Fiction: 18-year-old Shiv is reluctant when he is handpicked by Gandhi to study law in England

He hears the drums getting closer. Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-atat-tat. A procession of turbaned men in embroidered waistcoats and pantaloons marching down the road to their house. Rat-a-tat. A bugle sounds, splitting the air, and then a single flute, playing a local Sindhi melody, rises above all the other sounds, a thrilling, joyous arc of sound that reaches him as he stands there in all his finery, awaiting his bride and her entourage. He sits down on a sofa to listen. His mother gives him an anxious look. “Tired already, son?”

He doesn’t respond. His heart is racing. He looks away into the distance, at the shimmering Indus. She is coming to him via the mouth of the river, as all conquerors of Sind had come. Sher-kabab—the Lion’s Mouth, as it was named by the ancient Hindus who lived in the valley. Like all great rivers, it had been named and renamed by every conquering group that had crossed its shores. The ancient Aryans saw it as Sindhu. For the Greeks the river was Sinthus. The Chinese referred to it as Sintow. For the Persians, it was Abaseen. The Roman Pliny saw it as the mighty river that belonged to the land through which it flowed. Indus, he called it—from its cradle, India. Indus it became. “When it soars with rich mountain waters, it gives health; when its riverbeds run dry, it brings disease. It laughs with joy, but its farts are toxic,” their gardener, Krishan, had told Shiv.

His fiancée’s home is downriver, towards the delta in Thatta. The two families had agreed that in a time of political upheaval and austerity, a small, private wedding would show more sensitivity to the public mood. When asked what he wanted, a big celebration or a small one, he said, “For it all to be over.”

His mother says, “She is a lovely girl. And her mother and grandmother are old friends of the family. Her father is a merchant, it’s true, a goldsmith. But one of the finest in Sind. No small achievement.”

He doesn’t answer. How can she expect him to care about people he does not know, has never met? She doesn’t take her eyes off his face. He says, “It is all as you wish, Mother.”

She gives him an appraising look; her eyes run over his dress, his shoes, his hair. He is wearing a white silk long jacket, an achkan, and slim silk pants. His feet are encased in leather slippers worked in fine gold embroidery; his grandfather’s emerald necklace has been taken out of the family safe and is around his neck; in his ears are small diamonds. His thick black hair is brushed back showing off his long face, deep-set eyes, and high cheekbones. He is lean, and tall. She says, “You look like a prince today.”

He doesn’t respond.

“You are a dutiful son,” she says. “This is why your father has placed his trust in you and is sending you all the way there, to No– Man’s–Land. Just look at all the damage they have caused here. Don’t be tempted by their ways. Come back to your own country with your law degree in hand.”

He says what he always says to her. “I will do my best.”

“We know.” She looks at him closely. “Gandhiji himself told your father last year that he has high hopes for you. Everyone is expecting great things from you, son.”

He bows his head and bends forward; his palms rest on the arches of her feet for a moment in a show of respect. “It will be as you wish, Mother.”

She smiles. “I have never had reason to doubt you.” It is her day. She sees hardship ahead of her: he is the apple of her eye. Her only son. She will miss him. They will all make sacrifices to support him financially while he is in London. But he will return and make them proud.

Her name is Seher. She is tiny in proportion, so slender he feels he could encircle her waist with one hand. She is wearing an unusual wedding colour sari – a spring sky blue, with small bees embroidered in gold on the silk fabric. Red is the colour of weddings. The sky blue is a surprise. And why bees? He wonders. Bees are not a wedding symbol. But according to local folklore, she explains to him later, bees are symbols of fertility – “they make honey” – and wealth – “they have everything they need in their hive” – and loyalty – “they have a queen, and their mission is to protect her.” He likes the way she speaks, with understanding and intelligence. She says, “Bees always return to their hive because they are happiest there.” He looks at her. “We will have to build you a hive, then,” he says. In the sunlight, her eyes are brown-green, her eyelids hooded, her cheeks a heightened blush. She is like a downy peach, soft and delectable.

“But I already have one,” she says. “And I am Queen Bee.” Her smile is flirtatious. Is she the theatrical sort, acting a part? Something about her behaviour seems staged to him. Suspicious yet beguiled, he goes towards her.

When he lifts the veil of her sari to kiss her, she purses her lips and tilts her head back. She looks like a young girl – not 16, 12, perhaps. He’s only 18 himself. They are children. His hands are sweating. His pulse is racing. His face feels like it’s trembling. He can’t still it for even a few moments. But he knows he must be manly. He bends forward primly, like an old gent, and allows his lips to graze hers for a second before drawing away. He knows it is cold and bloodless, but this is a performance. He doesn’t expect to play his part with flair; he’s no star. Faultless is all he can hope for.

When she gives him a surprised look, as though she were expecting something else, he realises she doesn’t know how to kiss either. They do not yet know the urgency of passion. Their movements are awkward, they speak at the same time, they fall silent together. Their hands miss their mark, they don’t touch the way they should. They have no rhythm, and in the little time he has left before his departure, he doubts they will find it. He had assumed these things happened naturally – as if some external guiding force would smooth the way. She turns away from him; he shakes his head, aware that he has disappointed her.

In the other room, the priest is waiting. The sandalwood chips on the lit brazier give off a wild, intoxicating scent. The priest starts chanting as soon as they enter the room and take their places in front of him. Shiv’s parents are on the right, hers on the left. The ceremony involves repeating binding sections after the priest, joining hands, then joining their bodies symbolically with a scarf tied on either end to both their clothes. They walk around the fire seven times, each time repeating a different vow. The vows commit them to loyalty, to respect, to kindness, to prayer, to cleanliness of heart, mind, and body, to truth, to the ways of God, to devotion to one’s parents and children. The priest pronounces them husband and wife. They kiss again, chastely. Then it is over.

The celebration is small. There are eight of them altogether, including the priest. It’s the smallest wedding celebration Shiv’s been to. Without the boisterous wedding crowds, the colour, and joyousness, it feels more like a funeral. There is tea, sherbet, rose cardamom lassi, and a Sindhi specialty, thandai – almond milk with cardamom, rose petals, and crushed peaches. There are sweets made with milk and there is kheer. Her grandmother nibbles a piece of varo, a nut brittle with saffron and white poppy seeds. She has underestimated its hardness, and makes a sour face as it cracks against her teeth. His in–laws speak about the price of gold; his parents voice their concerns about Sind’s fate if partition should become a possibility. There is no common ground. Her parents and grandmother leave, having refused his father’s plea that they spend the night under his roof; his parents go to bed early, leaving them the gardens and verandah to roam in. He wants to sleep; she says, “It has been a very long day.” He says immediately, “Shall I take you to our bedroom upstairs?”

“Yes.” He leads her up the stairs to their room, then leaves her to unpack and settle in. When he returns, she is fast asleep. She looks so young. A child’s face, open and trusting. She has no worries, having accepted her fate. She sleeps the sleep of angels.

He lies down next to her and exhales deeply. Sleepless and anxious, he listens enviously to her rhythmic breathing and thinks, It has only just begun.

Excerpted with permission from The English Problem, Beena Kamlani, The Bombay Circle Press.