02-11-2025, 03:07 PM
Scene 2
The next week, I met Deepa, then Kavita, then Meena. Each encounter was a slow, painful slide down a hill of disappointment.
On Friday evening, after Meena had left with her strict, exploding father, Uncle Ravi, I was in my room. I hadn't even pretended to wait for the verdict; I knew the answer. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the familiar, suffocating weight of my body and my failure.
There was a soft, tentative knock. The door wasn't locked; there was no point. My Mummy, Jayashree, pushed it open. She didn't come in immediately. She just stood there, framed in the doorway, and for the first time in a very long time, she didn't look like my mother, the tough, bank working supervisor. She looked small, defeated, and utterly sad.
Jayashree: Senthil?
I rolled onto my side to face her.
Senthil: Yes, Mummy. Is it done?
She walked in slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't look at me; she looked at her hands, which were twisting her dupatta nervously.
Jayashree: Beta... all three.
She didn't need to finish the sentence. The silence of the room was louder than any shouting.
Senthil: All three said no.
Jayashree: (Her voice was a low, brittle whisper) Yes. Deepa said you were like a brother. Kavita said you were... too secure. And Meena, she has some bloody college boy she is chasing.
She finally looked up at me, and her eyes were shiny with unshed tears, tears of frustration, yes, but also a deep, protective pain for her only child.
Jayashree: I am sorry, Senthil. I tried. I thought the family... I thought this was simple.
She reached out and put her hand gently on my forehead, a gesture she hadn’t made since I was a child with a fever.
Jayashree: Look at you. My Senthil. You are such a good boy. You have a steady job. You don't drink. You don't make trouble. Why can't these girls see that? Why is life so unfair to you?
I felt a sudden, sharp stab of emotion. It wasn't just the humiliation; it was seeing the humiliation reflected in my mother’s eyes. She was a woman who always fixed things, and she couldn't fix this, my unwantedness.
Senthil: (My voice was tight, thin) It's okay, Mummy. It is what it is.
Jayashree: No, it is not okay! I gave birth to you so young, Senthil. I fought so hard for you to have a good life, a stable life. And now this.
She looked down at her lap again, shaking her head slowly. The room felt cold. The message was clear: You are not good enough. Not even for the girls who were supposed to be easy, arranged matches.
I closed my eyes. The disappointment was a physical ache. I had failed the family duty, and I had confirmed my own deepest fear: I was inherently unwanted.
The next week, I met Deepa, then Kavita, then Meena. Each encounter was a slow, painful slide down a hill of disappointment.
On Friday evening, after Meena had left with her strict, exploding father, Uncle Ravi, I was in my room. I hadn't even pretended to wait for the verdict; I knew the answer. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the familiar, suffocating weight of my body and my failure.
There was a soft, tentative knock. The door wasn't locked; there was no point. My Mummy, Jayashree, pushed it open. She didn't come in immediately. She just stood there, framed in the doorway, and for the first time in a very long time, she didn't look like my mother, the tough, bank working supervisor. She looked small, defeated, and utterly sad.
Jayashree: Senthil?
I rolled onto my side to face her.
Senthil: Yes, Mummy. Is it done?
She walked in slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't look at me; she looked at her hands, which were twisting her dupatta nervously.
Jayashree: Beta... all three.
She didn't need to finish the sentence. The silence of the room was louder than any shouting.
Senthil: All three said no.
Jayashree: (Her voice was a low, brittle whisper) Yes. Deepa said you were like a brother. Kavita said you were... too secure. And Meena, she has some bloody college boy she is chasing.
She finally looked up at me, and her eyes were shiny with unshed tears, tears of frustration, yes, but also a deep, protective pain for her only child.
Jayashree: I am sorry, Senthil. I tried. I thought the family... I thought this was simple.
She reached out and put her hand gently on my forehead, a gesture she hadn’t made since I was a child with a fever.
Jayashree: Look at you. My Senthil. You are such a good boy. You have a steady job. You don't drink. You don't make trouble. Why can't these girls see that? Why is life so unfair to you?
I felt a sudden, sharp stab of emotion. It wasn't just the humiliation; it was seeing the humiliation reflected in my mother’s eyes. She was a woman who always fixed things, and she couldn't fix this, my unwantedness.
Senthil: (My voice was tight, thin) It's okay, Mummy. It is what it is.
Jayashree: No, it is not okay! I gave birth to you so young, Senthil. I fought so hard for you to have a good life, a stable life. And now this.
She looked down at her lap again, shaking her head slowly. The room felt cold. The message was clear: You are not good enough. Not even for the girls who were supposed to be easy, arranged matches.
I closed my eyes. The disappointment was a physical ache. I had failed the family duty, and I had confirmed my own deepest fear: I was inherently unwanted.
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