A girl in the world barking up the wrong tree, a creature conditioned to employ matrimony

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

*Let it never be said that Esmerelda Rosier does not know how to throw a wedding. With a month to arrange everything, she swept her schedule clean, let the business languish, and began placing orders almost as soon as Evan and his bride-to-be left the estate. Her wandwork is not quite as deft as it once was, but she refuses to see a healer, and she doesn’t need wandwork to tell the florist that the roses were to be red, true red, not this flaccid pink, and to send a Howler to the baker demanding why the red velvet cake tasted like sweetened ashes, and to harangue the seamstress why the bride had not been even scheduled for her third fitting of the white dress Esmerelda had negotiated her into, as clearly the first two fittings had failed to demonstrate to her that everything needed to be taken in at the waist. Whatever the guests of this affair might think or gossip about, they’ll get no bump in Amrita’s abdomen to prove it.

She can hear Evan pacing outside the dressing room, and has to go out to tell him--repeatedly--that he cannot see her before she walks down the aisle and he should go kill the squirrels outside or something, anything to get him out of the way so she can personally finish buttoning the thousand and one buttons that go up the back of the dress. But the last time she lectures him on this, he catches a glimpse of the bride in the mirror over her shoulder anyway and grins.

“You’re beautiful,” he says over Esmerelda’s shoulder.

“Out, it’s bad luck,” the bride orders, and then, and only then, does he obey.

When she finally takes her seat in the very front of the chapel, Esmerelda’s chin is high but she clutches Dearborn’s hand fiercely. The ceremony begins, and it’s finally all out of her hands.

The door to the chapel opens and the light is blinding even though the forecast predicted rain over the reception, and there she is, shimmering like a vision, painted with the charmed designs of her culture on her hands, wearing enough skirts and petticoats and undergarments that Esmerelda had to resist the urge to catalogue them individually in a spreadsheet. Everyone turns to watch the bride proceed but Esmerelda’s gaze sweeps the crowd and then, finally, lands where she knew it would: on Evan.

He is standing there, hands held before him, frozen in the process of being wrung. His knuckles are white. There’s a tiny bit of hair sticking up at the back of his head, the part she always charmed firmly down when he was as boy, and suddenly her vision goes blurry. She looks up and blinks once, twice, pulls out the bright red handkerchief out of her bright red handbag sitting on her bright red skirts. It is acceptable to cry, she supposes, but she doesn’t want to. Not for this, the thing he manipulated her into doing, this ruinous match. But the look on his face--

When Evan was five, she took him to the hall that holds the Rosier family tree. She pointed to herself and Dearborn on the tree, how other families intertwined, and how he, someday, would marry someone who also had a tree like this one and have children, and when he did, the tapestry would grow further up because it had been enchanted very long ago to do so. All this was his, and he belonged to it as much as it belonged to him. He gave the whole thing a wide, encompassing look, finally resting his little palm next to his own name as if to cover a hole, and then turned to her and asked, “Why isn’t she here already?”

And Esmerelda smiled, and told him that she would come along in due course, that he might meet her on his own or they might introduce her to him, but what was most important was the fact that she would become family, and that he should care for her as well as he cared for her or Dearborn. That is what made her worth putting up on the tree.

Looking at him now, watching this woman come up the aisle, there is so much of that boy in him that, for the first time in all of this, Esmerelda is willing to allow that perhaps it will not all end in calamity. Perhaps they will grow old and happy together as she and Dearborn have, and the grandchildren birthed from surrogates will still be grandchildren. Perhaps they will love each other until they both rot.

The ceremony is beautiful, and Amrita is radiant, and they don’t have eyes for anyone but each other, and when they kiss at the very end, it is a brazen, full kiss, and when he finally pulls away, his mouth is smudged with her lipstick. He ducks his head to murmur something into her ear as the audience rises to its feet, and she laughs and runs her thumb over his bottom lip to try to rub off the lipstick, and they leave the church together, arm in arm, so boldly and arrogantly in love that even Walburga can barely muster a scandalized little sigh.*

Comments

[bhaiji.livejournal.com]

*Rajiv has no idea what he is going to do or say until he is directly in front of Rosier, his hand holding his wand inside his pocket.*

Give me my daughter, Rosier.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*Isn't that an interesting turnabout? Evan had come over to defend the children against Bellatrix's mishandling and now Rajiv is here and all tense, look at his jaw twitching, and is he really holding his wand in his pocket? How rude. As if Evan would spill blood at his own wedding. As if Evan would attack his adorable new nieces. Ridiculous.*

Which one of us, Rajiv? There are two Rosiers here just now.

[bhaiji.livejournal.com]

*At the moment, Rajiv could care less about Amrita - Rajiv had prepared himself for this day, when Jyoti would probably let her hold his girls, even if he disagrees.*

You. Evan Cygnus Rosier.

*He recites the name from that gaudy invitation to this opulent production, his lip curling.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

She seems to be happy enough.

*And she is, making little tired smacking motions with her mouth, but it won't do to make a scene at his own wedding, no matter how much he would like to put this man in his proper place. He carefully transfers the child to her fathers waiting arms, but he has to step closer to Rajiv to do it, and what he says next is said quietly--out of Bella's earshot, at least, if not Amrita's.*

There you are. No need to be rude about it.

[bhaiji.livejournal.com]

*There's no obvious injury to Padma, and once Rajiv is certain of that, he hands her to Jyoti.

He turns to Amrita now.*

I need to talk to you.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

All right.

*She's passing off Parvati now, too, almost too rapidly, and she's wearing a smile that's spread too thin to cover the guilt and dismay at that entire exchange, at Rajiv's reaction. But it's mostly guilt, and it's that more than anything else that keeps her eyes lowered, that has her obeying her brother instead of snapping at him. She allows him to lead her away and it's only once they're at a polite distance that she shoots him a pointed, wounded look.*

And what was that about.

[bhaiji.livejournal.com]

*Suddenly it feels like the world is stuck in two moments - the night that Rajiv could not save his sister and the night when he ran away from her. He doesn't want to make her sad, to hurt her again - but this madachudh could do so much worse.*

Amrita, he's dangerous. He's a goonda.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Don't be vulgar.

I wish you wouldn't insist on making a scene. It was going very well.

*The words are clipped enough, but there's hurt in her eyes, and she makes a swift gesture with her red-tipped fingers as if to encompass them and the entire reception, the extensive grounds, the many guests.*

All of it.

[bhaiji.livejournal.com]

*"Don't be vulgar."

The words echo in his head, forcing him to pick them apart. What sort of reaction is that? Who could say that? Why would anyone say that to an accusation about their loved one being dangerous?

...unless she already knows.*

You know?

*Rajiv takes a step backward. The pomp and circumstance mean nothing to him, he'll never move in this circle again - all he can think is that his sister knows what she is marrying and only cares about how it looks.*

You already know? Amrita...

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*But then she understands what he's getting at and her face hardens as guilt turns into something else. So it must be that, then, the business with the Cabinets. That is what has him so aghast. She almost laughs.*

And I'm glad he did. You know what they think of me, what they say. Someone's defending my honor.

[bhaiji.livejournal.com]

*Her face is actually terrifying: Imperial, proud, cruel, and snide all at once. He's seen her wear them individually before, but never all at once. And the words. The sting in them, intentional or not, is felt. Rajiv never did defend her honour, not in her opinion or his. More sensitive than he's ever been willing to let show, Rajiv now feels his eyes prickling. He is beginning to see that she is already lost.

But that doesn't mean he won't go down without a fight.

Moving back to her, touching her for the first time in years, Rajiv gently holds her arm.*

If he can do it to two impotent elders, he can do it to you.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*His fingertips just brush her sleeve, the silk thick with zardosi and seed pearls, before she jerks her arm away.*

How can you be so obtuse? If you think--

*But he looks so concerned, so very ignorantly concerned, that she can't hold back the laugh: it is a pretty, silvery thing.*

It's a little late for you to play at this, Rajiv.

[bhaiji.livejournal.com]

*Her laughter at his concern angers Rajiv. A monologue a mile long stretches through his head, when where he complains of the showiness of the wedding, where Evan Rosier and his ilk are the villains, where there's sense and logic and reason. But all of that seems to amount to nothing.

Emblazoned with self-hatred, proletariat disgust, and a protective instinct, Rajiv looks directly into her eyes.*

You deserve better than me, than them, than him.

Rang de basanti.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*For a long moment, she just stares at him, her jaw literally dropped--and there's no sharp retort, no mocking laughter, she's literally speechless with shock. He's showing up at her wedding after years of near-silence to what--hustle his children away from them and sagely advise her to pack up and go? Leave her that little bit of populist cheer as a parting gift like the wand on her windowsill? He's equating Evan to her parents, to worse--

And she can't help remembering: He's expected you to sit and stay like a good little lamb, and that's not what you are.

When she finds her voice, she speaks quietly, slowly, as if discovering each word on its own.*

He's my husband. Not the Raj. Are you insane?

Who--who do you think you are, exactly?

[bhaiji.livejournal.com]

*Rajiv runs both his hands through his hair, her pride is as maddening as his own.*

Amrita, he could hurt you - he could kill you - this is self destructive beyond...

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

You know nothing-

[camphorflame.livejournal.com]

*Now juggling two babies and a husband who is quietly seething, Jyoti has no idea what to do. Rajiv had clearly talked to his parents, but she has no idea what was said - other than Rosier took a knife to them.

Feeling unsettled in the knowledge that she let her daughter be cuddled by someone who could do that to the elderly, Jyoti makes some excuse and moves away from Evan and Bellatrix.

She watches Rajiv and Amrita walking away, then looks over to the Patils. After all this time, she believes she can finally meet them. It's as though she's been standing in a door for years, and only now can she take the first step in - but what would she say?

Well, nothing better than the obvious...*

Namashkar.

[pricklypatils.livejournal.com]

*Well, there it is, inevitable and somehow worse than anything else that's happened here today. Each of them returns the gesture, Baldev scarcely moving his hands, and a long silence falls between them. As ever, it's Aarshati who breaks it.*

You must be Jyoti.

*Not that either of them shared the nastier prejudices and superstitions of what they very urbanely thought of as 'the provincials'; no, this goes deeper than that, worse by far than anything their daughter has done. The woman in front of them represents the rejection of them by their only son. It was the way of things: who, after all, had known him better than his parents? Who else could be trusted with finding him a bride? She and the children are living reminders of the choice he made to set aside loyalty to the family, to society, to the way of the world--and choose instead loyalty only to his own selfishness.

And now Aarshati can't help searching her face and form, blatantly, but with more bewilderment then anything else: what about her was so perfect, so irresistible, that it was worth turning his back on everything they'd raised him to respect? Worth living without family, as no one should live?

But she is only reasonably pretty, only smiling, neither a temptress nor a goddess nor a grinning demon. The children are unobjectionable. There is nothing to say, no words to smooth any of this into something acceptable, so Aarshati, inevitably, reaches for a polite inanity and a complete lie.*

It's so nice to meet you.

[camphorflame.livejournal.com]

*Jyoti has not been so acutely aware of her caste since her first Bodleian functions with the British Wizard Brahmin. There's really nothing she can do or say about it, she's accepted her rank will always be lower with other desi. Armed with the thick skin that twenty-nine years of living in a Scheduled Caste gave her, she continues.*

And you, sasur, saas.

*Lowering the girls to the ground so that they cling to her sari skirt, Jyoti tries a soft smile.*

This is Padma, and this is Parvati.

[pricklypatils.livejournal.com]

They're lovely.

*The words are polite enough, and her face softens as she looks at the two of them. But she doesn't move a muscle, it seems, and neither does her husband. He clears his throat.*

Where is our son?

[camphorflame.livejournal.com]

*Jyoti loosens their twin grips on her sari, and pushes them toward their grandparents a little. She's proud of how well they're walking for being a year old, and even though she knows it has nothing to do with her, she takes pride as they walk away.

Baldev's question makes her cast around for Rajiv, and when she sees them, she stands up properly. Rajiv is clearly arguing with Amrita, something he promised himself he wouldn't do today. Even still, she gestures with her hand in their direction.*

Over there, sasur.

[pricklypatils.livejournal.com]

Thank you.

*The words come out jerkily. The title's inappropriate, and it chafes him--as if they were living in their house together as one family as they should be and not split, unnaturally estranged.

Neither of them move to bless the girls, although his wife gives an odd and guilty twitch.*

We should be going.

[camphorflame.livejournal.com]

*Watching them, Jyoti recalls the stereotype that the rich cannot give love, and it hurts her. Surely for their grandchildren...*

Eck minute, sasur. Please, mera -

*She stops. She had been about to start into Hindi, but they speak Marathi at home. Even though she's sure they speak it too, she doesn't want to widen the gap. Trying to suppress her chi-chi accent, she tries again.*

Please, we would like for the girls to know their grandparents.

*It's not true, Rajiv would not. But he already made it clear that for Jyoti, he would tolerate it - in very small doses.*

[pricklypatils.livejournal.com]

Then our son should not have broken from us as he did.

We're childless, now. And you presume too much.

*It comes out bitter and angry, but not as malicious as it could be. Baldev looks, mostly, tired, and every bit of his almost sixty years. He turns to leave, and Aarshati turns with him, sparing a brief and unfathomable look over her shoulder.*

[camphorflame.livejournal.com]

*Some things can be broken beyond repair, Jyoti knows that. But nonetheless, her parents told her terrible stories of her grandparents, who were always nothing but good to her; it's a common that broken families can sometimes meet again for grandchildren. She had hoped that this could be one such case, that there could be a way to make good on hers and Rajiv's mistakes. Rajiv could never admit it, but he even wants it too, to stop the cycle they're all trapped in. From how she understood the one time he told her the story, the night Amrita was bitten was the night they both lost their places in their family.

To Jyoti, the whole family is a broken mess of miscommunication, contempt, and pride. And if it weren't for the last one, all of them could have been spared the first two.

As she watches Evan join the fight, Jyoti finally understands that her daughters will grow up only knowing their maternal family during the wedding season in Delhi.

Picking up her girls, who are still tailing their grandparents, Jyoti finds the nearest chair and sits. For all the loveliness - real and superficial - around her, she starts to cry quietly.*