Navjot timidly stepped out to breathe and watched the moon from her little garden. It appeared surreal and ominous. She had never been a superstitious person, but she had started feeling that life couldn’t offer her anything good.
That was the time of the year when the lawn was vibrant with a riot of colors and the air thick with the fragrance of myriad flowers. It was so beautiful that it hurt.
It hurt to be a prisoner in the name of marriage. It hurt to see her child being treated shabbily. It hurt to be helpless in a house full of plenty.
Caught in a vicious situation, she just felt desperate. Many times she thought of ending her life.
She was lonely amidst a crowd of hostile people. Married in a big joint family, she was waiting for her husband to take her to Canada.
For three years now she had been waiting, regretting the time when she had agreed to get married.
She had a promising future ahead, but life had chalked out other plans for her.
“Navi, there is a very good proposal for you. The boy owns land and petrol pumps in Canada. They just want a beautiful girl.” Her mother was excited at the idea of her daughter marrying an NRI.
She was just eighteen and loved to watch the night sky, dream about a beautiful life.
They coloured a rosy picture, and Navjot was persuaded to agree.
The boy’s family arrived with lots of promises and gifts. Neighbours were openly jealous. There was a glint of pride and joy in her parents’ eyes.
Early days at her in-laws’ house passed in rituals and visits of relatives and neighbours. She hardly had time to know Harpreet, her husband.
Two months passed quickly in a dreamlike trance. It was time for Harpreet to go back to Canada. He showed genuine concern. “Don’t feel sad, Navi,” he told her in a honey-dipped voice. “I will call you as soon as your visa is finalized.”
Soon she found that she was on the family way. Excitedly, she told her mother-in-law about it. She was surprised at her lukewarm response.
Soon even the artificial smiles were wiped off their faces.
Harpreet never came back. He never called her. Her ordeal started soon after he left.
“Navjot, where are you?” Her mother-in-law would grumble, “She is so lazy? Here we are waiting for our dinner, and she is wasting time.”
Navjot tolerated everything, hoping that it would soon be over. She gave birth to a premature baby.
Another year passed, then another. Her ordeal continued. She worked all day long listening to taunts. Often broke down at night.
It was a cold January morning when she found herself unable to get up. Her mother-in-law started shouting, and her infuriated brother-in-law hit her. She fell down.
And everything—her mother-in-law’s shouting, the child’s soft breathing, and the thud on the floor—got mingled into a dull, distant sound. She was semiconscious.
They quickly closed the door so that neighbours wouldn’t listen.
She thought of women who disappear silently, without making any headlines, when people decide they are required no more.
Someone felt her breath. She heard muffled voices. “Call the doctor.” Another one snapped, “Are you mad?” She felt panic in their voices for the first time.
“If she died, we will all be in trouble”
“ They may come to know that Harpreet is already married.”
Even in her semiconscious state she choked. Almost unable to breathe. Her entire world turned topsy- turvy. She had been living a lie all these years. Her marriage was a fraud.
She heard movements —-footsteps, a door closing. Somewhere in the background, a neighbor’s voice, groggy and confused.
The part of her that believed in being “a good wife” seemed to mock her.
She realised that her marriage was illegal and she or her child had no rights. She was sacrificed on the altar of greed. They had extorted a dowry from her parents and were treating her as bonded labour.
She was just an abandoned wife, one out of thousands living around, rejected, desperate and an object of pity.
They just watched her, curled on the floor, palms scrabbling for balance, her stomach folding in on itself to stop the pain.
They rang up her parents to say that she had fallen from the stairs but didn’t bother to call a doctor.
She had grown up in a house where feelings were handled with love and compassion and acknowledged, and here these were trampled underfoot.
Not just feelings; she herself was being trampled. She returned to her parents’ home.
Traumatised by the sudden and unexpected collapse of her marriage, Navjot rose like a phoenix. She wasn’t a fighter, but she had no option but to fight for her dignity and her child’s future.
Her parents helped her to retrieve her dowry with the help of the village panchayat. She boldly faced the people making fun of her.
She filed a police complaint through an NGO. She knew that it wasn’t easy to get justice, but she didn’t spare any effort to bring the culprits to book.
She resumed her studies and was able to get a job. Life toughened her, and she had vowed to get her revenge.
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-Sarita
Story is based on the real incidents of fake marriages performed in Punjab while the boys are already married in foreign countries.
