‘What?’
‘Nothing, see the picture.’
I opened the album. It was my second cousin Dinki’s wedding to Deepu. The
first five pages of the album were filled with face shots of the boy and girl in
various kaleidoscopic combinations and enclosed by heart-filled frames. I flipped
through the album and came to the pictures with the horse.
I saw a girl in pink lehnga, her face barely visible under a lot of hair. She was in
the middle of a dance step with her hands held high and index fingers pointing
up.
‘Isn’t she pretty?’ My mother switched on the other gas stove and put a tawa
on it to make rotis. She took out a rolling pin and dough.
‘I can’t make out,’ I said.
‘You should meet her. And here, keep stirring the bhindi while I make the
rotis,’ She handed me the ladle.
‘I don’t want to meet anyone.’
‘Only once.’
‘What’s so special about her?’
‘They have six petrol pumps.’
‘What?’
‘Her father. He has six petrol pumps. And the best part is, they have only two
daughters. So each son-in-law will get three, just imagine.’
‘What?’ I said as I imagined myself sitting in a gas station.
‘Yes, they are very rich. Petrol pumps sell in cash. Lots of black money.’
‘And what does the girl do? Is she educated?’
‘She is doing something. These days you can do graduation by
correspondence also.’
‘Oh, so she is not even going to college?’
‘College degrees you can get easily. They are quite rich.’
nora
(Nora)
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