The Child Bride

      She was perhaps the prettiest thing he had ever laid eyes on. Delicately formed and fragile, she was a human porcelain doll. Her back was straight, erect and her perfect posture was probably a result of years of gentle reprimanding by her mother and aunts.

      Her complexion was exceedingly fair. There was an almost disconcerting transparency to her skin. She wasn't exactly pale. In fact her temples, cheeks and nose were a bright pink. But the colour was not one of health. It was almost as though he could observe every breath she took.

      She had black hair, which had been carefully tied in a plait. The whiteness of her skin was in stark contrast to her heavy, dark braid. Her eyes were large. "Almost like an owl's.", someone had informed him. Those eyes looked at him with dejection. Tears welled up in them but she didn't cry. She didn't let out a sound. She just stood there-silent, wordless, almost defiant.
     
      She made a strange sight to behold. She was bedecked in wedding finery-a flaming red saree, wrapped twice around her as it was too large for her body. The jewels were too heavy for her fragile body. She looked as though she might die due to the combined weight of her heavy silk saree, the mortification of this awkward social situation and the gnawing fear of the future she was now trapped in.
    
       He had taken this sad, beautiful child as his wife and he had no choice. 

       He met her gaze again.
     
       He went out of the room to inform them that he was going to pay for her education and send her back to school.
"This is no age for a child to be married.'', he said angrily. His mother started crying and so did his sister. His father cursed the day he had sent him to college.

      After much protest on his behalf, she was sent back to her house the next week. The neighbours were horrified and so were her parents.
    
      But he knew she was happy.
      He saw her leave-a bright, happy smile on her face.

      In that moment, he wondered if he loved her.
      He sighed.

''The Child Bride'' by Soraya Nulliah

Just a short piece I wrote from my phone. Even better work next time. Promise.

A Sleepy Small Town Summer.

   I am in Daltonganj this April. My father is posted here.

   You know where Daltonganj is?
   Most people don't.

    It is the headquarters of Palamau District in Jharkhand. Nowhereland. I know. Oh yeah, by the way, its now called Medininagar. They changed the name because the administration feels that Raja Medini Rai is a more suitable hero for this town to commemorate than the anthropologist E.T Dalton.

    In yo' face, British Raj and Edward Tuite Dalton. We have our own heroes now.Sort of.

    This is what the busiest area in Daltonganj looks like.

Choumuhan Chowk, Daltonganj

     Nothing to really rave home about. But well, this is what most small Indian towns are like. Daltonganj is sleepy. It is small. This town is a relic of the colonial era. A half-dead testament of the faded grandeur of the British. One of the many ganjs dotted around North India that are named after some long dead British officer no one cares about.

    I lead a strange ''brown sahib's daughter'' existence here. Quite different from the one I am used to in Ranchi. I grew up in a similar situation in Hazaribagh but almost eight years in a compact little flat in ''big city'' (it is a capital, OKAY!) Ranchi had made me somewhat forget all of that. The official bungalow is old and beautiful. There is a fleet of domestic help waiting on us and a beautiful green garden with trimmed hedges and summer blooms.

Daltonganj residence

     Despite all this, I feel there is a certain beauty in this town's insignificance. Because it is in these small, insignificant, godforsaken ''chotta shehers'' that most of India lives. We talk about throbbing, living, pulsating cities where cultures meet and minds ignite and hearts break and lives collide. Few people remember that it is in the ganjs, nagars, purs and baghs that real stories are made. There is a beguiling stillness to them but underneath this humdrum cloak lie lives and stories screaming to be heard.

     You just have to listen.

     My parents spent almost eight years in this town back in nineties. I have little memory of that time.
''It hasn't changed much in the past twenty years.'', remarks my mother.

     It will probably not change much in the next twenty as well, I think.

Pictures:

#1-Google

#2-Self

Because It Is Time.

Hello dear, beloved Reader!

Welcome. Welcome.


I have made many failed attempts to start a blog. However, this time I have a feeling that I am going to keep up with it. Why? Because it is time.

I do not really know how to start this thing. I am just going to write. Stream of consciousness, anyone? I am Zehra. I am just about to finish school. Its 12.17 am. The fan above my head is making that pleasant humming sound.

I hope to make you laugh, make you think through my writings. I will try very hard to sound clever and insightful and deep. I will rant sometimes. Else, I'll just post pretty pictures of pretty things. Some of my attempts may ring hollow. Some may fail spectacularly. But I promise you, there will be stuff you will like.

Au revoir, mon ami.

We shall meet again soon.