have felt anything in her heart for such a loathsome creature? The warm feelings of fondness she had worked hard to cultivate over the past months turned to bitter revulsion. How could she not have recognized that side of him?

Her husband was a potential murderer!

Get out of here, Megha, her inner voice commanded. Don’t let them take your life. But her legs refused to move. They seemed to be frozen. It felt as if her feet were rooted to the spot, mired in solid concrete.

The feeling of impending doom intensified. Run! Now! In desperation Megha looked around in the misty shadows. What was she to do? Where could she go? She could not remain there any longer.

As she heard Suresh and Amma stirring from the shed she knew without a doubt they were headed back to the house to drag her out of bed and to her death. She didn’t want to die. She was too young to die. And too scared to perish in such a horrific way.

She had to escape. Somewhere! Anywhere!

Galvanized by terror, Megha finally managed to uproot herself and move. She made a mad dash through the backyard—away from the woodshed, away from the house.

They were killers—and they were coming after her.

At first her steps faltered; she wondered if she’d been foolish, perhaps misunderstood Amma and Suresh’s intent. Having woken up slightly disoriented from a deep sleep, had she somehow overreacted to something that had nothing to do with her? Why would anyone want to kill a young and innocent member of the family? It didn’t make sense.

But there was no mistake. She had heard every word clearly—Amma’s remarks to Suresh couldn’t have been any plainer. Their objective was nothing short of execution.

As Megha began to comprehend the grave peril she was in, she gained momentum. She forged ahead blindly in the cloud of fog, with no particular direction in mind, stark fear giving wings to her feet. Every instinct prompted her to keep running, put distance between herself and the Ramnaths and their evil house.

Move! Keep running. Don’t let them find you. Run, woman, her adrenaline-crazed brain repeated furiously. She knew she was trespassing on people’s private properties but she didn’t care. Wet grass, sharp stones, root clumps, fractured cement and thorns grated on her feet. Twice she ran into prickly bushes and trees, tripped and fell, and got her arms and face scratched. But she managed to get up and find her way around them.

Dogs growled at her from the shadows here and there, but fortunately none had pursued her so far. That was all she needed to make this wretched night an absolute curse: a crazed dog taking a bite out of her. Fatigue started to set in after a while but she kept on going.

Time was running out.

Megha stepped on something sharp. It felt like a hot blade slicing into her flesh, sending a stab of pain all the way up her leg and into her groin. She was sure she’d suffered a deep cut, but she didn’t stop to investigate. Shards of broken glass were always a menace on the streets. She couldn’t afford the luxury of stopping to examine her injuries.

Suresh was probably out there, chasing after her. Distance between the Ramnaths and herself—that was all she cared about at the moment. She didn’t dare slow down. She was running for her life. Death was not an option and neither was giving in to weakness.

After negotiating innumerable private yards, she abruptly emerged into a street, gasping for air. Blinking, she skidded to a stop and wiped the sweat out of her eyes.

Streetlights illuminated the houses on either side. In her confusion it barely registered that it was nearly Diwali, the annual festival of lights, and many of the homes had the traditional terra-cotta oil lamps adorning their front steps and their verandas. At least the lights allowed her to see her surroundings instead of running blindly in utter darkness.

Some of the homes on this street had elaborate lighted akash-deeps, the colorful paper lanterns of Diwali, hanging above their stoops. But in Megha’s mind they were objects of no importance.

She didn’t know what street she was on. The homes were larger and more opulent than the ones in her neighborhood, with neatly laid-out gardens and fences and gates. Well-lit streets meant danger—she would be visible, the perfect prey. But, as long as she could feel the pavement under her feet, she would keep moving—until she ran out of steam.

Exhausted and out of breath, she stopped for a brief moment, panting, gulping mouthfuls of air. In the isolation of the dead of night she felt totally disoriented. The nausea hit once again with ferocious intensity. No amount of swallowing the saliva helped to keep the bile down. This time it rose like boiling lava in her throat. Bending over someone’s bushes, she held her head in her hands as her stomach emptied itself out in a single, violent motion. Then she straightened up and stood still for a minute until she felt it settle. Despite the bitter taste in her mouth and the burning in her throat, the sense of relief was enormous.

Her breath became less labored. Wiping her mouth with the edge of her sari, she shifted her throbbing foot and looked down. There was a small cut with blood oozing. But what was a minor wound when her life was at stake?

She picked up the pace again and soon reached an intersection she recognized. She knew the commercial area well. She shopped there often for food and other essentials. It looked different now with the stores dark and shuttered. There was an eerie look about it—a neighborhood she generally associated with dense crowds—the mingling smells, colors and sounds of people moving about in a mad rush, buying, selling, haggling, and arguing. The stray cow that usually ambled up and down the street and survived on fruit and vegetables tossed out by the merchants was missing, too. The lame mongrel that scavenged for food was nowhere in sight either.

She caught her reflection in one of the store windows and stopped short. The sight was so unexpected and alarming, she nearly gasped. It was like discovering a ghost. Her own ghost! Staring back at her was a narrow oval face with huge, dazed eyes, full lips trembling, a bloody scratch on the chin, and a smudge of dirt on the nose. Locks of hair had come loose from her normally neat plait and hung about her sweaty face. Her cheeks looked almost hollow in the murky light, her eye sockets dark and deep. In the tinted glass her faded blue sari appeared gray and rumpled.

What was happening to her? She could hardly recognize herself.

Good grooming had come naturally to her, and despite her meager wardrobe and lack of fancy cosmetics, she had always taken pride in her appearance. She was used to receiving compliments about her looks and dress sense, and yet now she looked like a homeless teenager, combing the streets late at night looking for scraps. A young woman from a dignified family and a decent home had no right to look like she did right now. In less than an hour she had gone from being a bride with a future to a homeless woman. How could that be? It was inconceivable.

Without her wristwatch Megha had no way of telling how long she’d been running, but by now Amma and Suresh had to know she was missing. They would surely set the police after her. Then she’d be a